Pinky squeezed in next to John and the booth shrieked in protest. The two men sat, physically and conversationally uncomfortable, respective fat cells fighting for leatherette territory.
“Where's Sully?" Pinky asked.
"He don't want to be called that no more," John said.
"Why the hell not? We've been calling him that for fifty years.”
"He say his grandkids fuck it up and call him 'Silly'."
"If the shoe fits, huh?" Pinky said, laughing, "Well, where is he? Get him on the god-damned phone."
John sheepishly made a signal to call the waiter, but pinky slapped his hand down. "What year is it? You still using house phones?"
"You ain’t?" John asked.
"Don't ya have a cell phone?"
"I don't want to use my minutes."
Pinky glared at him and took a slender phone from inside his coat.
"Say, that's a nice one,” John said, “Rita, she got me this Jitterbug? Honkin' big thing. ‘Need a fuckin' purse just to carry it."
"What the fuck is a Jitterbug?"
"It's a phone," John mumbled, embarrassed.
"Mary Mother of God," Pinky said, then punched a button for the speakerphone, "Maureen? How are ya', sweetheart? Is Sully there?"
“He’s on his way to meet you. He ain't there yet?" Maureen yelled on the other end of the line, making the phone seem ready to self-destruct with the vibrations of her voice.
"Nah, "Pinky said making an exasperated motion with his hand, "he’s probably on his way."
“You tell him to call me when he gets there. And tell him to pick up some eclairs on the way home. But don’t forget to tell him to call me first so's I know he got there okay."
"Yeah, yeah, okay, bye" Pinky tapped the off button, "Was she always like that?"
"No, but since their nephew got arrested, Sully say she been naggin' him something fierce."
"Well that could break a man."
"She got the soul of a saint, though," John pointed out.
Pinky glared at him, then looked toward the door. A man walked in who was as large as John and Pinky put together. He stood for a moment at the bar, panting. He wore an oxford cloth shirt that was as soaked as if he'd been in an abrupt rain shower. His face looked like a cartoon of a boiler that huffs and puffs until it starts to blow. There were rivulets of sweat that he mopped up with a fistful of cocktail napkins and he gazed around the bar with a look of disorientation that would concern any heart doctor.
John started to get up, but Pinky got Sully’s attention and Sully ambled over, telling the bartender to bring his drink. Tables and chairs became casualties along his route as his hips and belly knocked them aside.
"Jesus, you look like hell," Pinky pointed out.
"What the fuck were you expecting, Miss Lackawanna?" Sully wheezed.
The waiter brought over Sully's drink and started to leave with an air of disdain for the three oversized men.
"’What ya’ say you bring us a pitcher of water, garcon?" Pinky called after him. The waiter skulked away.
"What's up with this place?" Sully asked, sponging his forehead with what appeared to be a scrap of bed sheet.
"’Ain't been the same since Dodgy sold the place," John pointed out.
The men appeared to not want to talk about such devolutions, so the three sat crammed unnecessarily into the booth, waiting for the insolent waiter to return.
"So, what do I owe the pleasure of seeing youse two again?" Sully asked after it was apparent the waiter was not coming back.
Pinky looked around suspiciously. Satisfied there was no one eavesdropping in the empty bar, he said, "I got a job for us."
"What are you talking about? We retired," Sully said.
"Yeah," John said, "I’ve been enjoying watching my grandkids in the above-ground I bought 'em. I ain't interested in goin' back to the clink."
"Gentlemen," Sully said with finality as he rose to go. The table shook nervously.
"Sit back down," Pinky said, "what's your hurry? Let's have another drink.”
Sully sat back into the booth and the leatherette groaned.
"Sir," pinky said in the direction of the waiter who was lounging by the bar. The waiter sauntered over, speaking into a cell phone.
Pinky handed him a hundred dollar bill, "bring us a bottle of Jack with all the trimmings and keep the rest for yourself. "The waiter hung up the phone, took the bill and scurried to the bar. "And a pitcher of water with some cut lemons for my friend here," Pinky called after him.
"What the fuck, Pinky?" Sully said, "who you paying off at the social security office?"
Pinky faced the triumvirate – the last members of the Dixie Mafia. His expression remained gruff, "this is what we need to talk about.”
**********************
The Savannah sun was angry. There were too many white bodies below, too many faces and shoulders and backs in need of skin cancer. Anita, being black and Puerto Rican, was not one of these bodies. She and the sun got along just fine on most days. But Anita, too, was angry. Mrs. Shapiro insisted on sitting in the back of the small car because she'd seen on 20/20 that the back seat was the safest place. And now, both Anita and the driver couldn't get her out. Anita knew better than to put her there, but she got sick of arguing with Mrs. Shapiro over petty things. And now the old woman was stuck in the back and the angry sun was laughing above them.
"Just put your foot here," Anita said to the old woman.
"Hanh?"
“Put your foot here!” Anita said louder.
“Where?”
“I’m going to push from the other side,” Anita told the driver, “you pull.”
“Hanh?” Mrs. Shapiro said.
Anita went to the other side of the car where she gently pushed the old woman. Somehow, Mrs. Shapiro fell to the floorboard and was now wedged between the front and back seat with her legs hanging out. The old woman growled in response. Anita hit the seat with her fist.
“You made it worse,” the driver pointed out, “we gonna have to call the police or the fire department or something.”
“No we ain’t,” Anita said.
“Hanh?’ Mrs. Shapiro said.
“Hush a second, Mrs. Shapiro.”
“My service finds out I had to call the po-lice to get a woman out of a car, I’m goin’ get fired,” Anita said.
