THE ROYAL RESIDENCE 1
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode one. Does anyone beside me remember a short-
lived sitcom called Hot l Baltimore? The title was pronounced
Hot El Baltimore; the e was out in the sign. It had quite a cast
of ne'erdowells and funny old pensioners going in and out the
lobby. I feel like I am about to write the new Hot l Baltimore.
The Royal Residence is a residence hotel in San Francisco close
enough to the Powell Street cable car line that I can hear the
clang and the rattle. It began life in 1914 as a residence hotel
for upright young ladies. It probably went downhill from there,
but in 1968 it apparently became refurbished and a certified HUD
low-income property. It is of such a reputation, or the
applicants are in such dire need of such accomodations that the
waiting list for rooms here is about one year.
This is a low income property. It is not an ADA/gimp property.
I suppose living quarters might be had which combine both
features since we gimps are rarely rich unless we are Chrissy
Reeves becoming injured playing oh-so-propuh sports. I took what
I could get which would get me out of the tardfarm and away from
hopelessness and craziness as swiftly as possible.
In the same week the RR called me, another neighborhood
association called to say they had a place for me to inspect.
When I told Miss Kooky about that one, she said, Oh no, dear, you
don't want to live there -- it's a nice building and probably
works faaaaabulously for crips but the first time you wheel out
on the street two baddies will dump your high-and-mightiness out
of your tardthrone and take it to the hockshop.
The RR has seven floors and sits across the street from a well-
known tourist hotel and abutts another. There is a well-
established ethnic restaurant next door, a walk-up office space,
a sidewalk cafe, and another bar or restaurant space which seems
to be changing emphasis. This block is quite stable and has
nothing in it to attract motheaten people though they do shuffle
by on their way to soup kitchens and things.
My room in the RR looks down upon the roof of the restaurant and
office space. I see what appear to be cute third-world computer
programming types coming out for a smoke now and then. I think I
will get a duplicate door key and let it down on a string like
the nelly old queens used to do on Poke Street when something
delicious-looking smouldered by.
Mr Cheez comes over every morning on his way to funeral fun to
see that I get up, get my pussy washed and my tardpants on
straight. This morning it was really swoosh'n'doosh because in
this week right before Chinese New Year, the mortuary he escorts
for has quite a lot of customers to plant. All the stiffs have
to be in the ground before the New Year celebrations or it is a
bad omen. And please don't let any of the ancient ones pass on
to their ancestors during the New Year festivities!
Remember Mouth? Mouth is still here, faithfully drinking
whatever lquids it pleases me to feed him. Miss Kooky went to
the formerly world's largest Woolworth's and got two plastic
pitchers. One is to empty mouth in after he has tasted my latest
vintage, and the other contains plain water for him to gargle
with. In the course of the evening and night, the rinse pitcher
becomes nearly empty and the vintage pitcher becomes quite full.
Mr Cheez empties the one and refills the other.
Why don't I use the royal throne room, you say. Because this
building is only passively wheelchair accessible. The bathrooms
would be a tight squeeze for a skinny 15-17 inch wheelchair let
alone my imperial 20-incher. I have a drop-arm commode chair on
order to receive groganage. The Demon was thoughtful enough to
bring me a housewarming gift that tells me he really does care.
It's a bedpan. You really know your friends are Friends when
they will empty your pisspot and clean out your bedpan.
Mr Cheez et al should not have to contend with these demeaning
chores if I can get a call back from the social services agency.
Miss Ralph has done the paperwork putting San Francisco on notice
that Da Kaween has arrived and that my case is to be transferred
to this side of the Bay. I will be qualified for home health
care as they term visiting nurse service. I need a little
assistance morning and evening and that's about it.
I've heard fantastic tales about all the chores these folks will
do for us tards but I choose not to exploit the system just
because I could be royal and do it. Not only did I want to get
out of a tardfarm to preserve what might be left of my sanity, I
was not happy costing the working stiffs of the state over three
grand a month, all too much of which ends up in profit-making
pockets.
I have nothing against profit-making as a philosophy because it
is as good an incentive as we have for encouraging productivity
and quality in goods and services. But when it becomes the
motive in people care, something goes wrong. I don't think
purely governmental administration of people care works any
better. Perhaps the twenty-first century will brings us a wise
one to devise something which will work better than either. We
certainly need it.
But now I no longer have to be expensively kept. I finally got
to the top of the list and took what I could get in the way of
shelter which would work at all for me. Now I can pay my own way
with my own funds instead of having the doctrine of a so-called
Fair Share kill my remaining money and enslave me forever to the
tardfarm life.
There is a controversy in Texas about the inequity of vast public
money being siphoned by the rest home industry to keep people who
could live more independently (with or without limited personal
assistance). What money gets sucked up by the tardfarm people
cannot be used to build affordable accessible housing for us
gimps. Therefore, when we have the slightest chance to get away
from being kept, we wait and wait and wait. The tardfarm
industry could care less how long we wait. They make money while
we rot listening to screeching in the night.
The Royal Residence has an activities director. I believe I
mentioned this in one of the later Timmy's rants. She puts out a
multipage monthly newsletter. Two mornings a week we have Social
Hour at nine o'clock. I must get down there in time to mix.
They have an ocassional field trip, a camera club, crafts, and
show movies once in a while. Social Hour is followed by Bingo.
I'll pass. They also do something else which is unsettling.
Every night or morning some silent person attaches a plain white
card to each resident's doorknob. If this card is not removed
some time during the next day, it is assumed the resident might
need assistance (or be dead...?)
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