Hallways to There

I am employed at a Health Care Center in the area. My job requires me to deliver carts of food to the various branched residences of the attached nursing home, and return them to the dish room when they are finished. The task can be quite monotonous. On the most monotonous of days my mind might be trailing off in thought about any number of things while at the same time I am pushing and pulling two carts weighing 250 pounds each through the serpentine corridors. Just as I may be lamenting to myself the premature cancellation of Arrested Development or wondering what to say to the cute Nurse's Assistant on the second floor without sounding like a creep or a moron, I might be startled back into the here and now by the paroxysmal yelp of a person rounding a corner who, noticing the distant quality of my eyes, fears that I might claim the space where they walk with the blunt face of the food cart, painfully displacing their body in the process. As a result, I have become quite skilled at coming to a complete halt in a matter of one or two seconds. Thus far, there have been no causalities or collateral damage. Knock on wood.

Depending on the day of the week and how often I elect to use the stairs rather than the elevator, I put in anywhere from 8000 to 16000 steps a day. I feel as healthy, physically, as I have in years, after falling into the trend of habitual binge drinking, incineration of green leaves, and generalized hebetude that characterized the final leg of my journey as an undergraduate.

At this point, in a normal week, I clock-in at a combined 70 hours of work between this and another job which is hardly worth mentioning. This makes for a substantial bi-monthly paycheck, nearly half of which goes toward thousands of dollars in loan debt, assorted bills, and a rather large sum of accumulated credit card charges. I sleep when I'm not working, which is either not enough or too much. It really depends on whether I am judging this from a physiological perspective, or if I am considering the waking moments sacrificed, respectively. Other sacrifices aside from sleep have been made. Relationships have been involuntarily surrendered, which hurts. There are other things, too--things that I will never know aside from a sense of emptiness and longing like pin-pricks under the surface while I numbly set my sights on just another flimsy, ephemeral paycheck.

"Of course, though, it's only temporary,"

I resolutely assure myself, and anyone who cares to ask.

So be it.

There is an area officially referred to as "The Hub" in the nursing home. It is the nexus of a number of branching hallways which all lead to, and ultimately terminate within, their respective residential division denoted by either a letter or a letter coupled with a number. There are innumerable reasons a person may be obstinately opposed to the prospect of living in a place like this one. Pride would be difficult or impossible to sustain. Freedom is restricted. There are crappy movie nights and forced interaction with Nurses whom, in spite of good intentions, invariably condescend. A good enough reason for me, though, is pureed chicken, an item I frequently see on the list of victuals being served. If I ever get to a point where attempting to consume a solid, succulent, and tender grilled chicken breast would likely bring about my demise, then I say we christen it a last supper. No pureed poultry for me, ever. Better leave out the thickened water too. Not sure what that is exactly, but I like my water nice and thin--water-like, if you will. I will probably find a place for this in my as yet unwritten living will, denoted with an asterisk--a subcategory, perhaps, of: vegetative state = plug-pullage.

These sorts of caveats have not managed to prevent hundreds from coming to sleep under this roof night after night, though. Dementia could have something to do with this. Or just the erosion of assertiveness, and the shifting to younger generations of the power to make dynamic decisions within the family. Imagine the remainder of your life's course being decided entirely by others.  Should you ever happen to hear someone utter the phrase "The Erosion of Everything," then this point in life is almost certainly what they are referring to.  Unless the one uttering the phrase is the angel of death or a booming deity at height of the apocalypse.  The context will probably have shifted in this case.

And so exist the characters.  Not the entirety of my day is spent dreaming up future-failing one-liners, or pondering the early demise of television's greatest landmarks.  At the end of those hallways exist the fleeting moments where I get to dance with the personalities of this place.  The spectrum of characters I encounter in the residents here is a swirling miasma of history and pain, fire and fear, gravel roads and rust, funnel couds and state fairs, pillows and secret nicknames.  Cap it all off with war and weddings, and the poison of a first kiss--and purity of a last breath.  Some of these encounters leave me feeling elated, most of them leave me feeling exhausted.  That they are always brief is my saving grace.

