Page 14 of Talk to Me

Crossing my arms over my chest, I smiled jovially down at the man in the chair. A few age spots decorated the dark wrinkled skin of his face, but he was an otherwise handsome older man. Arthur stared up at me, absolute vitriol and venom plastered upon his face. Of course, I knew better than to judge a book by its cover. He was simply having a bad day. Within minutes, he’d be back to his usual self. Getting him from under the covers, out of the chair, and walking around was a start.

Turning the heat on would help, too. I thought to myself.

“What’s it today, Arthur, my man?” I asked, staring down at him. “Breakfast full of foods you couldn’t chew?”

“You bitch!” He hissed up at me. “I still have all of my teeth!”

I grinned and let my arms fall to my sides. “Too much fiber? Binding? They use black pepper and it’s just too spicy for you to handle?”

Arthur rolled his head dramatically to the side, laying it against the wingback of the chair.

“Oh, why must you torture me so?” he asked. “Take your leave and let death have at me. I’m finally ready.”

“Did they take away your Netflix privileges again?” I asked.

Arthur sat up, the covers inching down his chest to reveal the collar of the pink button-down shirt and his eggplant-colored bowtie underneath.

“Those whores said it was riling me up!” Arthur barked. “I don’t get riled up!”

“Clearly,” I said, amused.

He slumped back in his chair. “But no. They haven’t removed my Netflix privileges. I am…blocked.”

I frowned, a furrow cutting through my brow.

“You…can’t poop?” I asked. “Talk to Dr. Wesley when he does his rounds.”

“You hideous fashion victim of a manchild.” Arthur gave me a once over.

I looked down at myself. My black sneakers, black basketball shorts, and navy pocket tee weren’t all that hideous. At least, I didn’t think so. My outfit was perfectly acceptable for going to classes—which I had done—and going to visit my elderly friend in the LGBTQIA retirement home—which I was currently doing.

“The words aren’t coming anymore,” Arthur continued. “They elude me. Evade me. They’re in hiding. Perish I must.”

“You’re so dramatic, Artie,” I said, sauntering over to sit on the edge of his bed.

The warm sunlight made the frigid room a little more bearable. With the natural light, Arthur’s fabulously adorned room was actually inviting. The mid-century modern décor, all of the memorabilia from his writing career, and the impeccable cleanliness made it a nice place to visit weekly.

“I’ve told you not to call me that.” Arthur hissed, pushing the blankets down to cover his lap and legs. “If I was meant to be called ‘Artie’—”

“Your mother would have named you ‘Artie’.” I finished his sentence for him.

He gave me a firm nod, then turned his attention back to the window. He laid his head back once again, resting it against the wingback. I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching Arthur stare out the window at absolutely nothing. Arthur was my favorite person I’d met since attending Midway University.

Early in my freshman year, I’d taken a class that had a community service requirement. At a loss for what to do to fulfill that duty, I eventually discovered that Des Moines had an assisted living facility dedicated to elderly LGBTQIA people. Even more fortuitous, they were requesting younger LGBTQIA people to sign up to become “buddies” with their residents. Since I had access to a car, the drive wouldn’t eat up too much of my gas budget, and I really needed the community service credit, I signed up.

Arriving on my first Monday to volunteer at Spice House, I was late. The only remaining resident of Spice House who had not been paired up with a buddy was Arthur. A curmudgeonly older black man with a penchant for dressing in slacks, button-up shirts, bowties, and loafers every day—as if he had somewhere to be—we didn’t get along at first. Arthur was dramatic, snippy, and insisted that he didn’t even want to be part of the buddy program. Vaguely hinting that he’d been forced by the staff of Spice House to participate, he didn’t make my job easy.

After a few weeks of showing up and sitting in his room every Monday, simply staring at each other, I gave up and pulled a book out of my tote to read. If Arthur wasn’t going to talk, I was going to pass the time one way or the other. At the sight of the book, Arthur came alive, and soon we were talking about books, writers, and everything literary. He regaled me with tales of his time in New York as a writer, his literary friends, and imparted an education about LGBTQIA history one would never get from some Netflix documentary.

At the end of my freshmen year, Arthur told me a secret. For decades, he had written a series of highly popular crime thrillers. When he told me he was “A.M. Thompson,” the mysterious and elusive writer of the world-famous crime thrillers that were still selling hand over fist presently, I nearly didn’t believe him. However, when he pulled out his “memory box” of keepsakes from his career—including the original manuscript for his first bestseller, there was no doubt. After the novelty of talking about his famous books, the movies and T.V. show adaptations, and his experiences, we fell into amiable personal conversations.

The getting to know you kinds of things. Turned out, we kind of liked each other.

Even though I had no requirement to continue seeing Arthur after my freshmen year, when I returned for my sophomore year at Midway, my visits continued. On my first Monday back, as if by instinct, I got in my car after classes, drove to Spice House, and made my weekly visit to Arthur.

What are you doing here? Did you fail your class and have to endure me for another year? Arthur had sniffed.

I hadn’t responded, knowing Arthur’s snippiness was a defense mechanism. Instead, I retrieved the tube of Rolos from my tote I’d bought for him—his favorite—and handed them over. I sat on the edge of his bed as he ate and we talked. We’d been sitting and talking every Monday of the school years since.