Timmy's After New Years
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TIMMY'S AFTER NOO YEER'S
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Here I am computer geeking away and I hear a thud and a crunch
against the patio glass door. George has returned to the room
and has fallen on his way back from the bathroom. George, I ask,
Do you need help? He doesn't say anything. I hit the call
button and immediately wheel out into the hall to track down a
CNA. I see one at the desk and I call, George needs help. She
stares for a long moment like a deer in headlights and then calls
to another and they come rushing. They come in the room and pick
him up. He's not damaged, but he is red in the face and then I
smell the alcohol.
It turns out he and Joe went across the tracks to the
neighborhood bar and celebrated. George is drunk as a lord.
Once the CNAs determine he is no worse for the wear, they set him
back in his chair. He looks at me and gets this huge shit-eating
grin on. George says, I'm all fucked up. He was out drinking
tequila shots. He got in trouble for not signing out. They
didn't seem to mind he got plastered. Anyway, he felt good all
evening and slept better than usual. Later I heard he brought a
small bottle back and was spiking his girlfriend Spastic Lady's
diet cola.
Spastic Lady Who Isn't Too Bad That Way likes to see me. She
makes a point of drawing me into conversation whenever George is
around because it makes George jealous. This is true to a point,
but George is good-natured about it. I was telling them how I
hated dinner last night. It was another goop meal based on what
they call Bavarian Stew. All I could see in my bowl was what you
get mixing and overcooking powdered milk and leftover frozen
vegetables. I wasn't able to find any meat substance in it -- or
any potato. Nearly as I can figure they tried to make potato
soup without any ingredients. And they want me to think all my
marbles are chipped...
The flavor was that of overcooked starchiness and loads of salt.
Inedible. Now it get it! They tried to make potato soup with
powdered potato! Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. What really
stupid idea is next? George and Spastic Lady asked how I liked
my Hot Dog Soup. I'm not sure whether I got some slop made up
for the diet-challenged or if I didn't get any meat in mine.
Anyway it was awful. All I would have eaten would be the cut-up
weiners had they been there. I threatened to go see the
administrator about this crummy slop. George holds up a fist,
smiles, and declares, You are a bitch. Spastic Lady laughs.
Yes, George, I am a bitch. Sometime soon these people will learn
the hard way not to piss off an old queen.
It's Friday night and Miss Ralph is reigning in my room, hiding
from the administrator. I asked Miss Ralph if she took my latest
complaints about the food to the staff meeting today. Yes, she
said, And they said What Is He Bitching About Now? Miss Ralph
told them how I sent breakfast back because it was dead cold from
being a half hour late. There was nobody here to distribute the
food. It seems two out of four CNAs for this wing didn't make it
to work on time this morning. I did compliment the kitchen crew
on the New Year's Day lunch. It was real ham, a real potato and
real unmessed-with frozen mixed vegetables sans axle grease. Of
course, they made us do penance with that awful "Bavarian" cum
soup at dinner. What does it take to read a cookbook and follow
directions, anyway?
Miss Ralph told me the Tastless Tale of the Tardfarm for this
month. Seems a while back they had a retired CEO of a well-known
bank here as a private patient in a room by himself. This cost a
minimum of US$3500/month and likely closer to five grand. The
old boy got stopped up and didn't shit for so long they had to
"do digital" on him. Anyway, the nurz who did the honors must've
had small hands cuz she got her whole fist in there so she could
break it up into pieces that would pass. She reported that the
old boy was getting off on being fisted. It was probably the
biggest thrill his ole walnut had in twenty years. This just
goes to show you how far bankers will take being uptight.
My lunch was the last one out of the kitchen today, and nobody
lifted a finger to get it to me promptly. It sat on the rack by
the kitchen while a full dining hall grazed away. George was
finished and back in the room before I ever saw mine, so I went
looking for it. I raised holy motherfucking hell with the charge
nurse about being last out and cold all the time. She had the
nerve to connive with Gretchen, the nazi bitch (only we Germans
know how nasty we are) to put in the log that it had just come
out of the kitchen and was not their fault I was pissed. So they
are going to blame the kitchen. Bitches.
