Saturday, September 10, 2011
It’s finally summer, except in the Bingo room at the Soldiers Home, where it has crossed over into sauna. When I crashed today’s Bingo session, I found Ray McDade dozing at his table, and after five minutes I was almost unconscious myself. Between the swooshing white-noise of the Bingo machine, the rhythmic number-calling and the stuffy warmth, it’s amazing anyone made it through a game awake.
But Ray perked up quickly and said he thought Bill Crowell was coming. I offered to fetch him (partly for the breeze I’d create by moving), and Bill agreed to come back.
Leo Mortell waved from across the room. “Where have you been, stranger?” he yelled. I scurried over and explained for the first of a few times today that I’d been juggling two jobs, but my second, temporary, one had just ended, so I hoped to be out more often.
Dorothy had news of her own: She is moving from the independent Betsy Ross Hall to the light-care Roosevelt Barracks—still not safe from The Transition, but certainly safer than before.
Ken Levick waved and called me over. “Why are you mad at me, Sandy?” he smiled. He knew I wasn’t mad at him. But I told him I wasn’t, anyway. I stayed with Ken for one Bingo game until we both realized I had jinxed him. He had won the $5 blackout just before I came over.
I said hi to David Fox, and to Faith and Marilyn, and stopped to check on Ann Lawson, who has recovered amazingly well from her scary scooter spill.
After Bingo, Ray asked Bill whether he’d like to go for a scooter ride. They were going to the pond, and they invited me, and I can’t turn down a trip to the pond. I went with Bill to grab his scooter, and when I tried to back it up (I swear I pressed the “R,” presumably for reverse), it kind of drove itself, forward, up his dresser. I was starting to see how he got into trouble with that thing.
Bill put on his floppy brown hat—kangaroo leather, it turns out—and declared himself Buck Jones. We met Ray in the hallway, and Bill couldn’t resist a comment on Ray’s khaki cargo shorts. “Doesn’t he have beautiful legs?” Bill snorted.
In the parking lot, Bill showed me just how he got into trouble with that scooter: His speed settings range from “turtle” to “rabbit,” and he doesn’t much like “turtle.” He was half a football field ahead of Ray and me.
At the pond we turned to the right. “This is where we come to say our Rosaries,” Ray said. “I say mine here, and Bill goes over there to say his however he says his.”
“I say mine the Irish way,” Bill said.
It was easily one of the three nicest days of the year, but the pond was all ours. We couldn’t believe how peaceful it was, and as much as I love Bill and Ray’s easy, teasing friendship, the silence and the breeze and the quiet companionship were lovely, especially after the stifling toastiness of the Bingo room.
We went onto the dock and flicked little pet-food pellets into the water and gawked at the fish frenzy. And I reveled in my friends’ friendship with each other—and translated for them. “He should put in for a private room,” Bill said. To which Ray replied: “I should what? Pay for a private room?” Ray said Bill was a squeaky wheel who gets the grease. Bill misheard him so completely—he might have said “beast” or “deceased”—we all laughed out loud.
Ray was hungry, and it was just about dinnertime, so we headed back down the path. Ray turned to Bill and asked whether he had any money. “If we had $5,” Ray said, “we could invite Sandy to dinner.” (Guests are welcome at meals, but not for free.) Ray realized he’d won $4 at Bingo, and Bill had won $1. But Bill didn’t hear that exactly right, either, and he turned his scooter up to rabbit and made a beeline for home. “Bill eats in his room,” Ray said. And that was fine. I certainly wouldn’t have let them pay for my meal, and anyway, I had a dinner date with my kid.
I hugged Ray goodbye and followed Bill back to my car. I hugged Bill goodbye there—and watched as he zoomed right past the sidewalk for nursing care. He did a quick U-turn and laughed. “I got going the wrong way,” he said—and then he rabbited right past the sidewalk, again. “I just did it again,” Bill laughed.
“Turn that thing down to turtle,” I told Bill. “And turn very slowly right here.” Which he did. And then he picked up some speed, headed toward home.
