TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 1
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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Well, here I am at St Timmy's in bee-oo-tee-ful Haywierd,
Californica. Mr Cheez and I tried to get me transferred to a
tardfarm[tm] not so far out in the weeds, but all the ones in San
Fagsissyco are full up or have the typical narrow potty doors or
lots of steps and things to get in my way. Anyway, I am now out
of the clutches of Dragon Lady and her bunch and I breathe more
freely.
My roomie is George. He drove for the local bus company for many
years before a stroke got him. Miss Kooky and he can talk
about buses and Transit Queens They Have Known. He's a sweet guy
but his short-term memory is hash. He and I are negotiating
dividing up the closet and drawer space. I need more space for
_crap_ and he needs more space for _clothes_. I'd prefer to run
around naked (except that I might get tardly stains on my
wheelchair seat cushion) and have lots of junque; he prefers to
have a nice wardrobe and to smoke.
So far this afternoon I put down Mr Cheez as the person they
should call if I croak. He can drag me away by the remaining leg
and make a bonfire to crisp me with. Considering the consumptive
life I've led, having a pyre fueled by old fast food wrappers
seems charmingly appropriate. I also told them not to prolong my
miserable life except that they may give me oxygen to keep me
from the pains of suffocation and they may hydrate me. The only
other thing they are permitted to do is administer pain control.
Ha. I doubt I need to have these directives on file but,
considering all the misery I saw at The Eternal Rest Room, I
don't want to try my luck. I also never figured on losing a
leg...
This afternoon there was some old duffer in the dining hall
beating the everloving shit out of an old upright grand. He
plays really well for somebody obviously retired. I will not go
and do likewise and display my ignorance of entertainment music.
I was a church organist for many years. As I write this, I have
a ceedee on of John Longhurst blowing the dust out of the Mormon
Tabernacle monster pipe organ. This is more of my famous
"Dracula" music. I wonder how long it will take for George to
get sick of it and blast me with Oprah. There is an honest-to-
Glub model M-1 Hammond Spinet Organ in the fireplace lounge on
the other end of the building. Unfortunately for it, someone
left the power on it in an improper way and burned it out. Had
this not ocurred, I might this moment be up there giving everyone
my impression of Ethel Smith a-smoakin' with "Tico Tico". Miss
Kooky, is my red samba dress back from the cleaners yet...?
This place promises to be moderately tasteless already. There
are three old ladies on this wing who vocally ejaculate for no
apparent reason. It could be their Depends gets into a wad.
When I was up front signing a whole bunch of paperses so they
would let me stay here, the office creature wondered what my
fountain pen was. I collect them, though my collection is in
storage. I want Mr Cheez to bring them out so I can caress them
one by one again soon. I have my Montblanc with me, filled with
a curious red-brown ink they call Burgundy. When I passed the
dining hall this afternoon, there were several tardy-looking
folkez drooling away in their wheelchairs. I shall have to pay
strict attention at dinner tonight. I want to be late for the
skilled, first seating and dawdle long enough into the second
seating to get a load of the tards.
I am relieved to see they have a Hoyer lift so they can haul my
dead ass into bed. I haven't seen a sliding board yet or I would
be tempted to try getting there myself. I don't have a bed pan
in my tasteless beat-up Danish Modern bedside stand. I think
Nursey is going to be surprised when I ask for one. I like to Go
every evening about half past eight. I get on it whether I only
fart or do better. I wonder what George will think. Nevermind.
He won't think about it too long. Short term memory hash,
remember? This room shares a potty room with a room of women. I
went in the potty room to hike down my sweatpants and pee into
the urinal I keep handy.
I was hoping one of the elegant black ladies next door would have
a concurrent Call of the Kidneys, open her door, behold my little
snakemeat spout, scream, fall over dead, and have to be carried
away by the same undertaker who came to The Eternal Rest Room
over the weekend. This dude is so fat. [How fat _is_ he?] He's
so fat he has bigger tits than I did when I was really really
really fat. His tits are so big Alice thought he was a Real
Woman. I, as expert on Men's Bodies (having seen so many in my
long career as a slut), set her straight.
Anyway, as I sat there in my tardchair peeing away, I beheld the
porcelain altar before me into which I would shortly pour my
liquid offering. It was so near and yet so far. I can't wait to
be cleared by the occupational therapist to resume depositing my
apple juice and my groganry in the customary sacred receptacle.
After a year of living in a place with mere roadside shrines
impossible for me to use, you have no idea with what great
rejoicing I shall take up my mantle and worship in a more
spacious temple to noxious fume.
Dinner is over. We had Roast of Something Off the Farm, _real_
mashed potatoes, and shredded beets in a gelatinous sauce. I
think the cook wanks off into the pot. Probably he has the
dishwasher help, too. They serve the same pre-greased brown
bread and the same sloppy canned fruit for dessert. Now I know
where Crazy Lady at The ERR got all her hints 'n' tips for
Gracious Dining -- except that she forgot to salt or season
anything.
This place is even more tasteless than I thought; they run teevee
during dinner and have a PEPSI machine! To their credit, the
coffee, with which I had to make do, is drinkable. Costa Rican
it is not. Classic Guggy's it almost is. Now, I want you to
know that I tried to watch for funny eaters. I got more than I
bargained for. My roomie seems to eat regularly with this 50-
something spastic lady. She's not really bad that way but she
did drop one of her spoons once. She drinks two cups of coffee,
served together, using a straw. The dining room lady puts the
sugar in her coffee and prepares the straw for her. I was glad
the dining room lady did not come at _me_ with that noise.
They don't use tardbibs[tm] here. If you spill it on yourself,
it's just too damn bad. Scald your own may-nays and whine to
yourself. This is a high-class place. Miss Spastic Who Isn't
Too Bad That Way kept me so engaged in useless conversation that
I couldn't watch for other funny eaters. I promise to try to do
better tomorrow.
You can have some Hammond Organ music if you want to go to the
front lounge and install a new motor in the instrument.
Otherwise just beat on the piano, because this has been the first
of Glub knows how many installments of The Trials at St Timmy's.
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