TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 6
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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This is episode six. Lunch today was extremely quiet. What with
the early morning distubances and the later deathly hush over the
whole place, there is something in the air. Could it be full
moon? There was hardly anyone slurping down Broccoli Suprise,
Bread Stuffing, and a piece of real ham you could cover an eye
with. The place was overrun with old ladies, _really_ old
ladies. Notable were the number of obese guts with scrawny limbs
attached. Hell, my shape is in vogue here!
The only real tard in the place was this little old man who
pushes his wheelchair a few inches forward and forgets to let go
the wheels and ends up pushing himself an almost equal amount
backwards. After a few strokes, he gives up and just scoots
backwards until he runs into something that brings him to a dead
stop or that talks back. Otherwise, the lunch room was a great
sea of sagging white flesh tended by supple young variegated
flesh.
I traded this really old lady I sat next to my water and milk for
her coffee. She had the Gummit Special, three scoops. There was
a scoop of mashed potato, of pre-chewed broccoli, and
mechanically-masticated bread stuffing. As I am famous for
saying, this stuff will all emerge looking about the same as it
did when it went in. They even puree'd her canned peach bits.
I'm sure they don't want her to pass dice-sized peach, bit by
bit, and give her starfish a thrill. That would be more
stimulation than any decent octogenarian could stand. She hardly
touched her food. She kept offering it to me. I certainly don't
want it en puree'.
I want you to meet the queen Bea of this here high-class
establishment. She resembles Bette Davis in appearance and
mannerism. Bea smokes like it was going out of style. She has
the resultant fetching whiskey baritone you would expect. But it
was her ex-husband who did all the drinking. He was the lush and
Bea is the smoker. Bea spent her time operating beauty shops in
various central California burgs. She smoked, burnt hair, and
drank coffee black. She tells me all about her family and feels
sorry for me because I don't have any. I have got to work into
just the correct way to tell her about my adoptive family, Mr
Cheez, Kurth, Miss Kooky and Mikey. If she's worked in and run
beauty shops, she knows what fags are. But she will be another
one who will say something to the effect, "You can't be gay; you
don't act funny." That or she'll tell me they don't have queers
in Bakersfield.
Just as in The ERR, Saturday seems to be the day when family
members do their ObT by coming to check on their dotty relatives.
Unfortunately, no staff in real authority are present on
weekends. All complaints are taken in the office M-F 8:30-4. I
met the daughter of the little old man who has an affinity for
our brand of water sport. He plays with the drinking fountain in
the hall. His daughter is as cute as a porky BarbieDoll. She's
confined by "arthuritis" to a powered wheelchair. Poor thang
can't propell a manual one. I think I'll cut off a paw and see
if I can get some more sympathy from the state dole board. I'm
tired looking for it in the dictionary between 'shit' and
syphilis'. Her husband is a computer geek, so we had phun
commiserating over the number of AOheLlers and their wannabes on
the Net. I am gravitating to sitting with the smokers. I prefer
their company to the droolers.
Later on, Barbie Doll's father left the water fountain and became
mesmerized by my wheelchair. Since she and I are both about the
same in porkritude, maybe he thinks I am she. At any rate, he
wouldn't let go of my chair and quit kicking the wheels. He had
this really stupid grin on his face as though this is the way he
plays with her. Please. I am not impressed. I was bizzy
reading the Physician's Desk Reference to see how phuqued up I
would get if I ate a bunch of Procardia and Micronase together.
I think I would go cold and dead quite painlessly in about five
minutes. No knowledge is a waste, they say.
You should see people's faces light up when they have visitors.
I expect I simper and grin like an idiot when Mr Cheez or Miss
Kooky show up. I can't help myself. And when Kurth or Mikey
show up, I almost get a hardon. Tardfarm days run into each
other like oil into more oil. There are only so many amateur
renditions (heavy on the 'render') of Let Me Call You Sweetheart
you can tolerate. Maybe Kurth can carry my ghetto blaster to the
dining hall with a Wierd Al Yankovic CD in it to liven up the
place. The hit song he did about the Amish ought to fit right in
around here. Playing Pussy Tourette's lurid lyrics would get me
a murder rap. I can't play them Bach; they're already mostly
asleep an hour after feeding.
I go in and pull the weights twice a day, much as I did at The
ERR. The therapists haven't got a program for me yet. Monday I
will approach them about Let's Get the Show on the Road. Part of
the days running into each other like oils is that you don't see
results from all this boring therapy for weeks and until you
retry something you used to do and see that, yes, it _did_ get a
little easier than before. I expect by week's end to be getting
in and out of bed without assistance. That way I can free myself
from nursal tyrrany and also take a nap in the afternoon without
sitting up in a seat belt, slobbering on my shirt, head down `a
la tard.
"NUUURSE! ... HELP ME! ... HELP MEEEEE! ... BRING ME MY
PILLS! ... ... ... YOU GOD DAMN BITCH, GET YOUR ASS
IN HERE! ... ... ... OH, HELP ME. PLEEEEEEEEEEEASE." It's
just Sally again. No one can satisfy her because she does not
_want_ to be pleased. She's been here two days, most of it spent
on her ass in bed. She's so obnoxious to staff they only
minimally assist her. This means they aren't about to put her up
in a chair, so mercurial is her temperament. This afternoon the
famous Stephanie (not the swish at The ERR) left Sally sit on a
sharp metal bed pan for, she claims, six hours. The way she
pisses and moans, she probably needed the time to get it out.
She told me she hasn't taken a shit in seven days. Her lower
abdomen looks it. I can't wait for them to give her the
suppository, find out it's too late for that, and order up an
enema.
The enema may not work either. Sally says at Haywierd General
they had to chip it out of her, digitally, bit by gnarly bit.
(de J, are you paying attention?) I intend to listen carefully
when I see the IV stand with the water bag roll into her room. I
will imagine the great wide snow-white hiney being split and
lubed like a floured jelly donut. I'll tingle when I hear the
first gurgles and the moan as the hot water works its way into
her woodlike imapaction. It won't be two minutes before she
screams, "AHHHHH. IT HURTS! IT'S TOO MUCH! UNGHGHGH. TAKE IT
OUT!" She'll thrash around on the bed like a beached whale and
the nurse will ball her fist around the tube and make it stay in
place. Sally, you're going to get your enema and it'll be high,
hot, a whole lot, and will cure your disposition, you cunt.
I went outside the dining hall for dinner. It was really crowded
in there with people who wouldn't pull up square to the tables
and leave a decent path for the servers and the ones of us who
needed to pass them. Goddammit Lady was lying in her tard chair
singing away like an endless tape loop. At the other end another
old dear was haranguing the populace on nothing in particular and
everything in general. It would have ruined the meal to have to
listen to all that. We had quiche. That's right; egg pie. Fag
Fritatta with Dolled-Up Potatoes, Diced Carrots `a la Spoo, and
more peach bits. Did I forget brown bread...? I wish I could.
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