“You ain’t gonna get fired, “ the driver said, “no one gonna know.”
“Sunday Girl?” Mrs. Shapiro said.
“My name is Anita,” Anita said.
“I don’t think I have the keys to my apartment,” Mrs. Shapiro said.
“You don’t need to worry ‘bout that right now,” Anita said.
“I’m calling the fire department,” the driver said, wandering off.
“But if I don’t have my keys, how am I gonna get into my apartment?” Mrs. Shapiro said from the floorboard.
“Well, since the fire department is comin’ we can get them to open the door,” Anita spat.
“I don’t want them tearing down the door, now,” Mrs. Shapiro instructed.
“We need to worry about getting you out of the is car before anything else.”
“Hanh?” Mrs. Shapiro said over the wail of the fire engines.
The firemen came in a hook and ladder, a tanker truck, a rescue unit and they were followed by two police cars.
“Why you bring the whole damn calvary? Anita asked the man who descended from the hook and ladder, “this ain’t no kitten stuck in a tree.”
“We just get the dispatch, m’am.” The fireman said. By that time there were nine of them gathered around in full gear. Two of them went into the car and freed Mrs. Shapiro within seconds.
“Did you take my handbag?” Mrs. Shapiro asked the fireman closest to her.
“It’s right here,” Anita said.
“Give that to me,” Mrs. Shapiro said, grabbing the huge purse.
As the two fireman started to leave, Mrs. Shapiro grabbed the coat of one, “you need to open my door,” she lisped and Anita suddenly noticed she didn’t have her dentures in.
“You’re locked out of the apartment?” The fireman asked Anita accusatorily. Anita shrugged. This was their show now; se was just a spectator. One of the firemen went to the hook and ladder and grabbed an axe.
“You can’t use that on my door!” Mrs. Shapiro said. He put the axe back and walked with Mrs. Shapiro and Anita to her apartment.
“’Mind if your Sunday Girl checks your purse before we work the door?” The fireman asked Mrs. Shapiro.
“My name is Anita,” Anita hissed.
She took the mammoth bag from Mrs. Shapiro and immediately found the keys in the front pocket. She opened the door, and Mrs. Shapiro ambled in without a further word to the firemen.
“Thanks for your help,” Anita said.
“It’s nothing,” the fireman said, “we get a call like this about three times a week.
“You always bring so many people?”
“You never know what you’ll find.” Anita looked over at all the firemen, two policemen and three vehicles. She felt like they were about to have a spontaneous picnic.
“Well, thanks then,” Anita said and closed the door.
* * * * * * * *
““Zidocain...Lithium...vitamin B–don’t want that–Demoral...Darvocet...” Gooselyn shook the pills out of the bottles and put them on the counter. One of them bounced off onto the floor and he picked it up and put it in his mouth.
“Goose, you have that pill cup for Mrs. Damiani?” Dr. Avo called through the window.
Goose looked at the pile on the table, swept the pills into his hands and put them into his mouth as if they were Pez. He swallowed them without water, but some didn’t make it down his throat so he just chewed them instead.
“Goose!” Dr. Avo said through the window.
“Right here. Got ‘em right here,” he said, shaking out a couple of vitamin C’s into a small paper cup.
“Where’s the Lorcet?”
Goose took a quick inventory of the pills he had just swallowed, then decided Mrs. Damiani’s Lorcet was probably in the mix, so he grabbed a bottle from the cabinet and dispensed another white pill into he paper cup.
Dr. Avo grabbed the pills and sauntered down the hall. Goose took another pill from the Lorcet bottle and swallowed it as well. After about ten minutes, there was a knock on the dispensary door. Goose opened it and let in Dr. Avo, the resident doctor. The resident settled into a battered leatherette chair and started to open a sandwich, “I hope you’re marking those meds down,” he said.
Goose held up a pen triumphantly. “That means nothing, you know,” Dr. Avo said and Goose grinned. “Hand me that bottle of Demoral,” the resident said and swallowed two of the pills followed by a bite of the sandwich.
“When’s Mrs. Schwartz’s open heart surgery?” Goose asked.
Dr. Avo stared at him, “Last week, Goose. She died.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Goose said, looking forlorn.
“You haven’t still been dispensing her Fentanyl, have you?”
“No. Yes?”
“Goose, you’re going to get yourself fired one of these days,” Dr. Avo said.
The door to the dispensary opened again and Trish came in looking flustered.
“Isn’t this door supposed to be locked?” Dr. Avo asked.
“Technically,” Goose answered.
“Oh my God,” Trish said, “Mrs. Lichfield had the water too hot in the shower.”
“She okay?”
“Yeah, she said she ‘burned her bird’. Can you get over that? Burned her bird! Anyway, last night, Doreen and I, we go to this midnight showing of Play Misty for Me –“
“That’s a good movie,” Goose interjected.
“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t know.
“Wait, Mrs. Litchfield is okay, isn’t she?” Dr. Avo asked.
“Yeah, she’s fine,” Trish said, waving him away, “So we’re outside the theater and Babs and Donna show up. Doreen knows Donna from – somewhere– and so would you believe we end up in this wacked-out threesome with Donna sitting there watching. I mean, she was all into it at first, then decides she’s not, so she’s sitting there just bawling her eyes out while I’m going down on her girlfriend. Dykes, you fuckin’ can’t trust them and their screwy emotions.”
Goose shook his head like he knew and Dr. Avo looked bemused.
“We got three men incoming today,” Trish said taking some of Dr. Avo’s sandwich that he had put down. He slapped her hand. “Men. We haven’t had men on this ward since Donald Brown.”
“Oh, I remember him,” Goose said.