Gretchen is at the bottom of this. She was fucking around in the
social dining down the corridor in the occupational therapy room
where they still have that program going. It was inaugerated for
the people who have all their marbles. They would eat together
privately and not have to put up with the droolers in the main
hall. With time, the company has deteriorated and changed. I
have seen more bad temper and nuttiness in the social dining than
in the main hall, which is why I bailed. I got more marbles than
all of them put together. Mine are somewhat chipped and cracked
now. Thank you, St Timmy's. Fuck you, St Timmy's. Bitches.
So here I am sitting in the room, smouldering, and there comes a
knock on the door. It's Queen Bee. She wants to talk. She saw
me come through the dining room earlier in the afternoon like a
dark cloud. I was on my way out to the big patio to use the
crummy daylight in order to read small type. I'm checking off
things in an organ music catalogue -- CDs, videos, books -- to
make a wish list for when I get rich, ha.
She's mad about the food, too. So far, Grace is mad, I am mad,
and Bee is mad. But I am the only one actively complaining (and
praising when something does go right). Queen Bee is talking to
the ombudsman on Monday about some stuff. I know the one. He's
the same one I consulted at The ERR. All he does is pour oil on
troubled water. I didn't tell her he is on their side. She may
as well vent and get it out of her system.
I spent some time last week reading through my chart. They call
it a chart when it is a binder of over a hundred pages. Go
figure. The cardinal rule in the tardfarm is: If it didn't get
written in the chart, it didn't happen. The corollary is, If it
did get written in the chart, it is correct and a done deal even
if it never took place. The state licensing investigators spend
a lot of time determining whether what is in the books is
complete and accurate. Of course by the time they get here, much
of the history the chart represents is so old nobody remembers or
has backup data to support any view of any kind.
Among the interesting tidbits I uncovered are that even when I
eat half a meal, I eat 80 to 100 percent of it. I always have
medium or bigger BMs and rarely fail to make an offering once a
day in the stainless steel offering plate. This is also news to
me because I typically render unto Caesar once every two days and
I render rather generously as a rule. In my off evenings I often
play trombone solos at the offertory. I believe
in keeping my nether throat clear. So much for the old in and
out.
My diagnosis is NIDDM, Non-Insulin Dependent Diabetes Mellitus,
Amputation RAK, Right Above Knee, and Depression, Moderate. At
least they got rid of the Phimosis bit. I didn't know having
somewhat fixed dick curtains was clinical; I thought it was
natural. But then one of the first quacks I laid eyes on at the
big city hospital was a Jewish urologist who wanted to clip me in
the worst way. He didn't get to do that, but he got to slit me
without warning and without anesthetic so it would be really easy
to poke a catheter in me. Nevermind how the catheter felt. I
didn't notice it a bit. I was too busy screaming and calling him
everything I could think of except a child of God. I found out
later they did this so they could carefully monitor my fluid
intake, in and out, because I was quite a sick puppy at the time.
The Depression, Moderate bit is what keeps this shrink coming
around who first started bothering me at The ERR. Since he
usually shows up to make his $40-60 per victim per five minutes
on Thursdays, I do my best to be out of the building from noonish
to, say, three o'clock and ruin his game. I am frankly afraid to
take him on. I don't know what sort and depth of power he has
and I am flat out too pussy to challenge him. I have seen what
psychotropics do to people around here and I know some of the
sneaky ways they give them to patients.
I prefer to have an ocassional private crying jag than to be a
smiling, cooperative fool. While my life here has much in common
with the sensation of fingernails scratching across a blackboard,
much of my distress is caused by the constant pointlessness and
misery I see all around me. We have the power to keep people
alive long past their good to themselves or others and they
suffer confusion, boredom, and pain because of it.
But the law and the industry say they shall be preserved by any
means necessary as long as possible. I should think many
relatives would prefer to get to the Will except that after the
law and the industry get finished with the resident, there is
nothing left to mention in the Will. In modern America we
confiscate wealth by ordaining a strained quality of mercy until
the poverty of pocket and soul are complete. Then you may die if
you able to do so.
In other news, Queen Bee said she wanted the podiatrist to look
at her ingrown toenail. She got the ingrown toenail because a
former podiatrist doing his tardfarm milkrun cut her nails too
deeply, just as the one at The ERR did to mine. The next part of
this game is for the podiatrist to cut the nail more deeply or to
pull the nail entirely in order to fix the problem he caused.
