Good Morning, Batman

Making a game of an old man's memory.

 

Good Morning, Batman

by Deidre A. H.

 

“Good morning, Batman.”

 

            The man didn’t seem to comprehend my words, at first.  That’s okay.  I’m a patient guy, and he’s pretty well-aged.  After a few moments, his grey old eyes widened, and his mouth opened in a wrinkled O.  He choked as if about to speak.  But I am not just patient; I’m slick, if I do say so myself.  Oh, wait, I’m telling the story, aren’t I?  All right, I do say so myself.

 

            “Oops.”  I think that’s convincingly apologetic.  “Sorry, Mr. Wayne.  I forgot.”

 

            “What?”

 

            I felt a conspiratorial grin light my face.  I entered the bedroom, closing the door behind me, and made myself comfortable on the bed.  The old man shifted uneasily when my crisp business suit crinkled as I sat.  Normally I’d be wearing scrubs, but today I had decided to dress up for the occasion.

 

            “You’ve forgotten again, haven’t you, Mr. Wayne,” I asked with utmost sympathy.  “Sorry to have to tell you this again, sir, but you have Alzheimer’s.  But you do remember Batman, don’t you?”  The old man provided the hesitant nod I needed.  “Well, it’s all true and it’s all you.  This is a private cottage, by the way.  We’re located in the outskirts of Gotham.”

 

            “But—”

 

            “No, sir, not a word,” I interrupted smoothly, holding up my hand.  “I know deep down, you remember.  Surely you recall being addressed as Mr. Wayne?”

 

            The old man frowned, distracted momentarily from his fearful confusion.  “Well . . . yes, but—”

 

            “Then you know I’m not lying,” I said sincerely.  I folded my hands in my lap, looked him in the eye, and allowed him to splutter his way to coherent sentences.

 

            “Now, you wait just a moment,” he finally said, his aged voice crackling pathetically.  “I happen to recall Batman being a comic book hero!”

 

            “And a couple cartoon series, and several movies,” I informed him cheerfully.  “All historical fiction.”

 

            I could see Mr. Wayne was struggling to sit up.  Well, to deny him assistance would be slapping my profession in the face, so I gave him a hand.

 

            “Thank you,” he said grimly, coughing from the effort.  “Now, tell me this, young man.  If I am truly Batman—”

 

            “You were truly Batman,” I corrected him.

 

            “—Then whatever happened to Alfred?” he demanded as though he hadn’t heard me.

 

            This was my golden moment.  I summoned all the pain I could possibly think of—from crippled children to the late Anna Nicole Smith—to give Mr. Wayne a pained expression he could never forget.  Figuratively speaking, that is.

 

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” I said softly.  “Alfred has . . . passed on.”

 

            From the stricken look on his face, I knew I had finally convinced him.  Perhaps, when he wasn’t forgetting his entire life, he knew someone close who happened to share the same, or a similar, name as Alfred.  I have no idea what the real case was, but it was helping me fabulously.  Mr. Wayne began to shake.  “No,” he croaked.  “Alfred. . . .”

 

            “Joker killed him,” I said solemnly.  For better effect, I kept my head bowed and one hand over his.  So old; frail; boney and wrinkled.  “He killed Alfred to get to you—no, no, I’ll spare you the details, you’re better off forgetting those.  But needless to say, it worked.  You slowly went insane, abandoned your guise as Batman, abandoned Gotham and its citizens, and now here you are, hiding.  But don’t worry, sir,” I added brightly.  “Not all the citizens despise Batman for leaving them in their hour of need.  Only most of them.”

 

            Mr. Wayne moaned pitifully, sinking back into his pillows.  “No,” he cried.  “Not Alfred!”

 

            I pulled my hand back, rising to my feet.  “You clearly need time alone to deal with your grief,” I said gently.  “I’ll leave you be, Mr. Wayne.”

