JK Fowler

Dripping skin and false teeth glare at him as he walks the runway of the nursing home dressed in nothing by a toga. He had been told this was a toga party but the closest to a toga was the hospital sheet the old man at the end of the hall who smelled of urine had accidentally tucked into his diaper and decided that it was time for his daily walk to the corner and back. He pulled the spongy red nose deeper into his clenched fist. “It was a toga-turns-clown kind of thing,” his Nanna had said, “fun…for the old people”. A bald-headed, crinkly woman sneezes and Betsy, Nanna’s friend, let’s out fart that reverberates against the hall walls. She doesn’t feel a thing. He stops in the middle of the hall. Contemplates his options: a) he could see his Nanna, say hello and leave; b) simply leave; or c) convince Nanna to give him a few of her Percocet and hold the party, by himself if necessary. He rapidly decides on c. An old man stands next to him. Begins speaking nonsense about his sister Betsy and all her medications. He smells of mothballs and one of his testicles is airing in the fervent breeze of the nursing home, hanging out of his perm-pressed, navy blue pants as if trying to free itself from the confines of outdated fashion. He walks away, leaving the man to his own devices. The man continues to speak in the increasing distance.

“Hiii Nanna. So good to see you,” he says, his toga bunching in the back. “Thought this was going to be a party. Doesn’t seem like a party to me”. “Oh but darling, it’s always a party in here, don’t you know? I’ve told you that, right? People may not be wearing the togas yet but they will. Oh, they will my boy. We wear clandestine togas, don’t you know?” She says this with great conviction and for a second he believes her but soon remembers that Nanna’s nuts which, he thinks, he probably should have remembered before donning the toga. He woes the barmy infirm granny into giving him some of her ‘candy’ and downs 3 Percocet. Begins getting jittery, a little vivacious and soon hits the roof. He is running across tiled floors, grabbing old women and tangoing with them and those hips of theirs are moving, those feet like little lobster claws. Cha-cha-cha. The old men jump in at slower speeds and pretty soon, everyone is dancing and all the smells of the universe are joining hands and knocking those that can smell them still in the face. Urine, feces, mothballs, cough syrup, oil. The smells vibrate through his nostrils like the chug-a-chug of a slow moving subway train. His toga gets wrapped around his body like a wrung out towel, everyone is laughing, false teeth are flying and life is good. The beat goes on and on and people that haven’t danced in years are shaking off the dust and reveling in their feet, nurturing their legs, hugging their souls. Hair-clips and wigs, crowns and glass eyes: they’re all a part of it now and the floor is littered with year upon year of age and daily wear and tear and they step on them defiantly to the beat of tango master, Roberto Chanel. The nurses arrive, start in as well and little white dresses and gowns bounce wildly upon the makeshift dance floor. “Don’t stop dancing,” he yells. “The night is still young and we have so many more moments to live!” They all let out a wail and increase their speed. He throws a kiss to the crazed dancers, grabs the corner of his toga, spins around and marches down that nursing home runway and out the door. Another damn good day.