Brizzles Basket

George asks me for help with Mable. I tell him I’ll meet him in her room in five minutes.

When I get there George has already laid her on the bed. He’s red-faced and aggravated. Mable’s rearing up and taking big roundhouse swings at him. “Mable, Mable,” I coo. “Calm down, Mable.”

“Oh God, Honey, I’m glad to see you. This big bastard is… ”

I gently wrap Mable’s wrists with my hands. George pulls down her pants. “What are… ?” Mable’s mad. “Honey! Let go of my hands so I can knock hell out of this bastard.”

“Mable that’s why I have your hands. So you won’t knock hell out of him.”

Mable flops back in defeat. Her little roommate, June Moricle, tries to pull a drawn curtain to see what’s going on. In a tiny voice she says, “I’m scared. Oh, I’m afraid. I’m so scared. Scared to death. I’m frightened. Terrified. I don’t know when I’ve been so scared.”

Mable is struggling, trying to loosen my hold on her wrists.

“Be still, Mable,” I urge softly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Moricle.”

“Be still you say? Look what he’s doing to me, Honey.”

“He’s putting dry pants on you,” I tell Mable.

“What kind of pants?”

“Dry ones. Yours are wet.”

“Wet? How did my pants get wet?”

“Somebody threw water on you.” I don’t have the heart to tell Mable she’s pissed herself.

“What kind of place is this, Honey, that they’d throw water on you when all your doing is minding your own business? Oh look now what he’s… ” She’s angry again. “He’s got me naked. Let me hit the big son-of-a-bitch, Honey.”

“No, Mable. You can’t hit him. He’ll be finished in a minute.”

George manages to get a dry brief on Mable and pull her dress down. I let go of her wrists. She lunges up and takes an angry jab at George ,but she misses by a mile. She continues to fight him, but cooperates with me as we get her back in her wheelchair.

Mable is in her early eighties. She looks like the guy on the Quaker Oats box. She has all the femininity of a jackhammer, but she is partial to dresses and often wears a puffed-sleeved gingham one like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz.”

Mable compliments this blue and white tied at the waist number with brown, size-14 lace-up shoes. She has white, Charmin soft hair and wears black cat-eye glasses.

Mable’s voice is… it’s Hulk Hogan-ish. And she hates the dining room. She feels about the dining room like Bush feels about gay marriage. When it’s time for all the little old people to eat someone will come and find me, no matter where in the building I’m working, and ask if I want to push Mable to the dining room?

Of course I want to push Mable to the dining room. She hates the dining room! Oh, but she loves me. She looks at me the way George Michael looks at a stranger’s pecker. The way a fat kid looks at cake.

I grab the handles of her wheelchair. “Honey, oh you’re pushing me somewhere. Honey, where are you taking me? I’m so glad to see you, Honey. We’re going somewhere, Honey, where are we… ”

I turn a corner and the dining room comes into view. Mable plants her big feet, Fred Flintstone-style, throwing on her brakes. The look of utter horror and disgust she slaps on is nothing short of hilarious.

Sometimes Mable doesn’t quite remember how to cuss, but she’s quick to try and let’s loose with a “No Honey. Not this slop dick gin lick dump fuck hole!”

“Mable, you have to eat,” I tell her.

“Honey, not in there I don’t. That’s a pig cunt sty… and I ain’t going near it.”

Mable’s heavy. Her feet are huge. I can’t budge her chair, so I turn her around and drag her into the dining room backwards.

“Why are you forcing me to eat in this cock and fried mess, Honey?”

I park Mable at a table and leave. I go back to my side of the building and get back to work.

Felicia comes by a few minutes later. She asks if I’ve seen Mable. She needs to give her a pill.

I nod. “She’s in the slop dick gin lick dump fuck hole,” I tell her.

At 6 p.m. every evening Mable gets a vaginal suppository. This is an endeavor that takes 11 people to execute. One to insert the suppository and 10 to hold her down.

Felicia, our charge nurse, a pretty black woman, is usually elected to give Mable her nightly suppositories. Felicia is brave and possibly even meaner than Mable.

I am pretty crafty and I’m somehow never available to do any inserting or holding down. But often, just a couple of seconds after the deed’s been done and the suppository is in, I’ll bust into Mable’s room and showily throw all 11 inserters or holder-downers out.

“What the hell are you people doing to my Mable?” I’ll demand.

Mable grabs onto my arm like it’s a life preserver.

“Oh Honey, I’m so glad you’re here,” she sobs. “You wouldn’t believe what they’re doing to me, Honey.”

“GET OUT!” I yell at my co-workers all of whom are over-worked and unamused. “There. There. Mable it’s all right now.”

“I’m afraid,” June Moricle says from the next bed. “I’m scared. Oh, I’m afraid. I’m scared to death. I’m nervous and scared. Oh, I’m afraid. Frightened to death. Afraid I tell you. Terrified. Scared. I don’t know when I’ve ever been this stricken.”

I help Mable up and back into her chair.

“Oh, I thank God for you, Honey.” Mable wipes at her eyes.

“And you should, Mable. I’m practically a saint.”

“Honey, I know. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

It usually takes Mable an hour or two to get over the suppository trauma. She sits in the hall in front of the nurse’s desk and whenever she sees me she throws her dress up, spreads her legs wide and pulls the crotch of her brief to one side to show me (and the world) her monk.

“Honey. They’ve done something to me. Come look at it, Honey.” She points to her big, bare, chubby twat with her free hand. Family members are walking by. “Honey, they lunged it or something. They broke one off in it. Come look at my pussy. See if it’s bleeding.” Mable then leans forward and frowns. Peering into the sunroom she asks, “Is it night time Honey?”