“Yeah, you better remember him. He just moved to independent living two days ago,” Dr. Avo pointed out.
“That long ago?” Goose asked.
“Goose, seriously, maybe you should cut it down to one-for-them-zero-for-you instead of the one to five ratio you have going on now,” Dr. Avo said.
“Yeah, why don’t you hand me one of those Vicodin,” Trish said, “It’s prn.”
“Who said it’s prn? Dr. Avo asked.
“You did. You wrote me the script, remember?”
“That was two months ago, Trish. Dammit, you guys have to watch yourselves. You’re lucky Doc Edelstein hates the smell of old people.”
“Fuck him. He spends all his time at Central “observing” the cosmetic surgery patients and ignoring us.” Trish said.
“You know, I think he has a fetish–” Goose offered.
“Ignoring you,” she said punching Dr. Avo.
“–I’ve read about such things,” Goose continued, “people who have a sexual attraction to people who’ve been through surgery and the like,” Goose continued.
“I mean – you’re a young doctor, right?” Trish said, “You need nurturing. A father figure.”
“That would be known as an Oedipal Complex. Can you have Oedipal Complexes between men?” Goose asked.
A buzzer went off at the nurse’s station, “ Gotta get back to work,” Trish said, “Three men in one day. Unbelievable.”
* * *
“I thought you said we was gonna be getting an apartment,” Sully said heaving his weight onto the small bed, “this is like a fuckin’ hospital.”
“How was I to know your blood pressure would be so high they think you run risk of heart attack?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t see you waltzing around the independent living part of this dump,” Sully said, “And ol’ John there just had to mention his hernia.”
“It’s been acting up!” John said. At least I don’t smoke five packs a cigarettes a day.”
“Yeah, you ain’t gonna be doing that no more,” Sully said to Pinky. Pinky coughed in response.
“If I knew we were gonna be having summer camp, all us stuck in the same room like this, I’d never agreed to coming. Plus, it’s hotter than hell in here,” Sully said getting up and pushing past John to find a thermostat.
There was a light rapping on the door and a nurse came in with a stack of papers.
“Don’t you people know how to knock properly?” Pinky said.
The nurse ignored him and started writing something on a white board, “My name is Patricia Conway. You can call me Trish. I’m gonna show you some things about this room, then take you down to the cafeteria for lunch. Who’s Richard Sullivan?”
Sully grunted.
“You going to need a wheelchair?”
“What the fuck?” Sully said.
“Let me see you walk across the room.”
“I can walk just fine.”
The nurse checked her paperwork, “says here you got onset rheumatoid arthritis. I’ll get you a walker.”
“I don’t need a fuckin’ walker,” Sully exploded, “what I need is for you to make this room about 20 degrees cooler and get the fuck out. And take these guys with you.”
“You want privacy?” the nurse said, “You’re gonna pull these curtains like this,” she said, creating barriers between the three beds. “Your daytime nurse is Anita Castiglione. She’s gonna be in soon. If you want to reach her in the morning or afternoon, or me at night, you just press this button.”
“What else do I get if I press that button at night?” Pinky said wolfishly. The other men laughed in response.
The nurse ignored them and kept on talking, “TV control is right here. You got one TV for the three of you, but I got a feeling you guys like the same shows.”
“How long ‘til we get to go to –“ John broke off, not knowing what it was called.
“Independent living?” Trish said for him, “That’s up to you. All three you guys need to stay away from fatty foods, cholesterol, alcohol, smoking and you need to be walking at least twenty minutes a day. You get up, do the early bird exercise program, stay away from the coconut cream pie, eat plenty of oatmeal and yogurt, and you could be in independent living in a couple of weeks.”
“How we get to the store, for, you know, necessities?” John asked.
“Your loved ones are welcome to visit you as often as they like and can bring with them anything you need that the ward does not provide. Cigarettes and alcohol are prohibited. We’ll probably keep you here one to two weeks until we see a change in your prognosis. When you’re ready we’ll move you to assisted living.”
Sully groaned, “you sayin’ I can’t leave here?”
“Of course you may leave. This is a voluntary hospital. If you do wish to check out we will have to do the formal paperwork to dismiss you and your insurance company will probably suggest at that point that you live with one of your loved ones.”
“So you’re sayin’ if I leave, I can’t come back?”
The nurse sighed, “When you have a heart attack Mr. Sullivan, you will be in a hospital, but I assure you it won’t be this one.”
* * * *
Trish returned to the nurse’s station just as Anita was starting her shift. “Three incoming in one morning? You been busy,” Anita said.
“Doing what you should be doing. Why are you late?
“Had to get Cherise to make-up. She in a pageant this weekend. Last one we did, one of the judges, Thomas Kincaid, the painter? He say her make-up too dark. I took her to the Mary Kay lady and she say we doin’ everything just fine. I think that Kincaid needs to stick to paining.”
“You know, most mothers just take their kids to doctor’s and dentist’s appointments,” Trish pointed out.
“Cherise’s teeth are fine,” Anita said, “Now what’s with the three incoming?” Anita asked picking up the charts and scanning them, “that’s a lot for one morning.”
“Yeah, well, I think they expected to be here on vacation. Anyway, they’re your problem now. Have fun.”
Trish took her bag out of her locker and decided to visit Goose to see if he had any extra Vicodin that maybe dropped on the floor. Goose was asleep on the counter and Trish had to shake him to wake him up.
“Bad news,” he said, yawning.
“Bad news you handle by sleeping?” Trish asked.
“No, sleeping ‘cause I was up late watching a bowling championship. Bad news is that Dr. Edelstein’s coming back.”