A left at the hub leads to unit C, for patients with disorders where a protein black sheep turns the brain into an emaciated tangle of wires with faulty insulation.  Unit C2 is on the right, where there is a woman that perpetually caresses the surface of a table as though taking a washcloth to an intractable stain.  Another woman rubs her chest inside her shirt and lets out a shrill cry of anguish whenever I enter with the food cart.  One man walks around and utters non-sensical combinations of words in the form of questions while smiling a disarming, meaningless smile.  I try my best to answer.  Out of sight there is a woman in a back room that repeatedly screams,

"Mother!"

On the left is Unit C1.  Here there is man who looks no older than forty.  He is likely an example of a rare form of early onset Alzheimer's.  A lack of visible head wounds seems to rule out the other scenario of traumatic brain injury.  An older man by the name of Neil walks around and tries to open locked doors by a gentle tugging on the steel handles.  A Hmong lady always dressed in colorful adornments indicative of her heritage shuffles around and, with an animated waving of her hands, gives me in her native language what I surmise are directions on how to properly secure the empty food trays to the carts, scolding me if I come to pick them up before someone is finished eating.  If I look confused, she laughs hysterically and points at me.  She seems to be happy, and I like that.  One time she sneaks up on me and spanks me, and this kind of stings.  A feeble woman named Edna has a piercing scream that is bent by the undulations of chords inside her neck to produce a cry of either,

"Gloria!"

"Where are you?"


or,

"I'm afraid!" 


"Me too," I whisper in my head, some days. 


Hang a right at the hub and find yourself at unit E, the second unit for those with disorders where a protein black sheep turns the brain into an emaciated tangle of wires with faulty insulation.  Most notable about unit E is a single  woman and a single man who thank me in childlike voices whenever I enter with the food.  The woman sometimes claps.

Passing straight through the hub leads to D-wing.  Upstairs is, well, upper-D.  Upper D is the third area reserved for those afflicted with tangled wires/faulty insulation.  On the left is UD1, where there is a perpetually bellicose shrew of a woman, constantly barking insults or commands at anyone in earshot.  She often mistakes me for someone she refers to as, "My Carl."  A son is my best guess.  The first episode where I notice this, I enter the unit and am about to leave with the empty food trays when she looks at me and inquires,


"Are you My Carl?"

"No," I say, "My name is Kevin."

"He had the same haircut as you."

I have a shaved head.

"Oh, well it is a good haircut--low maintenance!"  I respond.

"No its not.  Its a stupid haircut!"  She yells, in a tone closely resembling a serrated knife.

"Do you know what they did to my Carl?"


I let the door close behind me.


On that same side there is a man that thinks I am his brother Mark.

"Hey Mark,"

He mumbles every single time I have entered the unit in the past eight months of my employment.

Get this:  Mark was my boss last summer when I worked part-time for a small shop that repairs damaged boat propellors.  Mark is about forty-two years old, a couple inches shorter that me, and a bit more portly.  Also, he doesn't have a shaved head.

In UD2, on the right, are more characters.  Leroy is the highest-functioning resident in this particular wing.  He spends most of his time outside smoking, riding the bus downtown so as to take advantage of Burger King's dollar menu, or wandering the hallways and telling jokes.

"Hey Kevin, what's the worst part about fucking a cow?"  He asks on one occasion.

"Personally, I can't think of anything bad about it," I respond sarcastically.

"You have to walk around to the front to give it a kiss," He answers.

Leroy says hi to everyone and knows everybody's name.  A remarkable memory this guy has.  Though he mistakenly referred to me as Keith for a while when I first met him.  Upper D Unit is really one big identity crisis for me, it would seem.  Funny thing about Leroy is no matter how little time has passed since the last time he has seen you and said hi, he will always do it again the very next time he sees you.  We're talking seconds apart, at times.  He will walk to the vending machines in the break room and pass me along the way with a:

"Hey Kevin,"

and no more than half a minute later exit the break room and pass me again with a,

"Hi Kevin."

