Tony Gloeggler: Larry

Sometimes, it can be difficult to tell the difference
between possible signs of dementia and his quirky,
comical mannerisms. Yes, he had already stopped
pirouetting like a clumsy teddy bear every ten steps
or so, stopped reaching down to pull up his socks.
In fact, he hasn’t worn socks in fifteen years.
Even yesterday, with wind blown snow
steadily swirling, I couldn’t change his mind
before we walked to the corner bodega
and his buddy behind the counter gave him
his usual: coffee, black, two sugars. These days
he eats with his fingers more than his fork
and the other night when I slid the cover
off his straw, handed it to him, he tried
to suck up a rippled potato chip. He dropped
the straw, spread his arms wide in a what
the fuck gesture until I rubbed his neck,
pushed his cup closer. Sometimes, on the way
to his bedroom, he turns left instead, walks
downstairs, spends a half hour shooting
on our basement hoop. Recently, he’s hit
himself, a quick jab to the jaw a few times,
but he’s done stuff like that before. Years ago
he smashed his arm through the front window.
A flood of blood poured out and his bicep
looked like chopped meat. We spent the night
in the ER while he drank three Diet Cokes,
made faces, sounds and hand signals that cracked
the orderlies up. We’ve held weekly meetings
with our nurse, social worker, psychologist;
constructed baseline charts, set up medical
appointments, talked about what to expect,
how bad things might get, possible alternate
placement options. But he still recognizes
everyone, asks for Kevin to work every night,
slides his hand over his smooth dome indicating
he wants a shave, greets me with a sideways
lingering hug, still moves into me when I palm
his head like a Nerf basketball and every evening
when my shift ends, he walks me to the door,
opens it and says comin’ tomorrow at least twice.
Last night, he kept walking: through the doorway,
down the stoop, past the gate in his slow, side to side
Charlie Chaplin shuffle, all the way out to the curb.
I shadowed him, hugged him from behind, pressed
my face to his cheek, whispered something soft,
something silly, and helped him grab the handrail,
walk inside while I told him he wasn’t going anywhere.

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Copyright Tony Gloeggler. First published in 2 Bridges Review

Tony Gloeggler’s books include What Kind of Man (NYQ Books, 2020). He is a life-long resident of New York City.