Still Monty
Author Note: Don't rely on this as an accurate portrayal of dementia or any other medical matter. Frankly, if you look to any form of The Simpsons (be it TV show, comic, or fanfic) as a source of medical information, you deserve to suffer the humiliation you'd inevitably suffer if you tried to pass it off as factual.
"Waylon, have I told you lately how much I love you?"
The words at first had seemed a godsend, a deluge for a man who had thirsted for decades in a drought-ridden desert. But that was a month earlier. A month before...
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Mr. Burns sat in the back of his vintage limousine, making lighthearted chitchat and trying to engage him in conversation yet seeming unconcerned that Smithers was uncharacteristically taciturn.
"No...sir. You haven't."
"I do. I love your companionship, the way you've risked your life to save mine, how you make me feel like a god among men."
"In the spirit of reciprocation, I must say, I love you, too, Monty. More than you'll know."
"Ah, you are always such delightful company. In my old age, there is nothing more valuable. Not even my millions of dollars."
"Are you sure you're feeling well, sir?"
Tears rolled down his nose and along his cheek as he attempted to focus on the road. C. Montgomery Burns' insouciance about his diagnosis just made his heartbreak sting that much more, as there really was no longer any denying it.
"Mr. Smithers, I felt I should talk to you first," Dr. Hibbert had said, taking him aside to another room as Mr. Burns sat on a bed in a hospital gown and swung his legs back and forth.
"What is it? Oh God, something's wrong, isn't it?"
"Yes."
Sniffling, he'd said, "So how much time does he have left?"
"It's hard to say...it could be months, it could be years. I'm afraid he has behavioral variant frontotemporal dementia. Most people with this type of dementia live for about five years after diagnosis, but due to his extremely advanced age, he probably won't last that long."
He pulled into Burns Manor and rounded the vehicle to open the door for him. Mr. Burns began to skip gleefully toward the gate. "No, sir!" said Smithers, running after him. "Your home is this way." He brought his arm around Mr. Burns' shoulders and guided him to the entrance of his mansion. Once inside, he took his jacket and laid it neatly over the back of a nearby chair. "What would you like to have for lunch?"
"I don't give a rat's ass."
"Why don't you start with some fruit?" he said, reaching into a nearby fruit bowl and taking an orange, which he swiftly peeled with a small paring knife and divided it into segments, which he laid out as a ring of overlapping orange wedges on a small plate and sprinkled blueberries in the center. He sat Mr. Burns at a parlor table and set the plate before him. He pulled a banana out of the fruit bowl and peeled it, taking a bite before proceeding to the bar to fix himself some stiff drinks, retrieving bottles of gin, rum, brandy, and whisky. After downing a shot of whisky, he returned to the table and resumed eating his banana as he sat beside Mr. Burns.
"You look like a harlot pleasuring a man." Smithers choked on his bite, taken aback by the frankly sexual remark. "Having a hard time swallowing, I see? I would never have expected you to have any trouble with that." Mr. Burns had made inappropriately sexual remarks over the last few months, and Dr. Hibbert had told him to expect more social impropriety from him as time went on, but the specifically homosexual undertones of his comment made him feel naked.
"Just what exactly do you mean by that?"
"Word around town says you bat for the other team."
Smithers froze, too terrified to breathe. "It's not true, I swear! I'm just holding out for the right woman. I've been much too busy servicing you to spend much time dating. I mean..." he looked plaintively into Burns' eyes, "...how did you find out?"
"One of your jilted lovers paid me a visit a couple weeks ago. But I'd had my suspicions for some time, especially after you kissed me on the eve of that so-called apocalypse. It used to be that the thought of you feeling that way about me sickened and frightened me, but of late I just don't give a fuck."
"Monty...please don't cut me out of your life. I promise I won't make a move on you."
"I'm not that foolish yet. I trust you to take good care of me more than I would trust some shiftless nurse who would let me wallow in my own filth as I inevitably wither and die."
"Sir...please, don't talk that way. I'm sure it'll be a long time before that happens."
"Don't patronize me! A hundred years is a long time. I don't have a lot of time left."
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to insult you. I just said that because I really want it to be true."
"Oh, Smithers. I've had so many years...but I'd trade them all for a few more."
He got up and poured himself a shot of gin and downed it, then poured two shots of brandy and drank them down.
"What treatments are available? Give him everything; give him the best that money can buy."
"Mr. Smithers...there's very little in the way of treatments."
"Then let's try an experimental drug, anything!"
"There have been some trials of using Alzheimer's drugs for FTD, but sometimes they made things worse. Other than that, there are antidepressants and antipsychotics, but as he isn't anxious and he isn't uncontrollably aggressive, I wouldn't recommend them. The risks outweigh the benefits for him."
"Why the hell did you spend all that time at medical school, just to stand there and tell me there's nothing you can do? There has to be something. Anything!"