"Hello again, Leroy."

 
When I drop the food cart off each evening he simply yells,

"Kevin!"

"Hey Leroy," I return, as I exit the unit.

Also in UD2 there is a lady with fire-red hair and rings that are of a matching color encircling her eyes.  She looks angry and fed-up with life and usually cocks her head slightly to the right.  If you talk to her though, she suddenly beams, and speaks with unbridled enthusiasm.

"How are you?"  I asked once.

"Fantabulous!"  She responded, flashing her yellow teeth.

"Do you know what that means?"

"Nope," I lied.

"Fantastic and fabulous!  I made that up."

Then there is Ed.  Ed is affectionately referred to as either "The Sheriff" or "The General" by those that have made his acquaintance.  Ed is short and fat, about 65 years old, and moves swiftly in his wheelchair by walking while sitting down, as it were.  He doesn't turn the wheels with his hands for movement.  The wheelchair is probably necessitated by knee problems from the prolonged bearing of excessive weight.  Ed always carries with him a toy Sheriff's badge and occasionally dons feminine pins presumably given to him by the nurses.  He claims that these pins and badges are military decorations.  A typical conversation with Ed will go as follows: 


“Hey Kev, what do ya think of this, Buddy?”  [points to flower shaped pin on collar]

“That’s pretty nice, Ed.”

“It’s a purple heart.  I got it for serving over in Iraq.  I got 3 purple hearts over there.  And 8 medals of honor, 6 merit points, 4 RBIs,  3 MRIs, and an honorable mention.”

“That’s pretty impressive Ed.”

“Yeah.  But Kev, things aren’t looking so good for The General.  I’ve got cancer of the everything.  Buddy, look at this.”  [Tugs at elastic pant waste so as to imply a substantial degree of weight loss]

Ed does not have cancer, and has not shed a pound since I met him.

“Wow, Ed.  That’s too bad.”

“Kev, do you think the ladies down in the kitchen are going to be sad?”

“Of course they will, Ed.”

He smiles and chuckles a bit, then quickly returns to looking distraught.

“They’re gonna cry, right Kev?”

“Of course they will, Ed, but you know I gotta head back downstairs and deliver these carts to the dishroom.”

At this point Ed will obstruct the elevator door a bit so that it can’t close.

“Buddy, you know any girls at your other job?”

“Yeah, Ed, but they all have boyfriends unfortunately.”

“Haha! Kev, they still wouldn’t mind messin’ around with the old general a bit would they?”

“I’m not so sure about that, Ed."

Ed looks down and shakes his head.

“Kevin, I don’t know how much longer I can take it.  They’re sending me to surgery again tonight, and I’ve already lost a lot of blood.”

“Geez, Ed.  I’m sorry”

“Can you tell Katie to give me a call?”

Katie is an attractive 19 year old girl that works in the kitchen.  Ed has already been reprimanded for passing a lewd note to Katie in the hallway some time ago, in which he apparently made mention of using his sherriff's handcuffs with her in bed.

“I’ll see what I can do Ed, but I really do have to get going.  They’re waiting for me down in the dishroom.”

He backs off from the elevator, finally.

“Okay, Kev.  Make sure Katie calls me.”

Elevator slides shut.

I do not think Ed is delusional, though initially I did.  Now I am certain that he just lies, a lot.  He thinks that his lies will be the ultimate ticket to some fantastical tryst with one of the female employees that he has fixated upon.  Yesterday Ed told me he tried to commit suicide the night before by cutting his wrist, but was caught in the act.  Part of me believes him, and feels sorry.  The other part is certain he is lying again.  That part feels sorry, too.

