TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 6 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= This is episode six. Lunch today was extremely quiet. What with the early morning distubances and the later deathly hush over the whole place, there is something in the air. Could it be full moon? There was hardly anyone slurping down Broccoli Suprise, Bread Stuffing, and a piece of real ham you could cover an eye with. The place was overrun with old ladies, _really_ old ladies. Notable were the number of obese guts with scrawny limbs attached. Hell, my shape is in vogue here! The only real tard in the place was this little old man who pushes his wheelchair a few inches forward and forgets to let go the wheels and ends up pushing himself an almost equal amount backwards. After a few strokes, he gives up and just scoots backwards until he runs into something that brings him to a dead stop or that talks back. Otherwise, the lunch room was a great sea of sagging white flesh tended by supple young variegated flesh. I traded this really old lady I sat next to my water and milk for her coffee. She had the Gummit Special, three scoops. There was a scoop of mashed potato, of pre-chewed broccoli, and mechanically-masticated bread stuffing. As I am famous for saying, this stuff will all emerge looking about the same as it did when it went in. They even puree'd her canned peach bits. I'm sure they don't want her to pass dice-sized peach, bit by bit, and give her starfish a thrill. That would be more stimulation than any decent octogenarian could stand. She hardly touched her food. She kept offering it to me. I certainly don't want it en puree'. I want you to meet the queen Bea of this here high-class establishment. She resembles Bette Davis in appearance and mannerism. Bea smokes like it was going out of style. She has the resultant fetching whiskey baritone you would expect. But it was her ex-husband who did all the drinking. He was the lush and Bea is the smoker. Bea spent her time operating beauty shops in various central California burgs. She smoked, burnt hair, and drank coffee black. She tells me all about her family and feels sorry for me because I don't have any. I have got to work into just the correct way to tell her about my adoptive family, Mr Cheez, Kurth, Miss Kooky and Mikey. If she's worked in and run beauty shops, she knows what fags are. But she will be another one who will say something to the effect, "You can't be gay; you don't act funny." That or she'll tell me they don't have queers in Bakersfield. Just as in The ERR, Saturday seems to be the day when family members do their ObT by coming to check on their dotty relatives. Unfortunately, no staff in real authority are present on weekends. All complaints are taken in the office M-F 8:30-4. I met the daughter of the little old man who has an affinity for our brand of water sport. He plays with the drinking fountain in the hall. His daughter is as cute as a porky BarbieDoll. She's confined by "arthuritis" to a powered wheelchair. Poor thang can't propell a manual one. I think I'll cut off a paw and see if I can get some more sympathy from the state dole board. I'm tired looking for it in the dictionary between 'shit' and syphilis'. Her husband is a computer geek, so we had phun commiserating over the number of AOheLlers and their wannabes on the Net. I am gravitating to sitting with the smokers. I prefer their company to the droolers. Later on, Barbie Doll's father left the water fountain and became mesmerized by my wheelchair. Since she and I are both about the same in porkritude, maybe he thinks I am she. At any rate, he wouldn't let go of my chair and quit kicking the wheels. He had this really stupid grin on his face as though this is the way he plays with her. Please. I am not impressed. I was bizzy reading the Physician's Desk Reference to see how phuqued up I would get if I ate a bunch of Procardia and Micronase together. I think I would go cold and dead quite painlessly in about five minutes. No knowledge is a waste, they say. You should see people's faces light up when they have visitors. I expect I simper and grin like an idiot when Mr Cheez or Miss Kooky show up. I can't help myself. And when Kurth or Mikey show up, I almost get a hardon. Tardfarm days run into each other like oil into more oil. There are only so many amateur renditions (heavy on the 'render') of Let Me Call You Sweetheart you can tolerate. Maybe Kurth can carry my ghetto blaster to the dining hall with a Wierd Al Yankovic CD in it to liven up the place. The hit song he did about the Amish ought to fit right in around here. Playing Pussy Tourette's lurid lyrics would get me a murder rap. I can't play them Bach; they're already mostly asleep an hour after feeding. I go in and pull the weights twice a day, much as I did at The ERR. The therapists haven't got a program for me yet. Monday I will approach them about Let's Get the Show on the Road. Part of the days running into each other like oils is that you don't see results from all this boring therapy for weeks and until you retry something you used to do and see that, yes, it _did_ get a little easier than before. I expect by week's end to be getting in and out of bed without assistance. That way I can free myself from nursal tyrrany and also take a nap in the afternoon without sitting up in a seat belt, slobbering on my shirt, head down `a la tard. "NUUURSE! ... HELP ME! ... HELP MEEEEE! ... BRING ME MY PILLS! ... ... ... YOU GOD DAMN BITCH, GET YOUR ASS IN HERE! ... ... ... OH, HELP ME. PLEEEEEEEEEEEASE." It's just Sally again. No one can satisfy her because she does not _want_ to be pleased. She's been here two days, most of it spent on her ass in bed. She's so obnoxious to staff they only minimally assist her. This means they aren't about to put her up in a chair, so mercurial is her temperament. This afternoon the famous Stephanie (not the swish at The ERR) left Sally sit on a sharp metal bed pan for, she claims, six hours. The way she pisses and moans, she probably needed the time to get it out. She told me she hasn't taken a shit in seven days. Her lower abdomen looks it. I can't wait for them to give her the suppository, find out it's too late for that, and order up an enema. The enema may not work either. Sally says at Haywierd General they had to chip it out of her, digitally, bit by gnarly bit. (de J, are you paying attention?) I intend to listen carefully when I see the IV stand with the water bag roll into her room. I will imagine the great wide snow-white hiney being split and lubed like a floured jelly donut. I'll tingle when I hear the first gurgles and the moan as the hot water works its way into her woodlike imapaction. It won't be two minutes before she screams, "AHHHHH. IT HURTS! IT'S TOO MUCH! UNGHGHGH. TAKE IT OUT!" She'll thrash around on the bed like a beached whale and the nurse will ball her fist around the tube and make it stay in place. Sally, you're going to get your enema and it'll be high, hot, a whole lot, and will cure your disposition, you cunt. I went outside the dining hall for dinner. It was really crowded in there with people who wouldn't pull up square to the tables and leave a decent path for the servers and the ones of us who needed to pass them. Goddammit Lady was lying in her tard chair singing away like an endless tape loop. At the other end another old dear was haranguing the populace on nothing in particular and everything in general. It would have ruined the meal to have to listen to all that. We had quiche. That's right; egg pie. Fag Fritatta with Dolled-Up Potatoes, Diced Carrots `a la Spoo, and more peach bits. Did I forget brown bread...? I wish I could. =================================================================