“It’s getting ready to storm, Mable.”

George passes by. Mable tries to kick him. He’s hot and sweaty and doesn’t even notice. George doesn’t love Mable like I do. Then again she hasn’t bit, kicked, cussed and clawed me like she has George.

A few minutes later George pushes Moricle up and sits her beside Mable. He locks the wheels on June’s chair, turns and hurries back down the hall.

Mable smiles at me. She looks over at Mrs. Moricle and takes my hand. “Honey, have you met Cilla Brubaker’s boy?”

Moricle says, “I’m scared.”

Felicia wants me to distract Mable while she gives her an insulin shot.

I nod.

“Mable, didn’t you tell me your daddy had show horses?”

“Oh yes, Honey! He had the most beautiful… ”

Felicia sticks her.

“…horses. Ouch, you fuckin hurt-er!” Mable swings at Felicia. Felicia easily dances out of reach.

“Did you see what she did, Honey?” Mable asks me. “She put glass in my arm. Did you see her?”

“I gave you a shot,” Felicia says.

“Yeah, well if I could get out of this chair I’d give you something,” Mable assures her.

A little while later my friend Buffy and I pass by Mable on our way to the break room. Mable grabs my shirt and pulls me toward her. Mable thinks if she has her hand in front of her mouth she is whispering but her Hulk Hogan voice doesn’t lower an octave.

There’s just the hand in front of her mouth when she says, “Honey, you got to watch out for the niggers.” Buffy is black and a half dozen or so of my coworkers milling around the desk are.

“Oh? Why is that, Mable?”

“Honey, they’ll steal you blind.”

“They will? Do you think their being black has anything to do with it?” I egg her on.

“Oh yeah, Honey. It’s in their blood. They have to steal. Especially electronics.”

Buffy shakes her head and moves on. Black aids and nurses look tiredly at me and then at Mabel. When they’re more rested some will plot to get even with me.

I get back from my break. Mable and Moricle haven’t moved. There’s a weather report on TV and Buffy turns up the volume.

Felicia’s heels click on the tile floor. Mable watches her approach. Mable’s short-term memory isn’t what it used to be. She knows she hates Felicia, but can’t quite remember why.

Mable looks at me and her hand goes in front of her mouth again. She whisper-shouts, “Honey, this one coming here is a bitch. A raping bitch.”

“Which one, Mable?” I ask.

Felicia glares at me as she moves by.

“The one that just walked by, Honey. She’s a bitch and a nigger and a lesbian.”

Felicia stops, backs up and stands hands on hips in front of Mable.

“What did you call me old woman?”

“Honey, there wasn’t nobody talking to you,” Mabel tells her curtly.

I chuckle.

Felicia turns on me. “Be careful, Browning. Some of your best friends are bitches, niggers and lesbians.”

I shake my head. “Not since Mable warned me about you people. I have a lot of electronics.”

Felicia walks over to Buffy. They have a worrisome little whispering session.

I go back to work. Felicia comes to me and tells me George has to leave early. She’s pulling me to the floor and I have to put Mable and Moricle to bed for the night. I don’t mind. I didn’t like what I was doing anyway.

I push Mable to her room. Someone has laid Moricle down already but she’s on top of her covers and she’s pulled her brief off.

Moricle, a teeny tiny woman, a mousy woman looks at me.

“I’m afraid,” she says softly, over and over. “I’m scared. Oh, I’m afraid. I’m scared to death. I’ve never been so afraid. I’m scared. Frightened to death. Afraid I tell you. I’m so afraid. So scared. I’ve never been so scared.”

Mable looks up at me. “Honey, it’s just a hunch but I’m thinking that little bitch over there is afraid.”

I laugh and start undressing Mable. A briefless Moricle worries me though. She often has diarrhea. A projectile type of diarrhea but I decide to risk it and get Mable in bed first. I take off her shoes.

“Honey, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting you ready for bed.”

“Are you going to lay down with me?”

“Mable that’s the best offer I’ve had all week, but I can’t. I still have a lot of work to do.”

I get Mable’s dress off before I realize I don’t have a gown for her.

“Wait just a minute, Mable, and I’ll be right back.”

I go out into the hall. I find the linen cart but there are no gowns on it. I’ll have to get one from Laundry.

A long-awaited storm hits Louisville and Waiting To Die Manor like a truck slamming into a wall. In Mable’s and Moricle’s room some plants and perfume bottles are knocked over and a window slams shut.

The window slamming scares a scared Moricle so bad she lets loose a blast of diarrhea that sprays a wall, Mable’s bed and Mable.

Unaware any of this has happened, I reenter the room.

It looks like a tornado has ripped through.

Moricle is standing in the middle of her bed (something I didn’t even think possible), naked from the waist down.

Plants and pretty, colorful bottles litter the floor and Mable is splattered with feces.

My mouth drops open in disbelief. “Mable, what happened?”

Mable calmly takes off her glasses.

“Honey, the wind blew, the shit flew and then there you stood.”

The wind blew… the shit flew… and then there I stood.

The story of my life.

I think of the times in my life when one minute everything is fine and normal, and the next minute simply and unexpectedly the wind blows, the shit flows and there I stand. With little choice but to deal, to calm and right things as best I can, to clean up the shit.

To hope the shit that comes my way both literal and figurative is a sort of cosmic fertilizer and from it something good will grow.

And to carry on.

This is me carrying on.

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 9th, 2011 at 4:03 pm and is filed under Pills. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.