“You’re kidding. I thought we lost him to Swan Pavilion.”
“Yeah, well, I gotta friend over at Swan who says Edelstein can’t hang around there anymore. Apparently the new chief thinks he’s dodging his duties with us.”
“Of course he is. He hates old people. Everyone knows that,” Trish said,
“Yeah, well, the Swan staff thinks he’s in the way. Of course, he doesn’t think that. He’s sayin’ he hasn’t done enough research on epidermic healing and that The Journal is expecting an article, which we all know is a bunch of bullshit. The chief says Edelstein’s had six month’s transition to do the research, and he says - get this – that we ain’t getting our paperwork done correctly. Doesn’t that just beat all?”
In Trish’s mind it did. She felt she ran a tight ward. She learned early on that you can get away with a whole lot if you do as you’re told. That meant over-delivering on red tape. Doing paperwork was the same as making good grades in school. You have it in on time and complete, and there’s nothing to complain about. Sure, you had to take care of your patients, that was a given. But when everyone was happy, including the pencil pushers, you had a lot of time left over to do what you wanted, which could mean everything from hour and a half lunches to exploring Goose’s dispensary when the need arose. And Goose was probably the red flag. Trish knew every trick to forging prescrptions and Goose did too. She had trained him in the art of dispensary tricks, but he was showing the signs of an addict. Pills were the unspoken perk to healthcare. Everyone knew that. It was like insider trading for CFOs or boondoogles for politicians. But, you had to control it or it would control you. She watched as Goose slumped in his chair. Clearly, he wasn’t controlling anything. And that was going to have to change.
* * * *
Dr. Avo meandered toward the daylight room. He wasn't in a hurry and the bustling and talking ahead did nothing to speed his steps. He looked wistfully at the dispensary's closed door and wondered if Goose had gone to the meeting yet. Probably not. Dr. Avo thought about knocking, but decided it wouldn't look good for the head resident to be popping pills on the chief's first day. He hoped Goose had the good sense not to come to the meeting high. Trish said she wanted him to have a talk with Goose. The idea made him uncomfortable because then he'd be too much like a boss. He wasn't anybody's boss. But better he do the talking than the chief, who wouldn't be doling out second chances.
The chief was standing at the front of the room trying to quiet the staff. No one was paying attention, but when Dr. Avo walked up to shake Edelstein's hand, the room hushed.
“Good to have you back,” Dr. Avo murmured noting the chief’s Breitling watch.
"Why don't you give me an introduction?" Edelstein whispered in his ear. Edelstein was young, older than Dr. Avo, but only by a few years. He was good-looking, with a chiseled face and greying hair. Trish said he was handsome enough to be an actor, that he was like a doctor on a soap opera. Patients thought so too. At least until he opened his mouth.
"Well, I -" Dr. Avo stammered, "I don't really do introductions."
"You'll be fine," Edelstein said, bouncing on his heels.
Dr. Avo turned to the crowd, "We are gathered here today," he started and Trish sniggered from the front row, "Ahem. For a man who requires no preamble, I give you, Dr. Bruce Edelstein," he waved his hand front of Dr. Edelstein as if he had just materialized him in a magic trick.
Dr. Edelstein didn't take over however, but instead whispered, "tell them about how I am a diplomate and how I'm writing a paper for the New England Journal."
Dr. Avo turned to the staff, who were now giggling outright and mimicking both him and Dr. Edelstein.
"Um, Dr. Edelstein has made many accomplishments, including writing a paper for the new medicine and, uh, taking over this ward."
The staff began howling and clapping unable to contain their energy any longer. Dr. Edelstein smoothed down his lab coat and cleared his throat. For a moment, Dr. Avo felt sorry for the chief. Edelstein had no idea that the staff weren't clapping for him and that this meeting was more of a type of variety show. They were there to be entertained. And then he felt sorry for the staff. They didn't realize that the year-long party they had enjoyed under Dr. Avo's unwitting management was about to end.
Dr. Avo walked to the side of the room and the chief stood in front of the staff with his hands fig-leafed in front of his crotch.
"Everyone, I realize this is a long time in coming. We all know I was slated, at least on paper, to take over this leadership role a year ago. Because of my many commitments - as a researcher, published expert, head of the rhinoplasty committee and in charge of the transition for Dr. Toledo to take over the Swan Pavilion, which, as you may know, was my former leadership position - I was not able to move into my role here a quickly as I hoped. However, I was able to make many process advancements at the Swan that I look forward to implementing here with the help of your head nurse, Trisha Conwitty..."
"Conaway," Trisha whispered.
"...and Dr. Stephen Avo."
Applause and cat-calls filled the room and Dr. Avo frowned as Edelstein half-bowed.
"Now, I will ask you to go about your normal duties while I shadow you throughout the week. Thank you, and I look forward to working with each and every one of you."
There was sprinkled applause and much talking and moving of chairs as the staff got up and went back to their posts.
"Where's Goose?" Dr. Avo asked Trish.
"Don't know. Five o'clock." Trish said as Dr. Edelstein approached.
"Dr. Avo, if you could follow me to my office," he said and Dr. Avo gave Trish a helpless look as he walked with the chief down the shiny corridor.
*****
Sully looked right then left down the hallway, then scampered back into his room. He drew his privacy curtain closed, sat on his bed, and opened a Ghiradelli bar that the guy who gave him his blood pressure medication had gotten for him. Good guy, Sully thought, as he gobbled the bar in two bites, then started in on a family bag of Cape Cod Chips. Good taste in snacks and he didn't even ask for anything for his troubles. It was nice to enjoy something other than tapioca pudding for a change, but then the privacy curtain opened and John stood in front of him.