 

            “Alfred,” he continued to wail.  He probably didn’t even notice me leaving.  Nothing but his muffled cries of anguish sounded through the shut door.

 

            “And now for some relaxing HBO,” I said aloud.  Whistling, I shrugged the jacket to the floor, unbuttoned the dress shirt, and fell back on the living room couch.  The fun part was over.  This was what most of my job consisted of, anyway.  Once the patients were satisfied and taken care of, I watched TV to my leisure until my hours were up, and then it was off to the next old citizen in need.

 

            Was any of what I told the old man true?  Well, not all of it.  He did, in fact, have Alzheimer’s, and he was known as Mr. Wayne.  Was he really Batman?  Of course not.  He was Theodore “Ted” Wayne, the last of his known family.

 

            And I?  I’m a hospice.  I go to the homes the upper management assigns me, take care of the elderly, make sure they take their medications, tuck them into bed and then sleep, watch TV, or jerk off for the rest of that shift.  And maybe mess with the minds of certain patients with memory problems.

 

            Hey, other people have hobbies like gambling or dogfights or fight clubs.  Mine just happens to be a little more secluded and just as morally questionable.

 

            Still don’t approve?  Ah, well, your loss.  In six hours I have an appointment with a very devout, very religious, very forgetful elderly woman, and she’s about to remember she has a promiscuously gay son.  And I can’t wait to see the look on her face.

Reviews

[SPINNING ON that dizzy ..]

Oh, interesting write of a young man of questionable character! It is also a tease in that you did not let us know if the old gentleman was sustained by believing he WAS Batman and then you would have been helping him or soothing him.... but no, it is a joke, it is a role, there is a meanness and a callousness that it only...to human. My consolation is that I believe there is this little thing called Karma that likes to .... well bite people like this on the a*s....if the young man is lucky, (haha) ... just maybe someday HE may get old...

Kath

[charlotte talley]

this was good. you kept me wonering if the old man would ever find out if he's Batman. You kept the old man calm.

[Bytenel]

I love this story.

The title is what hooked me into reading it and I can say, very sweet.

[Nicole Hellene]

"After a few moments, his grey old eyes widened, and his mouth opened in a wrinkled O. He choked as if about to speak. But I am not just patient; I'm slick, if I do say so myself. Oh, wait, I'm telling the story, aren't I? All right, I do say so myself." Delete this, excess information, kills the pace.

"I felt a conspiratorial grin light my face. I entered the bedroom, closing the door behind me, and made myself comfortable on the bed." Avoid saying "I felt" at all costs, and a "conspiratorial grin" is awkward phrasing. Reword. Say "sat on the bed, making myself comfortable," that way I don't get the fleeting weird image of you lying down next to him.

"Still don't approve?" Not really. It's a good idea, but the flow is jagged and frequently interrupted. Smooth it out. 6 out of 10.

[Mike Hunter is Hilariou..]

As much as I hate to admit it, I was known to mess with the mind of an old geezer my brother befriended some years ago. I once told him that Franklin Roosevelt had been elected to yet another term in the White House.

The guy was a staunch conservative, so his reaction to the "news" was priceless(!)

Anyway, I thought this was a very well-written story. I quite enjoyed it.

[Jennifer]

Why, aren't you a wicked boy?

[Emily B]

You have an evil find. You're good at it.

[John Sanders]

I love it. Messing with old people can be fun, fun, fun.

[Raef C. Boylan]

Great short story. I like how it's suggestive of the writer's imagination flaring up an idea and the writer running with it and creating an entire character based around it. Your narrative tone is entertainingly light-hearted and hself-deprecating; we probably should despise him for this torment of the elderly, but he makes it kind seem fairly harmless...all jobs are just jobs and we do what we can to keep our spirits up.
The kind of guy who does what other people only do in their own heads.

Good work. Kind of thought-provoking whilst being fun at the same time - could maybe spark a debate in a reading group or something.

Thanks for posting it.