TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 12
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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Gee, I've been here only three weeks and we're already up to
episode twelve. I can hardly believe it! And I thought this
place wouldn't have much to talk about that's tasteless. How
wrong I was! I must be doing the correct thing because none of
you fellow a.t.ers have flamed me for boring you. In fact, I've
picked up some new fans. You twisted fucks know who you are...
Yesterday evening on my last round I stopped in to see Mr Verdugo
up the hall. He always waves and tries to be pleasant even
though his elevator stops at the third floor and grinds. He's
one of the "feeders". Over at The ERR, being a feeder generally
meant you are totally fucked up; you have a catheter and pissbag,
you moan, cuss, or roar unintelligibly most of the time, you bite
and hit, and you haven't got a lick of sense but you have a hose
in your nose or directly into your belly where they pump "food"
in so you won't die and cut off the money.
Here we have nice feeders. I guess this place picks off the
cream of the crop and leaves the real tards to the other "homes".
Anyway, I noticed Mr Verdugo's feeding syringe. He's always
hooked to a bottle of sustenance on an IV stand which runs via
tube through an electronic pump affair which pinches the tube to
scoot the liquid along. From there the tube is coupled to his
surgically implanted stomach tube. The feeding syringe is used
to give him a drink or to medicate him. They disconnect the
feeding tube and squirt the contents of his feeding syringe into
the stomach tube.
The feeding syringe was lying on his tray table enclosed in a
plastic housing much as cigars are tubed. I thought, gee, Mr
Cheez would like to have one of those huge plastic syringes to
play with. The plastic keeper would also make a great dildo.
I'll see if I can nick him a set. Mr Cheez gets upset with me a
lot. He thinks every time I mention him in a.t. his reputation
sinks a little more. Some people just don't appreciate what you
do for them.
Breakfast this morning was unremarkable except to say that
someone spilled the milk and didn't cry a bit. They just covered
up the fact by getting a second glassful and putting it on the
tray ... right there in the puddle the first one made. There was
milk under the plate. There was milk under the coffee mug.
There was milk _in_ the freakin' orange juice, clotted. Ick. I
discovered there was milk soaked into the BROWN BREAD toast and
diluting the scrambled cackleberry mix. Oh well, I ate it and
kept my hole shut. I was hungry. When I growled something about
the spill to my nurseypoo-du-jour, she tried to blame it on the
clueless newbie CNA who brought George and my trays. Actually,
the newbie is more coordinated than the oldbie, so it had to be a
screw-up in the kitchen. They just don't hire for quality around
this place. On the other hand, would _you_ work in a tardfarm?
Last night I was sum-totally pissed at my evening CNA. I rang
for her to get me in bed at eight, which is my usual time. I
don't stay up later unless net traffic is really twisted and
holds my interest. (It came close last night. Bradley, the
Wyoming state cop and I had a verrrrry eentresteeng chat session.
Any nightstick of his is a friend of mine...) Anyway, Rochelle
is never anywhere to be found when you need her.
A couple evenings ago she put me in bed pretty much on time but
left me on the bedpan so long I went to sleep. When I woke up, I
know I had a great big red ring on my ass because I could feel
the indentation all over my hams. When she got around to
removing the groganplatter[tm], it was stuck to my ass by
suction. (All prospective paramours with sodomistic designs
beware; you may lose your property...) It came away with an
audible . I know you will want to know: Yes, I gave
generously.
But this evening I was forgotten completely for an HOUR while she
dealt with what she would only say was "an emergency". I was
highly pissed. We had a discussion in which she got all bent out
of shape and defensive and everything. I told her I was not
angry with her personally but with a system which can't cover "an
emergency" and keep things going for a damn hour.
"Hihoney hihoney hihoney hihoney hihoney hihoney whatthehell
whatthehell whatthehell whatthehell Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou
Iloveyou Don'tleaveme don'tleaveme don'tleaveme don'tleaveme"
They had Goddammit Lady sitting up in a wheelchair in the dining
room at dinner last night. Sap that I am, I just can't ignore
the old girl. I went and held her hand again until she calmed
down. She sort of recognizes me now and she perks up when she
sees me. We had dinner together, she and I. I have no idea
what, if anything that meant to her. But it means something to
me.
I found out what that emergency was this morning. Queen Bee told
me Goddammit Lady died last night about eight o'clock. You know,
I'll bet she was a hellraiser in her day. I nominate her
posthumously for consideration as an a.t. diva. The next inmate
council meeting we have in this loon factory, I'm going to have a
lot to say about the rule that staff may not admit to the
ocurrence of a death here. That's why Rochelle was so tight-
jawed yesterday. She got G-Lady ready for the family. They are
who I saw in the corridor. I would like to have told them that
she meant something to some of us as well. They might like to
know that. Rest peacefully, Birdie. Bee said you were just
beautiful after Rochelle fixed you up.
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