"Don't you fucking knock anymore?" Sully thundered.
"It's a curtain. How am I supposed to knock on a curtain?" John asked, "Where did you get that?"
"Don't you worry about it."
"You're not supposed to be eating that kind of stuff you know. Anita said so."
"Anita can shove it up her ass." Sully said.
"But don't you want to get healthy? Anita says you need to lose thirty pounds. I’ve already lost fifteen."
"Fuck off,"
"I'm just sayin' it's easier than you think."
"Since when are you the spokesperson for Jenny Craig?"
"I'm not," John said, " I just feel better is all. Lighter. My knees feel better. Can you believe that? I haven't been able to run in fifteen years, but you know what I did this morning?"
"Let me guess, fucked a chicken?"
"You don't have to be so cranky. I'm tellin ya’, give up those chips and you'll feel a whole lot better too. It's time for Jazzercise. You want to come?"
"Get the hell out," Sully said, crumpling the bag of potato chips and putting it under his bed.
"What was that sound?" Pinky asked as he walked in the room, "was that potato chips?"
Sully retrieved the bag from under the bed and handed it over to Pinky. "I gotta connection," he said.
"Yeah?" Pinky asked digging his paw into the bag, "Who?"
"The drug guy."
"He a dealer?"
"In what?"
"Drugs!"
"I don't know about that," Sully said, "you know, I think these people have enough drugs around here. But you know what there's seems to be a market for? Snacks."
“What do you mean?" Pinky asked.
"Supply and demand. What do these people got? They got tapioca fucking pudding and mashed carrots. What do they want? Snickers bars."
"So?"
"You been in this looney bin too long, Pink. We get this cat in the drug room to buy us Cheetos, M&Ms, Little Debbies and the like then we upsell 'em to the inmates and take a cut. Just like they do on Rikers."
"That's high school shit. We’re here to get some glass. Keep your eye on the prize," Pinky said.
"Show me where the glass is and I’ll get started," Sully said.
"I’m working on it. These things take time."
"Well, I don't see you doing a whole he'll of a lot besides hanging around the daylight room watching that exercise teacher, who looks like she might just keel over herself, incidentally." Sully said.
"Fuck you. I got my eye on someone who, if we play our cards right, can get us out of this place and in a villa on Crete,” Pinky said, “Tonight at the square dancing party…this old bag's gonna be there and I will woo her with my cosmopolitan ways."
"James fuckin' Bond at the rooster fuckin' round up."
More here.
*****
"I don't remember signing up for none of this farmer shit," Anita said as she dragged a haystack into the daylight room.
"Goose?” Trish said, “What the hell are you doing? Could you maybe help us here?"
Goose was tending to his own haystack, combing through it with his fingers, "I’m looking for the needle."
"What needle?"
"I thought they came with needles. Like prizes."
"Goose, you keep it up and we're going to be admitting you for an OD." Trish said.
"That boy outta his mind," Anita pointed out, "but I don't need to be moving no straw around, I got paperwork to do. The new chief actin’ like this some amusement park. This shit all for show, all so the cats at Swan Pavilion think he's accomplishing something."
"Trish Conwitty?" a man asked, wearing overalls and a cowboy hat.
"Conaway," Trish said, laying out a stack of bandanas on the folding table, "what do you need?"
"I'm Stewart Milliken, the caller."
"Who you callin'?" Anita asked from Trish's side.
"I'm the caller. For square dancing?"
"Oh, we got one of those?” Trih said, “I guess put your stuff here; residents will be coming in shortly."
"Where do you want the band to set up?" the caller asked.
"Band?"
"The Down and Out Fiddlers. They'll be here in a moment. We thought there would be a stage."
"It's a rec room, not Carnegie hall.” Trish pointed out. As she spoke, a group of ten kids came in wearing old t-shirts and ripped overalls.
"These are The Down and Out Fiddlers," the caller said.
“Where are we supposed to put all of them?” Tricia asked no one in particular, “there’s not going to be any room for the residents.”
“I’d put ‘em in the monitoring room and open the window,” Anita said.
Trish looked at the monitoring room. It resembled a rental bungalow at the beach. It was the length of the day room, yet wide enough to only hold the chairs of the monitoring attendants. There was a garage-type door that folded up and down. It would be tight, but there were no other options. Tricia put Anita to work setting up the fiddlers while she tried to ward off the patients who couldn’t understand why it wasn’t a normal bridge day.
*****
Pinky looked in the tiny mirror and attempted to tie his tie. He couldn’t see his face and torso at the same time, so he had to keep bending down to make sure the tie was long enough. Pain ricocheted through his knees and he wondered for a moment if there was anything to what the doctor had said about the arthritis. He waved the thought away. Thomas O’Riley Pinke was a businessman. He’d been accused by the state on a RICO allegation, but there was insufficient proof. He had escaped prison; he wasn’t about to let some doctor damn him with bone degeneration. Doctors made this stuff up anyway just so they could get insurance money. It was the way the world worked. And if anyone knew how the world worked, it Thomas O’Riley Pinke. He was just sore because of that dumb hospital bed. He had to sleep on his side all night with a pillow over his head to muffle Sully’s snoring. He wouldn’t have signed up for this gig if he had known he’d be roomies with his business partners. Sully had a penchant for burping and farting like he was at home. And John, well John wasn’t so bad, except he was just so happy all the time. You’d think he was on a cruise ship from the way he acted. But this place was no holiday. It stunk of old people – old people skin, old people powder, old people perfume. He still had many good years in him before he was checking into this purgatory. However, it made a man think. After this stint, Pink would have himself bumped off before he’d ever die in a place like this.
