Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

I nod briefly. “Yeah, I’ll tell him.”

She goes on like that for more than an hour, and I don’t know what to do other than play along. I mean, how are you supposed to respond to someone who probably has dementia? Is it like waking a sleepwalker? Do you wake a sleepwalker? Hell if I know. It seems the kind of thing they should put in a brochure or something. In fact, I’m starting to think Elaine is a terrible volunteer coordinator and that this gig absolutely should come with some training.

“Jerry,” Arlene says during a commercial. She’s made me change the channel five times in the past five minutes because she never seems to remember what she’s been watching, “I think I’d like a bath. Will you help me to the tub?”

“Uhh …”

Nope. I’m noping out. I draw the line at stripping little old ladies. Plus, Daisy’s starting to get a bit restless, jumping down from Arlene’s lap and sniffing around the room.

“Why don’t I find someone to come help?” I suggest.

“Oh no, that’s not necessary, Jerry. You’re all the help I need.” Smiling brightly, Arlene starts to stand, then drops back down in her chair, unsteady.

“Here,” I say, helping her to her feet. The moment she’s upright, she tightly holds on to my arm. “How about we hit that call button and—”

“Arlene, sweetie, where you trying to go?” A big guy in white scrubs walks into the room and pries Arlene out of my arms.

I glance at the newcomer. “She was having trouble getting up, so—”

“Jerry is going to give me a bath,” Arlene says happily, walking with the orderly’s assistance over to her bed.

“You had a bath this morning,” he reminds her as he helps her take off her slippers and get in bed. “How about a nap before lunch, then?”

While he handles her, I get Daisy back on her leash, then follow the orderly out of the room when he gives me the nod.

“She thought I was her husband,” I tell him, by way of an explanation.

The orderly grins and shakes his head. “Nah, brother. That old lady’s mind is sharp as a tack. She’s just trying to get a little frisky with the new guy. She pulls this stunt on all the handsome ones.” Guffawing, he gives me a slap on the shoulder. “And she’s not the only one. My advice: Trust no one.”

Nursing homes are fucked up.

When Elaine finally returns after abandoning me to the wilds, she shows little sympathy for my ordeal. Comes with the territory seems to be her attitude; the staff has apparently resigned themselves to the lawlessness. The inmates are running the asylum.

Elaine eventually brings me to a Korean War helicopter pilot named Lloyd. His room is decorated in about a dozen old photographs of him in his helmet and jumpsuit. When we enter, he’s in bed grumbling at the newspaper, which he reads with a magnifying glass on an arm attached to the bedside table.

“Lloyd,” she says, “this young man would like to spend some time with you, if that’s alright.”

“Doesn’t anyone edit these damn papers anymore? There are two spelling errors on this page alone. When did the newspaper start looking like some lazy kid’s homework?” He lifts his gaze only long enough to spot Daisy standing at my side. “Get that thing out of here,” he snaps. “I’m allergic.”

“You’re not allergic to dogs, Lloyd,” Elaine tells him with a cadence that suggests this isn’t the first argument they’ve had. “And Daisy is very sweet. I’m sure you two will have a lovely time.”

Lloyd huffs and returns to inspecting his newspaper while Elaine leaves me with another pat on the back. It’s like some weird handshake, everyone who works here warning me now that I’ve entered, I can never leave.

“He’s harmless,” she murmurs from the doorway. “Talk to him about Jessie. He loves to talk about the bird.”

“The bird” is a little yellow thing I hadn’t noticed in a cage by the window. Elaine ducks into the hallway, leaving me trapped in a tiny room with a crotchety old man who glares at me.

I notice another photo on his wall, and move closer to inspect it. “You met Buddy Holly?”

“What?” Lloyd squints toward the photograph of him and the musician outside a venue, posing beside a bus parked in an alley. “Yes, I knew Charles. Back when music meant something.”

“You were friends?”

Daisy, apparently afraid of him, lies on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“I was a roadie. Hauled his gear, that sort of thing.” With another huff, Lloyd loudly folds his paper and sets it aside. “Was getting on a train in New York after I got back from Korea when I saw this skinny kid who could barely lift his guitar and all these bags and cases. I offered him a hand.”

Lloyd seems to warm up a bit, albeit reluctantly. He talks about traveling the country with Holly, Elvis Presley, and Johnny Cash. Running from the cops and unruly fans. Catching flat tires and getting robbed in the middle of nowhere, at a time before calling AAA from the side of the road was a thing. Lugging guitar amps ten miles on foot to the nearest gas station. Turns out Lloyd’s got plenty to say, if I just shut up and let him talk. And in all honesty, I’m enjoying listening to his crazy anecdotes. This guy’s lived.

Things are going well—he hasn’t once asked me to bathe him or called me Sheila—until he asks me to feed his bird and put fresh water in the cage. When I open it up, the bird flies out, which doesn’t seem to concern Lloyd at first.