A Day in 1953

I

“I suppose we have met before, is that what you wanted to say?” he smiled a kind smile.

“Y—yes, sir,” I stuttered. My hands were shaking, making ripples appear on the surface of my orange juice. I couldn’t think of anything else say. This is torture, I say to myself. Complete and utter torture. I fought back my tears.

“Why the formality?” he chuckled, “you can just call me Ben, since you say we’ve met an awful lot of times before.”

“You told me that yesterday,” I said to him, “and last week you told me to call you Benjie or ‘the Benj Machine’.”

He laughed quietly and nodded, like I’m the center of some joke. He walked back to his corner, far away from everyone else in the nursing home, minding his own business and eventually forgetting my presence.

I watch him finish his daily crossword puzzle, trying to imagine whatever this man could be thinking right now.

“Lunchtime, Mr. Reid,” a nurse brought him a tray of food. Ben took it graciously, smiling again kindly. He begins a meal with a prayer and proceeds. During the in-between moments I catch him frown slightly, which is understandable I guess for a person who’s struggling to make sense of the world he’s in.

I wait for him to take a last bite, and walk up to him again.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m Fred.”

“Hello Fred,” he answers, not showing any sign of familiarity towards me and holding out a friendly hand for me to shake, even if we just met an hour before, “I’m Ben. Pleased to meet you.”

“So,” I begin with small talk as I sat myself down, facing him, “you like crossword puzzles?”

“Yeah. Nothing much you can do for fun here. And dogs, I like dogs.”

“I see. I like dogs too.”

“I have one,” he said gleefully.

“You mean had?” I added, and stared at him, waiting for him to understand.

“Oh,” he frowns and corrects himself, “I had a dog. His name was Porkchop. Dear Lord, everyone I know had died already, didn’t they?”

For the past ten days, I stop by this nursing home; I introduce myself to Benjamin Reid over and over again. I talk to him about dogs, crossword puzzles, and everything he ever wanted to talk about.

“Ben,” I cut in, disrupting his very interesting discussion about dandelions, “how old are you?”

“Hmm, that’s a tough one,” he frowned, looking at the wrinkled skin covering the back of his hand, “Seventy?”

“What if I told you that you’re eighty-one?”

“Then I must not be looking that good.”

Imagine yourself as you are now: How you look, how your voice sounds, how you feel today, what you’ve recently eaten, everything — everything that’s going on in you at this very moment.

Then imagine yourself falling into a deep, rejuvenating sleep.

How long have you been sleeping? Six? Eight hours?

Imagine yourself walking towards the bathroom to brush your teeth, starting a new day. You look at yourself in the mirror…

What do you see?

What if you don’t recognize that person staring back at you?

Ben wakes up every day only to find himself in a strange place he has no recollection of ever being in before. There would be nights when he’d ring for the night nurse or anyone who would care to attend to him, asking them where he was. He’d then realize he’s in a special home, and until he sees himself in the mirror, he’ll keep asking them why he’s there.

Ben wakes up with no memory of what happened yesterday, and today will slowly ebb away before the sun sets.

“Never knew I could shuffle like a pro,” he cuts the deck in half and repeats the process for the third time. Every noon since he got here, I teach Ben a trick in shuffling cards. He claims to have no conscious memory of ever having been taught this trick before, although he performs it better every single time.

“You know what,” says Ben, “you do look like somebody I know.”

“Really?” I smile.

“Yes. Ever heard of a Maura Fischer? Beautiful girl. Prettiest one in our class.”

“You mean my grandma?” my smile widened.

“Oh? I guess that explains it,” he laughs, “I’m glad things worked out well for her. Fine blood you’ve got, young man.”

“Fred? Fred Bayer?” Mrs. Whitman calls out to me and taps her wristwatch, signaling me that my time with Ben for that day is up. I nod.

“Well, Ben, I have to go now,” I stood up, “you can keep the cards if you like.”

Ben’s eyes fill with a stinging sense of glumness, “thank you for your time, Fred. It was nice having you around.” He smiled a pained smile.

“Here,” I snatched his pen and wrote on the box of playing cards, “something to help you remember that you met me.”

I walk away, disappearing again from his memory forever.