It’s finally summer, except in the Bingo room at the Soldiers Home, where it has crossed over into sauna. When I crashed today’s Bingo session, I found Ray McDade dozing at his table, and after five minutes I was almost unconscious myself. Between the swooshing white-noise of the Bingo machine, the rhythmic number-calling and the stuffy warmth, it’s amazing anyone made it through a game awake.
But Ray perked up quickly and said he thought Bill Crowell was coming. I offered to fetch him (partly for the breeze I’d create by moving), and Bill agreed to come back.
Leo Mortell waved from across the room. “Where have you been, stranger?” he yelled. I scurried over and explained for the first of a few times today that I’d been juggling two jobs, but my second, temporary, one had just ended, so I hoped to be out more often.
Dorothy had news of her own: She is moving from the independent Betsy Ross Hall to the light-care Roosevelt Barracks—still not safe from The Transition, but certainly safer than before.
Ken Levick waved and called me over. “Why are you mad at me, Sandy?” he smiled. He knew I wasn’t mad at him. But I told him I wasn’t, anyway. I stayed with Ken for one Bingo game until we both realized I had jinxed him. He had won the $5 blackout just before I came over.
I said hi to David Fox, and to Faith and Marilyn, and stopped to check on Ann Lawson, who has recovered amazingly well from her scary scooter spill.
After Bingo, Ray asked Bill whether he’d like to go for a scooter ride. They were going to the pond, and they invited me, and I can’t turn down a trip to the pond. I went with Bill to grab his scooter, and when I tried to back it up (I swear I pressed the “R,” presumably for reverse), it kind of drove itself, forward, up his dresser. I was starting to see how he got into trouble with that thing.
Bill put on his floppy brown hat—kangaroo leather, it turns out—and declared himself Buck Jones. We met Ray in the hallway, and Bill couldn’t resist a comment on Ray’s khaki cargo shorts. “Doesn’t he have beautiful legs?” Bill snorted.
In the parking lot, Bill showed me just how he got into trouble with that scooter: His speed settings range from “turtle” to “rabbit,” and he doesn’t much like “turtle.” He was half a football field ahead of Ray and me.
At the pond we turned to the right. “This is where we come to say our Rosaries,” Ray said. “I say mine here, and Bill goes over there to say his however he says his.”
“I say mine the Irish way,” Bill said.
It was easily one of the three nicest days of the year, but the pond was all ours. We couldn’t believe how peaceful it was, and as much as I love Bill and Ray’s easy, teasing friendship, the silence and the breeze and the quiet companionship were lovely, especially after the stifling toastiness of the Bingo room.
We went onto the dock and flicked little pet-food pellets into the water and gawked at the fish frenzy. And I reveled in my friends’ friendship with each other—and translated for them. “He should put in for a private room,” Bill said. To which Ray replied: “I should what? Pay for a private room?” Ray said Bill was a squeaky wheel who gets the grease. Bill misheard him so completely—he might have said “beast” or “deceased”—we all laughed out loud.
Ray was hungry, and it was just about dinnertime, so we headed back down the path. Ray turned to Bill and asked whether he had any money. “If we had $5,” Ray said, “we could invite Sandy to dinner.” (Guests are welcome at meals, but not for free.) Ray realized he’d won $4 at Bingo, and Bill had won $1. But Bill didn’t hear that exactly right, either, and he turned his scooter up to rabbit and made a beeline for home. “Bill eats in his room,” Ray said. And that was fine. I certainly wouldn’t have let them pay for my meal, and anyway, I had a dinner date with my kid.
I hugged Ray goodbye and followed Bill back to my car. I hugged Bill goodbye there—and watched as he zoomed right past the sidewalk for nursing care. He did a quick U-turn and laughed. “I got going the wrong way,” he said—and then he rabbited right past the sidewalk, again. “I just did it again,” Bill laughed.
“Turn that thing down to turtle,” I told Bill. “And turn very slowly right here.” Which he did. And then he picked up some speed, headed toward home.
RSS Feed