He’s just fresh from the shower. Oh he loves to keep clean, does Mr Redboss. He’s always pestering the young male orderlies, at least twice a day, to give him a hand in the shower.
He’s getting sleepy too, as you can see. Loves his naps, two or three times a day. Of course it means he’s often awake all night, wandering round and calling taxis and trying to get into the bars down in the seedy section of town.
He’s cranky, and don’t get too close, because he’s all hands! Also, he has a habit of dropping his dentures on the floor hoping to get a look down the shirt of cute young nurses…
And over here we have the elderly Mr. ultrafilter. Once upon a time he was a functioning member of society, but his mind degenerated, and now he doesn’t grasp reality so well. He wants to check out the nurses, but instead he gropes furniture and walls because he doesn’t know the difference anymore. Sometimes he yells at nothing in particular, and waves his cane around. But we offer him candy, and he calms down, because he likes to sing Metallica to it.
Our newest resident is Miss Cyndar. She ended up here after the health department condemned her home and confiscated her 1000 cats. Poor thing, she wanders the halls endlessly looking for her kitties. Ignore her if she tries to show you her waterbra, or her multiple tattoos.
In the corner there yelling at the TV is Crunchy Frog. He’s more active during baseball season, so between the months of April-October be careful what you say to him or you may get stuck listening to him ramble about Stan Musial or Ted Williams for hours. He’s mostly harmless though as long as we let him play his Playstation, but for God’s sake never mention the 1985 World Series. The last time someone mentioned the Royals, Mr. Frog had to be medicated for 3 weeks. We think he enjoyed it though, because ever since then, he keeps trying to goad people into saying the Cardinals weren’t robbed that year.
Other than that, the only thing you need to know about Mr. Frog is even at his advanced age, he’s a bit frisky, so don’t turn your back on him if you’re standing within arm’s reach. Even though we doubt he knows what to do with a woman anymore, he stills tries.
And shuffling down the hall we have hardygrrl, with her cat Lil Spike trailing behind.
Too many annoying customers at work, too much flirting and an addiction to professional wrestling have left her a shell of her former self.
If we don’t keep her medicated, she will pounce on the nearest male, grope him wildly, and mutter “Are you Jeff Hardy?”
She likes to wear that Ryne Sandberg jersey and it seems to keep her calm. especially when we show her the tapes of the Cubs winning the 2001 World Series.
In the other corner sits Obsidian… younger than the others she has aged well… she sits there listening to the Rock station and yelling at it whenever they play a remake of a song that she heard when it was original. If it’s especially bad she has to be restrained from trying to find the people who did it and going to give them a talking to.
Most of the time she is willing to talk to anyone who will listen about her exciting life as an adventuress… she makes it up as she goes and you never get the same story twice. Otherwise she sits around doing cross-stitch and crochet while sipping tea and petting the illegal cat. If she is feeling exceptionally feisty she’ll flirt with the male nurses.
The gentlemen over there, turning large, lazy circles in his motorized cart, that’s Mr. JonScribe. We’re not sure he’s still with us, but will check for a pulse when the batteries in his cart run down.
Mr. Scribe … Mr. Scribe, turn off your cart, Mr. Scribe.
This lady is screech-owl. Screech-owl, say hello to the nice visitor.
::screech-owl waves h’llo::
Be very patient when you are talking to her, she thinks she is in Canada. No matter where she is, she wants to be in Canada. If she was actually in Canada, she’d want to be on the other side of Canada. If you wants to make points with her, pretend you’re Canadian: she loves that. If she behaves herself for a whole day, we have one of the young and attractive male orderlies dress as a Mountie (the red coat, the black hat, the whole nine yards) and give her her daily massage. Hey, it keeps her quiet for a few hours, and it’s good for her circulation and brings her pulse rate up.
Just don’t start talking about anything that’s bad for the environment or Jeb Bush, or she’ll rip you a new one. We don’t want to have to medicate her again, and her heart just can’t stand that much strain.
I think that’s all of them in this wing. Oh that’s right there also Mr woolly. He’s the quiet one usually hidden behind that pile of well thumbed dictionaries, Footrot Flats books, Yes Minister diaries, and Douglas Adams novels in the corner.
He’s mostly harmless, with a bit of an off-centre sense of humour. Somebody once said if they made a movie of his life he’d be played by Yahoo Serious. Can’t see it myself though. But anyhow, if he gets out of line just put a kink his glucose tube until he settles down.
He’s got a nice room but he’s only a short term resident. According to his lease, once his supply of Rockford Basket Press Shiraz runs out we can shoot him.
… the lady over there in the big wooden chair under the tree is Mrs. Creaky “Hap” Hanlon. They say she killed her husband for his money. Poison, yes sir. In his turtle soup. But she was acquitted.
Now there was a trial. Only the second time in those days since the Lindbergh kidnapping trial they let the cameras in the courtroom. You can look it up in the history books, sweet Jesus! She’ll show you her newspaper clippings if you ask nice.
We’re not sure how old she is; she says she remembers the Civil War. Her nephew Parker and his wife visit every Sunday. Make sure they don’t try to smuggle in any bourbon; we’ve caught ‘em doin’ that a number of times.
Miss Creaky’s all right, though. I just wouldn’t eat anything she offers you, if you know what I mean, sir.
And that’s mnemosyne, offering everyone fries, fruit or salad to go with their food, or books, or cat, or whatever they might have with them. She was a waitress, you know, and was doing ok. She just snapped one day. Couldn’t take it anymore. And don’t let the name fool you - her memory really isn’t that good. Poor old woman still thinks she’s working at her summer job from way back when she was 20. She tends to forget other things, too, like how to open doors. If you see her walking into them, please, just open them for her.
And is she starts bitching about Doug - just tell her he was fired. She gets nice and happy about that!
That’s the activity room. We’re not allowed in there. That’s the library. Not allowed in there either. And don’t even think about going into the game room. Best bet is to stake yourself out a good spot at the staring window. Sorry, we’re not allowed to read newspapers. They angry up the blood.
Mr. Chrome Spot. He wasn’t much good to anyone before the stroke, even less so now. He has retained his ability to inject nonsequiturs into the conversations of others, and he will blather a bit.
Just tell him there’s something on his sleeve, and when he’s distracted you can make your escape.