"I'm sorry. I can't do anything for him. But you can."
"How would you like to spend the rest of the day, Monty?"
"How about we visit a local tavern to gawk at the swains and boors and get drunk off our asses?"
"Are you sure you want to do that, sir? We did that once, and it, uh, didn't end well."
"Oh, nonsense, I would remember if we had done anything like that."
"Besides, I'm too intoxicated to drive us anywhere. Why don't we stay here and sample your extensive collection of fine wines and spirits?"
"But I want to gawk at the boozy boors. Please, Waylon." He gave a sad puppy dog look that melted Smithers' heart.
"Oh, how can I say no to you? I'll call a chauffeur to take us there." Once the chauffeur had arrived, Smithers guided Mr. Burns to the backseat and then sat beside him, bringing his arm around the head rest, maintaining a respectable distance yet smiling amorously. "It feels so strange sitting back here with you," he said. "I like it, though." He imagined they were riding on their way to prom, picturing his flirtatious self succumbing to his naughty chaperone Mr. Burns's advances and making out in the backseat.
"Smithers? ...Smithers?"
He focused his eyes on his surroundings and turned his head to respond. "Yes, Mr. Burns?"
"We're here already, you simpering Walter Mitty!"
His outburst of frustration put Smithers at ease. Mr. Burns was more oriented to their location than even he was, and he was yelling at him in his distinctive yet not overly vituperative manner. "Oh! Yes, sir. Here, let me help you out of there," he said, placing one hand on his back to guide him out and his other hand on Burns' head to protect him from hitting his head on the way out. As they entered Moe's, he turned to Mr. Burns and said, "Where do you want to sit?"
"Right there should give us a good vantage point," he said, pointing to two empty barstools at the end of the bar nearest to the door. Sitting on the adjacent stools were Barney, Homer, Lenny, and Carl. "Give me the cheapest drinks in the house."
"Two Duffs, coming up," said Moe, filling up two mugs and handing them to Smithers and Burns.
Smithers took a sip. "Mm-hmm. Aren't we just a couple of regular Joe's out on the town, eh, Mr. Burns?"
Mr. Burns gave a dubious sniff before gingerly taking a small sip. He grimaced. "Ugh. What swill. And look, Smithers! Those corpulent lummoxes are actually drinking it. Why, they seem to like it!"
"Heh heh, you said it, Mr. Burns!" said Homer, "Wait a minute...I think he's insulting us!"
"Yeah," said Barney. "I don't like your tone, Mr. Monopoly Man."
"And they say I'm demented. I'd thought that fellow was the fattest man I'd ever seen," he said, pointing at Homer, "but you are the most hideous sack of lard I've ever laid eyes on." Smithers' stomach roiled as what he had expected and feared transpired.
"Hey, what did they ever do to you?" asked Carl.
"It's true, isn't it though, Smithers? I mean, would you fuck either of them?" Smithers blushed and chuckled nervously as their jaws dropped at Burns' casual vulgarity and acknowledgement of Smithers' predilections. "Smithers, I asked you a question and you will answer me. Would you fuck either of those blubber-blobs?"
"Um...no, sir." He took a long gulp of his beer.
Moe stepped in. "Are you already hammered, Burnsie? 'Cause my bar ain't got room for freeloaders."
"No, barkeep, I assure you, I'm as dry as Death Valley."
"No one calls Barney Gumble," Barney belched, " a blubber-blob!" He stood up out of his stool and approached Burns menacingly.
Mr. Burns cowered in fear. "Smithers, fend off this anthropoid brute!"
"Stay back!" said Smithers, grabbing a bottle of wine. He smashed it over the counter, but when it shattered, the glass cut his hand up. As he fell to the floor, yelling out in pain, Barney lunged toward Mr. Burns. From the floor, Smithers tugged at Burns' foot to make him fall and caught him in his arms. "Let's get the hell out of here." Mr. Burns nodded meekly.
Once he laid Mr. Burns in the backseat of the car, Smithers sighed and said, "I told you we should've stayed home." He winced and clutched his lacerated hand. "You could've gotten really hurt. I would never have forgiven myself."
"Oh, quit your melodramatic piffle. That was quite a lark!"
"But sir, he could've killed you!"
"You worry too much, Waylon. I can handle myself."
Smithers sighed and mumbled under his breath, "If that were true, I wouldn't have a million shards of glass embedded in my hand right now." He instructed the chauffeur to take them back to Burns Manor.
"What can I do for him? I'll do anything. Anything at all."
"You need to be patient and accept that he's never going to be able to modulate his behavior again. So there's no point trying to make him behave appropriately unless he's posing a danger to himself or others. He will also require increasing amounts of help performing basic personal tasks like bathing and toileting."
"I already help him with a lot of that, so that won't be a big deal for me."
"Don't take it personally if he gets irritable toward you; it's just the disease talking."
"I don't, and not always."