TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 4
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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This is the fourth diabtribe in my new series of see-all and
tell-all. Coffee Social was hardly social. Everybody just sat
there drinking their coffee and staring vacantly. I met Frances
because one of staff felt the need to push me, without
permission, up to a table across from the old dear. We really
didn't have much to say to each other except that the coffee
isn't served hot enough. By the time you get it fixed it's about
luke warm. Staff wanted to fix mine but I only want a half
packet of sugar substitute in it. They would make it sickening
if they got a free hand. It's called gracious hospitality.
(Furball.) At meals we get coffee in a brown mug so you
can't see how weak the stuff is. But at Coffee Social we get it
in clear tan plastic tumblers. How continental. (Damned
furballs.) Well, I guzzled mine without fear of getting anything
like a caffeine rush, and took off to explore the rest of this
tard patch. Lemme tellya, when you've seen one antiseptic white
hall here, you've seen 'em all.
Today must've been New Resident Evaluation Day. I so far have
met the physical therapist, the occupational therapist, the
activity director, and the one I think is the dietician. Hey
lady, get rid of the Glubdamn brown bread and get some Orowheat
in here. Don't scorch my fried egg. What is it with tard farm
cooks that they have to burn eggs? The PT says I can come down
and pull weights anytime the room is not busy. I've been there
today and found out how much it hurts to be away from one's
physical routine and go back suddenly. The OT is going to get
the maintenance man to lower my bed so I can use a slide board to
get from bed to wheelchair to bed. He may have to remove the
casters to get it low enough. Nursey will hate _that_... The
upside is, it won't try to go anywhere when I am over mother
earth in mid-buttslide. The activity director is the one who
tried to pour too much aspartame in my coffee water.
I made it to the dining room in time for the first lunch seating
today. When you wheel into the room, some staff do-gooder just
grabs the handles on the back of your chair and puts you where
they think you ought to be. I'm not sure yet, but I think there
is a pecking order based on ability to eat "nice". I am still a
loose cannon, and so made second string. George, my roomie, made
first along with Spastic Lady. I got to sit across from a
toothless wonder who likes to push out her lower lip now and then
to air where her teeth used to be. I can just see her doing this
with dentures if he has or gets any. They will come sailing
halfway out of her mouth is a Picasso-esque off-center grin. But
today we merely got to see the accumulation of chocolate pudding
between her dental ridge and lower lip. How attractive. Staff
go around during the meal admonishing folkez not to do things
like that. Lunch strings three, four, five and six will require
some study so I can adequately describe them for you. Give me a
few days to check it out.
The maintenance man found a power center cord for me so I can
plug in my teevee and Mr Cheez's VCR. Oh, goody. Now I can look
at boy-boy fuck movies and give George something to think about.
George's intelligence is all there; he cannot find the words he
wants in his ROM chips. The stroke sort of scorched his circuit
cards. Maybe it'll reheat George's solder welds when he sees
Jeff Stryker cram that monster choad into a willing sexslave.
MaintMan said he will try to fix the ballast transformer that
hums so loudly at night.
I must say the staff have a helpful and willing attitude, much
more so than at The ERR. It remains to be seen whether they
carry out their promises. The diet lady asked me how I like it
here. If she is fishing for compliments on the kwizzeen, she may
be majorly disappointed. I have put her to the test. This
afternoon, after noting we will be presented turkey sammich with
gwavy for dinner, I rang the bell at the kitchen door. Aside
from thinking I hit the fire alarm by mistake, I got to ask for a
beef patty as substitute, but don't know if I will get it. The
kitchen lady smiled like someone has just smeared
groganbutter[tm[ under her nose and let the door close.
This afternoon as I looked at a bunch of fractal images while
Bach was playing on the ghetto blaster, I heard my named called
out with great formal dignity. I will never forget that voice.
It was the shrink who haunts The ERR dispensing HappyJuice[tm] to
the terminally unsettled. I guess he came over here to pick up
$60 off MediCal or private insurance for every tard he scribbles
in the chart of. What a fine racket. I shouldda gone and become
a doctor of something not known to be fatal. The consultant fees
can add up to be staggering.
This is Thursday and so a four o'clock we have Happy Hour. The
vittles are non-alcoholic "beer", sugar-bearing 7up, and Brand X
cheese puffs. Spastic Lady kept whining for a real live
Falstaff. George was with her holding her hand. She cannot
bring food or drink to her mouth because of Multiple Sclerosis.
George feeds her and sees that she can get at the straw in her
beverages. These two really do hold hands a lot. He even kissed
her. She said, rather boldly I thought, she and he can't fool
around because she has a catheter. Dear Abby figure that I am, I
reminded her that there are lots of other things you guys can do.
Then I thought about what I said and wondered if they thought I
meant orally or anally. Sometimes one should shut one's hole and
eat one's corn chips.
Dinner was subdued this evening. The dining hall was only half
full. Many of those present were just putting in time. Today
seemed one of those days when the really old or out-of-it tards
are plopped into "jerry" chairs and left to amuse themselves by
playing with their catheter hoses or, as in the case of the
Goddammit Lady, squeaking away in their little old lady voice
such directives as Don't Hurt Me and Goddammit over and over
again like a windup doll that will never run down. I had to ask
again for my beef patty. They plopped a miserable chunk of
turkey loaf on my plate, covered with gravy and resting on ...
brown bread. My evening nurse went to bat for me. Soon a
pissed-off cook's assistant brought the beef patty plate, plopped
it down with the lid left on, and a cheery Here ya go -- not. I
removed the cover and found what seems to be the universal answer
to cook's mistakes in places like this: A hand-formed cake of
meatloaf. It was presented en sammiche with ... GLUBDAMN FUCKING
BROWN BREAD. Well, I was warned by the wording: Beef patty, not
hamburger patty. I forgot to bring my bottle of ketchup, too.
In not covering the cook's sins with the Sacred Blood of the
Tomato, I discovered the patty to be seasoned with cinnamon.
Yup. The cook's a dot head.
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