Finally, a soft right deviation from the hub directs one down a long corridor lined with windows letting the sunlight spill in and usually providing a spectacle of squirrels and duck families entertaining themselves at one juncture of their world and the world of people.  Where there are people there are comestibles.  The squirrels are especially keen on this, and forage through the garbage cans for half eaten rhubarb coffee cake and apples that are never quite naked to the core.  At the end of the hallway where the windows end, and the stillborn light and stale air of the Mount View wing of the care center begins, I often see Peter early in the day.  Peter will stare outside for a long time.  He is a slightly overweight man in his mid-fifties.  Peter will usually comment on the weather as I walk by, to which I will offer a generic response.  I think I am a coward, as I never stop to have a genuine conversation with him.  He is quite clearly an intelligent and kind man.  The type of man one should want to converse with, really.  Peter is a quadriplegic.  I saw a nurse feeding Peter once, and he was choking a bit on the food, some of it spilling out onto his bib.  The indignity of that image was heartbreaking.  Peter is not a coward though.  He knows who he is, and he invites the sunlight or the thunder or whatsoever varied elements happen to be encapsulated by those windows day by day.

In the northern branch of Mount View is a cute little married couple who simply go by “Doc” and “Dee-Dee.”  Doc doesn’t need to live at the Health Care Center.  He is physically and mentally sharp, though extremely hard of hearing.  He stays with Dee-Dee though, at least 6 days out of the week.  Dee-Dee slowly succumbs to tangled wires with faulty insulation.  I imagine that at the start of a new day, Doc will often have to remind her of who he is to her.  I also imagine that Doc is strong and can do this without shedding a tear.  I hope that sometimes he cries, though.  As long as one cries, one remembers, I think.  When I drop off the food cart in their dining room, Dee-Dee cheerfully says,

“Thank you!”

Doc will sometimes lean over and whisper, “Kevin,” to remind her of my name.

“Are we going home after this?”  She will sometimes ask him.

“We are home Dee-Dee.”

“Oh.”

“Have a nice evening you guys,” I will say as I leave them.

“What’s that?” Doc will ask.

This time I yell.  “Have a nice evening Doc.”

Dee-Dee will sometimes lean over and whisper, “He said ‘have a nice evening,’” to relay what I’ve said.


In the same Northern branch, a petite and pure-hearted little old lady named Alma used to sit stationary in her wheelchair at the end of the hallway some distance from her room after she had been finished eating.  Alma often had her dyed black hair in a perm, and smelled of a spring garden.  When I would pass her everyday she would reach out her hand.

“Can you help me?”

“Of course, Alma.”

“You know my name?  What’s your name?”

“My name is Kevin.”

“Kevin, I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

“I can take you to your room Alma.”

“You can?  How do you know where it is?”

“I took you there yesterday, remember?” And the day before.

“Thank you.”

A male nurse named Brad would often cross paths with us in the hallway at this point.

“Alma, are you tricking the boys into taking you to your room again?”

“No!  I was lost.  I didn’t know where to go.”  I don’t think she did.


Looking up at the doorframe of Alma’s room as I walked past one day, I notice her nameplate is absent.  I naively ask a nurse,

“Where is Alma?”

With moist eyes, she succinctly replies,

“She passed.”

Life sounded like a test.  If so, it’s a really fucking difficult one--with sex, drugs, and indulgences of free will apparently being all the wrong answers.

“Hey Pete, I mean, um, Saint Peter, can I write a paper for extra credit?”  I guess it’s me saying that.


And so then there is Norm.  Norm is a soft, warm, and healthy looking man with silver colored hair.  At the end of the evening, when I’m returning the last of the food carts to the dishroom, he situates himself at the same window and spot in the corridor that Peter had formerly occupied.  Communicating with Norm can be difficult.  He clearly interprets everything that is said to him, but he cannot form the words to respond.  His language is one of grunts that vary subtly in volume and inflection according to their meaning.  Norm must have had a stroke that damaged cortical areas responsible both for the motor production of speech and the execution of lower body movement as he is also a paraplegic.   

