Hoping
When my mom didn’t die in the hospital the week before Christmas as everyone expected, I rode the ambulance with her back to my sister’s house, mom’s basement apartment. With oxygen and BiPac machines lining the walls, we were happy, prepared to take care of her, slowly help mom recover, build up her strength to sit and eat at the table, make her way to the bathroom, stretch out on her leather lounger, watch Yankee pre-season games, wheel through a casino every month, play her favorite slots.
After the first few months, I felt I was back working in the group home. Six mentally challenged kids had moved in and my job was to help ‘normalize’, integrate them into a Brooklyn community that signed petitions to keep the home from opening. Lee was the youngest, nine years old with the biggest head, biggest blue eyes that God ever gave out, bouncing all over the place as he shrieked like a car alarm for hours, sometimes out of joy, most times frustration, or simply a reminder that he existed, someone better do something fast: rub his head, his shoulders, get him a snack or soda, maybe hand him a long colored string to tie tight, intricate knots like an ancient weaver, or hold his arms down by his side to prevent him from digging his fingers into his nostrils, smearing his blood over my face.
Sitting at the rec room table, finishing an alphabet puzzle one day, Lee reached across, touched my nose and laughed. Rafael, my co-worker walking by at the time, looked in and left shaking his head, saying mierda, mierda as he went downstairs. Soon, Lee started grabbing, holding my hand, swinging it as we walked to the corner bodega for chips and Pepsi. I believed we had connected, started to expect we’d develop a closeness, maybe lead to a Helen Keller miracle.
I don’t remember when I realized that this was the most Lee would ever give, want from me, how long it took to learn to just do my job, minute by minute, no expectations. Forty years, I’d cut Lee’s food into bite- sized pieces, moderate his pace to prevent gagging, shower, dress him, help him do things that gave him joy: neighborhood walks, long van rides, food, weekly Asian Spa massages with no hope of ever finding a happy ending.
I stay with mom three days a week. She’s hard of hearing, legally blind and needs help to change her position in bed. I ask what she wants to eat, fork-feed it to her, clean up any mess she makes, try to come up with things to say, ask questions that lead her to tell funny, glory day stories, try to make her laugh, pray she sleeps through the night. Same as with Lee, except I never knew if the things his life missed out on ever haunts him, the way my mom mourns everything she’s lost, will never do again? Was he terrified of dying like mom? Sometimes, she can’t keep from screaming, yelling for help, continually calling out my sister’s name, mine. Sometimes, her face crumbles and this slow, low, cry builds, goes on and on, while I try to sit and look away, hope this isn’t what I’ll remember most about her.
Subway System
Riding the subway thousands of times, the 7 and D to Shea or Yankee Stadium, my mom telling me to be careful, the E, F or G to and from work 5 days a week, Kew Gardens to Boerum Hill, down into The Village, book stores, used record shops, concerts. I remember my girlfriend’s warning not to sit by the door for a couple of months when the news kept reporting gangs of kids jumping on at stops and punching people as part of a game, running off. Once a group of high school kids started staring, pointing at me, nodding as we pulled out of York. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes until we stopped at Jay Street and I watched them walk to the door. The smallest one punched the pane of glass I was leaning against, the loud crack startling me, forcing me to lose my balance, fall to one knee as they laughed their asses off, high fived each other on the platform. Another time I watched a guy take his dick out and piss all over a sleeping homeless woman. I change cars when it stinks like shit, piss, grungy sweat, get annoyed when I have to stand because Hefty bags stuffed with damp smelly belongings cover seats, it’s irritating when deranged people rant crazy stuff or recite scripture too loud, too long. When they get louder, start pacing frantically, my anxiety swells and I feel threatened, pray they’ll get off at the next stop. I look around for cops, even some young guy who might step in just in case things escalate. I shake my head sideways, say sorry anytime anyone asks for money, think about buying a Milky Way or Snickers bar every time a woman walks up, down the car, extends her arms and presents a cardboard box of candies like a casually dressed, cigarette girl from a black and white movie, a baby strapped to her back, sleeping. I feel bad when I never grab for my wallet, but promise myself next time. I’ve read about the rising subway crime. But do you remember the 1980s, the crack years? It’s not that bad. I’ve watched a handful of reports on New York 1, read New York Post, Daily News headlines: robberies, stabbings, people pushed, oncoming trains.
If I was riding the northbound F on May 2nd, 2:30 PM and a man, who newspapers describe as homeless entered the train at 2nd Avenue, arms flailing, tossing garbage while screaming in a loud, aggressive manner that he was tired, had no food and didn’t care if he went to jail while passengers scurried to the farthest end of the car as he threw his jacket to the ground and some bearded guy came up behind him, subdued him, I want to believe I’d have found a way to get that guy to let go of the chokehold before Jordan Neely died, that I am not everybody else, sitting here now, wondering why I stood by, watched quietly as Jordan Neely was killed.
Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC and managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His work has appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, Mudfish and the resurrected Sho. His most recent book, What Kind of Man, with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and long listed for Jacar Press’ Julie Suk Award.