But there was one thing you could say about Forgotten Gardens – or whatever the hell this place was called. It wasn’t cheap. Sure, social security paid a part of it, but hardly the whole thing. Pinky could tell that a lot of these people led former lives enjoying cocktails at The Mansion and dinners at places a lot more upscale than Red Lobster. But his idiotic business partners didn’t seem to notice. Sully was as fixated on getting a hold of potato chips as a kid during Lent. And John, John was flitting around like he was at summer camp. The two of them didn’t bother to focus, to see what was really going on here. Pinky found himself constantly pointing it out to them. A lot of these birds still wore their finest as if they were off to dance at The Hyatt. Like that old Jewess who wore every single piece of jewelry she owned just to gum banana pudding in the day room.
He had seen the old Jewess wandering around during Bingo hour. Her head had sunk far down into her body, so as to remove any whisper of neck. Her right shoulder jutted out so far it was like a clipped wing. She colored her hair a light red, but she wasn’t foolin’ anybody. It looked like the hair of a guinea pig. She wore make-up, but the mask seemed somehow like paint on a child’s face. The most impressive part of her was, of course, the ice. She wore the Crown Jewels to Bingo just to put a piece of plastic on B-5. And if Pink knew anything, he knew rocks. He could tell cut and karat from 15-feet away with his naked eye. The tricolor earrings she wore were probably .61 carat weight yellow diamonds. If he had to guess, he’d say the 18-karat yellow gold ring on her right hand was set with a 1.7ct cushion-cut Tanzanite and 1.37 carats of baguette and round brilliant cut diamonds. Strangling her swollen wrist was a gold Omega watch with an opal face like iridescent bubbles in an aquarium. And finally, there was the necklace she pulled out for special occasions like tonight’s hoedown. It was the most delicate of tree branches – like fingers of coral stretching out across her liver-spotted chest. The design could only have come from the DeBeers Company and he would’ve guessed there were around 436 brilliant-cut diamonds in a prong and grain setting. Given a loupe, he could tell you that her five-karat diamond ring had a clarity rating of VS2-SI1. Its countenance beckoned to Pinky like a lover. And love her he would.
The ice was, of course, what he was originally interested in. But he now realized he could be set up for life, and not a life in this dump. He suspected there were some children and grandchildren who were jockeying to get their inheritances early. If Thomas O’Riley Pinke had anything to do with it, they wouldn’t get their inheritances at all.
*****
Dr. Avo attempted to maneuver around the party. He tripped on Mrs. Blankenship’s walker, then stepped on Hank Moore’s foot. The residents were crammed into the rec room, some seated five to a little table. No one looked happy. Dinah Armstrong couldn’t turn her hearing aid down, so she held it in her hand like a precious snail. The residents tried to visit with each other, but couldn’t hear over the Down and Out Fiddlers. There was only one man attempting to dance, and he was having a time of it considering it was a partner dance and none of the ladies were willing promenade. Dr. Avo felt sorry for him, until he noticed he was doing some type of shuffle that had nothing to do with the caller. Nevertheless, he looked like the only person in the room who really wanted to be there. Goose came up beside him chewing a piece of wheat.
“I think that’s supposed to be a prop,” Dr. Avo said.
“Tastes good. I see why farmers munch on these all the time.”
“Just don’t swallow it.”
“No sir! Hey, what’s John O’Keefe doin’ out there?”
“I’m not sure,” Dr. Avo said.
Goose walked away from the doctor and joined John on the tiny dance floor. His moves made less sense than John’s, but the two men looked like they were having fun. They tried to convince some ladies to join them, but were met with looks of anger and slaps to their hands. So they danced with each other. John’s moves were shuffling and oafish. Goose looked like he was at Woodstock.
As Dr. Avo watched, he was joined by Thomas Pinke.
“Having fun, Mr. Pinke?” Dr. Avo asked.
“Just got here. Is that John out there?” The man asked squinting to look at the dance floor.
“Yes, looks like he’s having a time, doesn’t it?”
“He looks like an idiot. Curly the Stooge dancing with a noodle.”
“You two were friends before you came here, weren’t you? How long have you known each other?”
“Many, many years, doc, many, many years,” The large man shifted uncomfortably and seemed like he wanted to change the subject. He smoothed his hair and stood up a little straighter. “Have you seen that nice woman, Mrs. Shapiro?”
Dr. Avo couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the first time residents had fallen in love on his ward. He supported it. It created contentment and serenity. Amazing how the human body, after eighty-some odd years on this planet, could revert back to the longings and pettings of teenagers. Sometimes those pettings got out of hand, sure, but in Dr. Avo’s opinion, geriatrics had a right to consensual sex. He had walked in on it many times and walked right back out the door again. The problem, of course, came with those who had dementia. Always an awkward situation to have Mrs. Long figure out she’s having sex with Mr. Osbourne and not Mr. Long. Dr. Avo was also impressed by the way the elderly ceased stereotyping each other. Age was the great equalizer. Take Mrs. Shapiro and Mr. Pinke. Jewish and Irish-Catholic, but it didn’t matter in the twilight of their years, although Mrs. Shapiro’s night would be coming a lot sooner than Mr. Pinke’s.
“I think she’s over there by that stuffed horse.”
