His room is the one at the end of the long linoleum hall, beyond
the fire exit, in its own detached space. “And if he corners you, just
scream for help. See you in eight hours.”
However, there is a more useful word of advice for the new aide
making his or her walk down that long terrifying hall: take a newspaper.
When Les proves at his most volatile, attempting to stand from his
chair in seeking revenge on some past enemy, old injustices met with
swinging fists, a newspaper comes like an antidote. It is with more than
curiosity that he opens the paper, fumbles eagerly with the pages. There
is a need in him to know. He searches for what goes on in the world
because he somehow feels that he is missing it. Despite the fact that Les
can’t remember one day to the next, or which newspaper is current or by
months made irrelevant, his reading ability is sharp, and so is his desire to
know what is happening around him.
Sometimes, in his preoccupation with reading, he will begin to
confuse the stories therein with his own. The printed word comes as
memory. He reads a person’s name and it immediately means something
to him, a character to integrate with his past to form some important
connection.
“I remember him,” Les says, looking at a black-and-white picture
on the page, saying the name underneath a few times until it becomes
comfortable on his lips. “Yeah. I told this guy a thing or two… he used
to get smart with me. Called me a crook and I knocked his lights out is
what I did. Ask him. I showed him where the bird shits in the buckwheat
is what I did.” The picture he points to is of a professional athlete. The
sports page is the section Les gravitates to the most.
Of course it can become entertaining for the aide to engage Les
in these types of conversations, about which sports hero he let have it,
about how the President of the United States was a “good guy to know in
a pinch.” But mostly they stay quiet in hopes that he does the same. They
watch him eat sloppily when the food trays arrive. They help him to the
bathroom when he stands, already dripping down his leg. But mostly
they stay out of his way and wait for him to sleep.
And just when Les seems resigned to that old chair for the
evening, calm and quiet, in comes the nurse with the medication. This
happens three times a day and most times ends in trouble.
“What’s this?” he snaps, examining the cup full of large capsules
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