George

George swept up around the bar where I worked in exchange for sodas and company. He lived down the street in a residence home where he was irregularly medicated for his mental instability (which came first, I wonder).

I'd chat with George when business was slow, and over the years gathered bits and pieces of his story as they fell through the cracks of his dementia.

George was as unsure of the details as I am now, but he did kill a man when he was in his teens or early twenties. Angry (high on speed?), he pushed an old man who fell and hit his head and died.

George was sent to a mental hospital instead of prison, and years of drug and shock 'therapy' brought him through to his present condition of a state-mandated medicated existence.

Some days he'd be lucid, crack jokes, tell me he loved me with his gummy smile, and ask for my hand in marriage. I always demurred, "you're too old for me, George" and he'd laugh.

Other days he'd show up agitated, grinding his jaw, incoherent, and I'd send him home. "George, you're too crazy today, you can't stay here. Come back tomorrow. " He'd acquiesce and stumble back down the street.

Once I asked him if he'd pose for a portrait. I had been taking photographs of family and friends and was intrigued by the way people responded to the camera. Most people were self-conscious when being photographed, and often preferred to look away as though I weren't standing right in front of them. I wondered what it would be like to photograph George.

George, of course, was different. He had no self-consciousness. Maybe the drugs had taken care of that. He stared straight into the lens, not posing, just staring. He wasn't looking at the camera, but looking through it. At me. It made me feel self-conscious. I hadn't expected that.

He died several years ago. His condition had deteriorated so much that we couldn't allow him in the bar anymore. He insisted his caretakers were trying to kill him by overmedicating him. Our bar manager went down to the home to see what was going on and tried to help. I don't think it did much good.

He died alone and I don't know whether he expected anyone to remember him. I haven't thought about George in years, but he popped into my head for some reason the other night. So I dug up these photos and remembered him here.