The horse took up a full three table’s worth of space. As Mr. Pinke pushed his way over to Mrs. Shapiro, Dr. Avo wondered where the horse had come from. Where had all of this come from? Did Edelstein blow the quarterly budget on this hoedown to make himself look good for The Gardens’ newsletter and maybe The Savannah Tribune? There were certain things the members expected and those things took funding. Bi-weekly Bingo was always a big draw. The resident-tended garden was actually one of the home’s selling points and got frequent mentions in Coastal Living. Many of the more mobility-impaired seniors enjoyed the papermaking and writing classes. Then there was the yoga and Jazzercise. Suddenly, Dr. Avo wandered if this innocent square dancing party just cost the residents their month’s worth of activities.
*****
Pinky had never been good at this high school crap. It was the logistics that tripped him up. There was Mrs. Shapiro, squeezed into a table with about five other ladies who all looked miserable. There was no space on either side of her. He wondered if she would go outside with him so he could at least make conversation. Maybe she was a former smoker who would enjoy a cigarette. Thanks to Sully’s efforts, he had a few of those on hand. He jostled through the walkers, rickety bones and dirty looks to get to her chair. He stood right behind her.
“Mrs. Shapiro,” he yelled over the whining fiddle, “may I introduce myself? My name is Thomas Pinke.” He held out his hand, but she didn’t respond. Didn’t even take her eyes from the commotion on the stage. He stood there, hand out, feeling foolish before he realized she didn’t hear him. He touched the jutting bone of her shoulder.
“Hello. I believe you are Mrs. Shapiro? I’d like to introduce myself. I am Thomas Pinke.”
“Hanh?” she said cupping her hand to her ear in a motion as emblematic to elderly people as a soldier’s salute.
He bent down over her, his large frame miniaturizing her sunken body.
“My name is Thomas Pinke.”
“Hanh?”
“She’s hard of hearing,” one of the other ladies said ferociously.
He felt silly. And hot. He patted his breast pocket for a pen and paper and scrawled something on the back of a receipt. He handed it to her. Her face looked like it had become one with her chest. Her neck had been slowly stolen by Father Time. She smacked her lips a few times over the piece of paper, then looked up at him with bleary eyes.
“Next week,” she gasped, then turned back to the fiddlers.
*****
Five days after the square dance, the staff was still finding straw throughout the facility. Residents had dragged it out on their shoes and the clean-up crew seemed very adept at ignoring it. Trish dropped by the pharmacy on her way to the staff meeting and noticed that Goose had taken a bunch of the straw and placed it in a vase at his desk like a bouquet. Many of the ends were chewed.
“Goose, “ she said, “you got any Vico so we can make it through this meeting?”
Goose pulled two tiny, white pillows from his pocket and handed them to Trish, then put two in his own mouth. Trish watched as he stood up, smoothed his lab coast and hair, then held out his arm to accompany her.
“The day I need you as an escort, you can just take out 200 mg of propofol and pump it into me. Let’s go.”
She was halfway down the hall before she noticed Goose wasn’t with her. She ducked back into Hank Moore’s room and found him sitting on the end of the man’s bed, chatting.
“Goose, this staff meeting is mandatory. Come on.”
Goose stood up, offered his arm again, and she took it, if only to make sure he made it into the meeting.
The staff was seated in a large circle. Trish found two chairs, deposited Goose, then went to get a cup of coffee. When she returned, Goose was asleep with his head back, his ample Adam’s apple jutting toward the sky like an offering. She tapped it with two fingers.
“Goose,” she whispered, “you’re not so good at your job that you aren’t replaceable. Get it together.” The statement was like a prayer to a deaf god. It was the one thing they said over and over, but never got a different result.
Dr. Edelstein entered then, followed by a group of white-coated residents like a band of courtiers. The residents surrounded Edelstein at his podium until he motioned for them to sit. Why was there a podium in the first place, Trish asked herself.
“Everyone, Thank you for coming,” Edelstein said.
“Like we had a choice,” Goose whispered.
“Shush, she said, knocking him with an elbow.
“Where is Dr. Avo?” Edelstein asked the circle. Avo raised his hand like a dutiful schoolboy and Edelstein nodded in return.
“You all have my agenda, I believe. So, let’s get started.
“It’s my understanding that you have traditionally had this meeting once a week. With all respect to my distinguished colleague, Dr. Avo, and in the interest of pure transparency –“
“Transparency?” Goose whispered to Trish.
“– we are now going to have this meeting bi-weekly.”
This was meant with grumbling of course. One of the nurses raised her hand. Edelstein nodded to her as if he was granting a Parlimentarian permission to speak.
“Doctor, we barely have enough time as it is to take care of the residents, write up charts and fulfill the government paperwork. Another hour meeting will mean taking work home.”
Dr. Edelstein smiled at this, “I understand that. And that brings us to our first issue on the agenda. The 110% Rule. I’m going to ask all of you to start thinking of the 110% Rule in everything you do.”
Trish watched the doctor. His mannerisms reminded her of a television evangelist. Smile speak, blink, blink, blink; smile, speak, blink, blink, blink.
“My predecessor, Dr. Carrigan, instituted the 110% rule at The Swan Pavilion and I think it created an incredible atmosphere of efficiency, support and even delight among that group’s staff – a staff, I’d like to point out, that was not much different from you all before Dr. Carrigan and I put many of our exciting initiatives into effect. They, too, did not always see the light at the end of the tunnel. But now, they trust implicitly in the many slogans we have posted all over the facility. The first being, ‘110. Remember. Always.’”
“Sounds like the Vietnam Memorial,” Trish said under her breath.
The doctor continued, “we will be posting similar slogans in this facility as well. In fact, as we speak, there are fifty such posters at the printer’s ready to be framed. I think you will all enjoy the positive energy they’ll infuse around here.”
Dr. Avo timidly raised his hand. “Perhaps this is more of an internal discussion,” he said, “but where is the budget coming from for things like square dances and posters?”