I picture norm as having been a wonderful grandfather.  My mother’s father was a callous, staunchly religious man.  I never really knew him.  It is unlikely that my mother did either.  My father’s father was a chronic alcoholic and died when I was very young.  My only memory of him is of bringing him a bag of Hershey's chocolate stars at his death bed.  My father knew enough about him to know that his father loved chocolate stars.  It is unlikely that he knew much more than that.  I also remember my father crying.

Norm, like Peter, always says something when I walk by him.  I can tell when he says,

“Hi there,”
As a sort of high pitched “Heh-er.”

“Hi there Norm.  How are you?”

“Ohh, id kee.”  He is okay.


I sculpt the contents of his other sentences in my head.  He will motion at the ducks outside and mutter.

“Look at how they love and admire their mother, following her around everywhere.”

He will motion at the sky and on a brilliant summer day.

“Can you believe that marvelous sun?”

I think it sounds about right.

One day Norm is frustrated in trying to convey something to the nurses about the drugs they are having him take.  He waves his hands around, points, and makes high-pitched sounds.  One of the nurses asks aloud,

“Why don’t we have a book of symbols for communicating with norm?”

“He doesn’t need symbols he needs words,” I think to myself.

“Yeah, but words are just symbols themselves,” I rebut.

“Shit, your right.”  I think to myself.

“Stop talking to yourself.” We think to ourselves.

Once in a while, Norm does not look away from the window when  I pass.  On these days I am certain he is sad.  I am compelled to briefly lay a hand on his shoulder.  Sometimes I do, and hope this language is clear—unadulterated by symbols.

He is further down than normal in the middle of the hallway one day, and has sneezed.  He has no tissue and his hands are covered in what his head has decided to so violently reject.  He makes a noise indicating he needs my help in procuring a box of Kleenex.  I find one at the nurse’s station down the hall and help Norm to clean himself up a bit.  He looks to be on the verge of tears, and is muttering to himself and shaking his head.  As I write this now I am thinking he may have been saying,

“What has become of the things I loved?”


So here it is:  My organs are on fire right now with such strength of desire to never anymore find myself looking back at a past shrouded in foggy obscurity.  Too many times in my young existence have I reflected on the present state of things only to find myself completely befuddled as to why it has to be the way it is.  Something along the lines of:

“I know clearly the events that brought me to this place, but in the empty shell of this hour, what has become of the things I miss?”

I want so badly to walk through the rest of life at a medium pace fit for careful appraisal and full appreciation of each major life-changing...oh I don't know...each major life-changing thing.  Each major life changing thing that will either fucking hurt or sting with pleasure, and all of the inert fluff in the middle.  That way maybe when I am looking out of that same window later on--teetering on the precipice of that stillborn light and the stale air--then I will have less of a reason to wonder.

But here is the problem you see: There are no hallways to there.  And we are moving at breakneck speed.  At this very moment I am lost in thought about a situation in which there was something that I was so afraid to lose that I actually pushed it away.  But get this:  it was something that I never even had.  So then: I was afraid of losing--and now am stuck missing--something that was never mine to lose in the first place.  You should know my head is pretty close to being ready to implode just thinking about it. And I feel compelled to say sorry, but do not even have the slightest clue why and sure as fuck don’t know how.  If life is dotted in rapid-fire succession by these sort of circumstances without interruption, there is a certain danger of an ultimate state of shady oblivion.  In fact, it's not unlike a plane ticket to oblivion, final destination being the despair of later years without clear memories of happiness or the things that had been ours to lose.  Or it's a little like being blackout drunk and just shooting through space and time.  There’s a good chance that when colliding back on earth, once again firmly grounded in the terra firma of the future (or the new present), one will be called out of the fugue--but then how to make sense of all that came before it?  Albeit an abstract example, this is something like what I mean when I say there are no hallways to there, but rather just wormholes, ziplines, time machines, or jet plane trajectories.


So then, what’s the proper send-off?  Not exactly sure.  How about this grouping of abstract symbols:

“C’est la vie!”

Or maybe I should go with:

“Carpe Diem!”

In all I honesty I am torn.  That I leave to the beholder.