Carl G. Schmurdon: The Man

"They were arguing again. Back and forth like retarded chickens, they clucked by me oblivious to my scorn. I was in my favorite chair. Its brown leather was worn and the brass tacks were beginning to oxidize. It cradled me in all the right places, but even its comfort couldn't help me get through this fight, again. The older one I used to call my wife had her lips puckered and kept shaking her head no. The two younger ones, bitter enemies as kids, but now united by their greed, fragrantly flapped their boney wings about. These chickens clucked too much. They clucked and scratched and shit on my floor as if I wasn't even there. They called me an old man, a senile old man who can't hear us anyway. I didn't speak up, it was easier not to. The last time I tried to defend myself, try to explain to these familial strangers that I wasn't the vegetable they took me for, they had me admitted to Cedars Sinai. They told the doctors I was delusional, that my Alzheimer’s was taking control and that they couldn't take care of me anymore. They tried to put me in a home and have the State assign me a conservator. Some stranger who'd gain control of my money, food and bowel movements. I fought that one though; I don't need that type of care. Comfort, a perfectly broken in leather chair and maybe some love every once in a while is all I need. I'll get by."