And for each of these visits he whacks private insurance or
public funds $40.
This time the footquack told Bee she wasn't on the list to be
seen this month and would have to wait until next month. She
asked how much he would charge to look at her one problem toe if
she paid him herself. He wanted $40 just the same! When I get
out of here, I need to get a job where I can make up to $100 for
five to fifteen minutes's work and up to, say, a thousand dollars
a day for messing something up and then coming back later to fix
what I fucked up. This is something you expect from chain store
auto mechanics and not from doctors.
The kicker is that Queen Bee (as you may recall) worked beauty
salons for years. She knows hair and nails inside and out. But
she's trusting and so got done just as I did. You mother told
you never to cut your toenails so short there was no white top
and you were to cut them straight across. If the corners were
sharp, they were to be filed and not beveled with a cutter. This
is the way to prevent ingrowth. My father didn't listen. It was
I would had to cure him of his affliction by digging the ingrown
corners out and sternly warning him to see that they remained
free by checking them each evening. Then with two week's
attention and cutting the correct way, he never had another one
grow in. Where is my $40, Pops?
We residents are put into a situation where we have to agree
among ourselves on things and help each other out. Queen Bee has
a small appetite. They push her to eat. They do not push me to
eat. In fact, because i raised so much hell about the grease, I
think they may make my trays somewhat unappetizing either to piss
me off or see that I don't eat much. Well, I prefer a diet cola
and some corn chips anyway a lot of the time.
Today they sent me a hamburger for lunch. They fried it almost
to the point of cremation. I thought from its appearance they
finally brought out the beef. The first bite told me it was bird
as usual. I spit it out. Queen Bee brought me a cheese sandwich
and some graham crackers she didn't want. This was an excellent
substitute for the ground turkey butt. I was glad to have it.
Bee gives away part of her food because she doesn't want them to
know how little she eats. She is afraid they will force her to
eat. We all know what this means, don't we? At ERR it meant the
Hazel Treatment, the Hose in Your Nose. Here the threat is
worse. They ship you off to St Monica's down the road where the
gut doctor cuts a hole in your tummy and puts a tube into your
stomach. Then you get to live on Sustacal-like tardfood.
The coffee is getting to be another failing. At breakfast, one
cup was normal and one had color and no flavor. Yesterday one
cup was tasteless brown water and the other was clear water. At
lunch and dinner today both cups were brown but tasteless. How
tasteless were they? So devoid of flavor that putting in the
aspartame resulted in warm aspartame beverage. Someone needs to
tell these folks to change the grounds more than once a day.
The other thing I learned from reading my chart is that my
rehabilitation prognosis is poor. As nearly as I can tell, this
means I have not made the adjustment to walking on my stovepipe
leg. Who knew! I can bathe myself, dress myself (it helps to
have a third hand but I can get by without it), and get in and
out of bed myself. I would be showering if there was a bench
shower or a shower chair with moveable arms. I get in and out of
standard cars with minimal assistance. Since there is a driver,
he can hold onto my pants as I slide so I don't put on a free
show. Miss Ralph likes to feel my butt anyway.
The next thing is using the porcelain throne. I would be doing
that except I do not trust a skinny little dykelet of an
occupational therapist to catch me if I am less than successful
moving from my throne to the throne, so to speak. I am going to
speak to Miss Ralph about obtaining the services of a couple of
big burly butch OTs for, say, four sessions of potty training. I
have no trouble with taking a leak because I have Mouth and I
have Mouth's cousin in the closet just in case of theft. Someone
might want a souvenir?
I am also going to get back on a pipe organ bench sometime in the
next six months if I have to be drayed with a block and tackle.
Stand by for Trio Sonata for Two Paws and One Hoof. A friend
wants to reopen an old project of developing a powered wheelchair
of an unusual design. I have plans to be the crash test dummy
and to put it (and me) through paces in the most gimp-hostile
city in the US, San Francisco, where all the curb cuts are an
afterthought or are better for beer deliveries I have plans for
me, and they do not include any tardfarmery.
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