THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 13
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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 thirteen. Remember the runty little woman with
the stringy black hair who likes to run through the dining room
screaming STICK IT UP YOUR ASS STICK IT UP YOUR ASS? That's her,
the one with the strawberry birthmark all over one side of her
face. Man, what a fucked-up life she must have had on account of
it. Meet Jeannie, aka Potty Mouth. She has that peculiar puffy
wrinkledness that says I spent years being a very wet alky and I
wonder why they dried me out.
Jeannie likes to visit everybody. But she likes especially to do
this when they aren't "home". When she visits, she looks the
place over, goes into drawers (in the furniture) and examines
things she finds. If she likes what she sees, she "borrows" it
or gives it to somebody else. When something comes up missing,
they look in Jeannie's room first. If they don't find it there,
they start looking everywhere because there is no telling upon
whom she bestowed the little treasure in question.
Conversely, when you find something in your room that you never
saw before, you have to sort of figure Jeannie's been there. You
give it to the charge nurse and let her sort it out. Jeannie has
a soft spot for people's false teeth. She likes to steal them
and snap them in half and hide them in somebody else's room. Now
I know why George locks his in a drawer. And this may be why
Queen Bee is currently running around with that caved-in look.
Today is Father's Day. Wonderful. I can't participate -- not
that I mind particularly. I am more in tune with Mother's Day.
It's the queeny side of me. That doesn't mean I know anything
'bout birfin' no babies unless you mean severe constipation via
too much Cheez Whiz.
But I think Father's Day is a good thing. It's nice for all the
guys to have a day where they can congratulate themselves because
their dick works. Coming to visit old dad-type tards on FD is
not happening here much. George's wife and at least one daughter
are now over an hour late coming to see him. I have a feeling I
am going to be in for a bitchy night with him if they don't show
up mighty damned fast.
Lunch was completely inedible. Somehow they managed to find six
things I can't stand and to put them all on one tray. The
toughest chuck "steak" in the world, range cow grade, with
plaster-mix flavor "mashed" potatoes, boiled carrots, prune whip
(when I am praying for cheese in order to get control here), milk
at other than breakfast or with cookies, and tap water.
On the whole I'd prefer to be in Mexico chowing down on rice,
beans, tortillas, deveined peppers, queso ranchero (a savagely
perishable drained curd something like salty compressed dry
cottage cheese which is even better when it starts to get a
little green on the edges), and burro jerky. Or maybe just for
kicks I would jerk off the burro. I made do with a bag of Fritos
and a Diet Pepsi.
They put out a copy of the Department of Health Services report
on this place. You may remember the digest of the inspection
done at The ERR. All these places get it at least once a year.
The write-up for St Timmy's is a third the size of the one for
The ERR. Here they didn't get cited nearly so much for record
errors, mishandling of inmates^H^H^H^H^H^H^Hpatients, and forcing
medical measures on the unaware or the stupid.
The kitchen got written up bigtime. The two major problems were
setting out the little glasses of milk way early so they get to
room temperature before they are served, and cracking eggs (like
seven dozen) into a large bowl in the afternoon and letting them
sit around until breakfast prep the next morning.
Nobody seems to know how to be sure the dishwasher carries on at
the proper temperature for the proper length of time, either.
They use one big rag to wipe down any old counter in the kitchen,
and they store such rags on the floor next to the grease trap.
It's a wonder we aren't all dead. There were no vermin detected,
nor rusted or dented cans found in the larder, but they don't
disinfect cutting boards worth spit.
In my quality consciousness studies at the Navy yard, we were
taught that in order to begin to fix a problem, the problem needs
to be described in all its facets and quanitified. I wonder how
you do that with the aesthetic value of foods served. Apparently
DHS thinks this is possible. They complained about the soups
especially, saying the vegetable soup looked like water with some
discolored bits floating in it, and the cream soups were lumpy
and thick. Welcome to instutional food, bureaucrats! Soup and
meatloaf serve to cover the sins of the cook. There is no end to
the strange ingredients you will find in tardfarm soup. You
couldn't give me a new, functioning leg to get me to eat it.
Welllll ... maybe...
Other problems had to do with extension cords running across
walking paths and too many appliances on one circuit. There is
no mention of the relay in the wall that hums all night. Just
wait til DHS comes back if I have bad luck to be here still...
Residents complained to DHS about the noise level in the halls,
the use of foreign languages in front of residents who do not
understand what is being said, and privacy issues. Staff tended
to walk in without knocking and to leave modesty curtains ajar so
that residents in a state of undress are in public view. They
seem to be more careful now about knocking and drawing curtains.
They knock two taps and walk in. You barely have time to drop
your cock and pretend to play with your sock.
Mechanical restraints seem to be used without the knowledge of
the attending physician or the permission of the family or
resident. One lady on a hose to the nose had both hands tied
down in bed so she couldn't pull it out, letting her nutritional
gravy run all over the bed. Her right hand was okay but her left
was swollen, pitted and discolored from the circulation being cut
off. DHS wasn't at all happy about that! I didn't see any
mention of Happy Juice[tm]. I guess they chill folks out with
barbiturate pills, crushed or not, instead of chemical
straitjackets such as Haldol and Thorazine.
While I was reading the DHS report chained to the wall, a white
trash couple began tuning his guitar with her beating on the ole
pianny. Pretty soon we were all What a Friend We Have in Jayzuz
and like that in an east Texas twang you could cut with a knife.
I guess it's all right to go splashing around in The Fountain
Filled with Blood Drawn from Emmanuel's Veins, but I prefer to
Crown Him Lord of All myself. It just seems more dignified. I
could hardly get to the Pepsi machine for all their crap. These
days it seems anybody can afford a Peavey, fercrissake.
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