Dr. Edelstein smiled benevolently and began blinking again. “Excellent question, Dr. Avo, but one that is probably better addressed in an offline discussion. I appreciate that your staff is busy and I don’t want to take up their time mucking around with budgetary details.
“Now, everyone, if you’ll refer to your agendas, Item Two states –“
Trish looked over and Goose was asleep again.
*****
Sully had gotten fat. He found himself tugging and tucking flesh to get his pants on and a new layer of skin stood in the way of the button and the buttonhole on his shirts. He wanted to call his wife. She always knew what to do when he had gained a few pounds, which generally meant some kind of cleanse passed down from one of her women’s magazines. They ranged from disgusting to sparse, but they always seemed to work. He couldn’t call Maureen, though. She thought he was on the lam in Arizona. His paranoia had sent him on the lam many times, even when the Feds just saw him as more of a charming relic than a threat. It was a testament to his relationship that his wife no longer questioned it when he took off for three months. In business relationships, Sully may have pissed on every caterer in Savannah, but in matrimony – never.
He had gotten into funeral services after the last racketeering accusation closed his gentleman’s clubs. He owned two funeral facilities in Georgia and one in Florida, but people didn’t die as fast as he would’ve liked and the homes didn’t turn that much of a profit. So, he bought a catering hall and called it O’Callaghan’s Fine Banquets and Events, after Maureen’s maiden name, but his clientele – participants of Holy First Communions and weddings – just called it Cally’s. Catering suited him. He secretly enjoyed watching an empty space come alive with damask linens and silk flowers and music. He also enjoyed the spotlight by making dessert flambé and crepes right in front of the guests.
Cally’s was soon taking business from the American Legion and overbooked, so he opened up one of the funeral homes for functions on the off-days. Maureen took to the task like a turtle to sand. She made the Piazzo Room positively regal by commissioning a painting of a fountain on the main wall. She got into the act herself by painting flowers on the Pergo floors of the Magnolia Room. Then she had actual components of a New Orleans city street added to the Serenity Room with vibrant, oversized masks adorning all the columns. It was also her idea to showcase the linen choices to prospective couples by draping them over the unused caskets. The brides were none the wiser and the caskets really did make for a nice display.
Sully had gotten fat. He found himself tugging and tucking flesh to get his pants on and a new layer of skin stood in the way of the buttoning his shirts. He wanted to call his wife. She always knew what to do when he had gained a few pounds, which generally meant some kind of cleanse passed down from one of her women’s magazines. They ranged from disgusting to sparse, but they always seemed to work. He couldn’t call Maureen, though. She thought he was on the lam in Arizona. His paranoia had sent him on the lam many times, even when the Feds just saw him as more of a charming relic than a threat. It was a testament to his relationship that his wife no longer questioned when he took off for three months. In business relationships, Sully may have pissed on every caterer in Savannah, but in matrimony – never.
Sully had gotten into funeral services after the last racketeering accusation closed all his gentleman’s clubs. In addition to the strip joints, he owned two funeral facilities in Georgia and one in north Florida, but people didn’t die as fast as he would’ve liked and the homes didn’t turn that much of a profit. So, he bought a catering hall and called it O’Callaghan’s Fine Banquets and Events, after Maureen’s maiden name, but his clientele – participants of Holy First Communions and weddings – just called it Cally’s. Catering suited him. He secretly enjoyed watching an empty space come alive with damask linens and silk flowers and music. He also enjoyed the spotlight by making dessert flambé and crepes right in front of the guests.
Cally’s was soon taking business from the American Legion and became overbooked, so he opened up one of the funeral homes for functions on the off-days. Maureen took to the task like a turtle to sand. She made the Piazzo Room positively regal by commissioning a painting of a fountain on the main wall. She got into the act herself by painting flowers on the Pergo floors of the Magnolia Room. Then she had actual components of a New Orleans city street added to the Serenity Room with vibrant, oversized masks adorning all the columns. It was also her idea to showcase the linen choices to prospective couples by draping them over the unused caskets. The brides were none the wiser and the caskets really did make for a nice display.
He really didn’t need the money from this scam, he just came along for good ol’ times. But there was nothing good about this place. The residents were like used wrapping paper carelessly discarded after a holiday. There was a smell of lives exhausted that permeated the paint and the people. Death seemed to be sneaking around every corridor and no amount of square dances or morning exercise could exterminate him. The wheelchairs, the walkers, the canes – it was like Death had provided them not as instruments of mobility, but to assist the residents to come to him that much faster. And the residents seemed to want to go.
But Sully didn’t want to go, at least not into the arms of Death. He missed Maureen. He missed her eggs and bacon in the mornings, the feel of her housecoat next to him in bed. He missed the catering hall – the Mexican chef that didn’t speak English, but always knew what to do; the scratchy feel of laundered linens; the excitement of young parents on Christening days. He even missed the smell of the bathrooms after a wedding, which usually included some sort of beery vomit.
Sully looked at his face in the mirror. He and his men had done a lot together. They’d served in wars of their own creation in the name of money. And they’d enjoyed it, sure. But he had a feeling those days were over. He knew John was nearly destitute and that Pink was here just for the excitement. But why was he, Richard Sullivan, here? To be sneaking Snickers bars in an effort to get in touch with the life waiting for him outside this stucco building? This wasn’t easy by any means. In fact, the meeting with the Abercrombie drug lords was favorable to this, and in many ways felt less dangerous.
Sully brushed the remaining hair over his bald pate. It may not be as full as it was when he was twenty, but it was still there. Just like him.
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