Nobody Reads This Page – “Scoundrel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

I have written here before about my friend Janis, who has been either hospitalized or in a skilled-care facility for almost an entire year. Her odyssey began with a stroke, which caused her to be placed under the care of doctors at our noted and renowned Cleveland Clinic. A place of healing, celebrated around the globe and cited proudly by residents of Ohio as a jewel on the north coast. I am certain that her survival, with numerous health concerns over the span of a young life, is due in part to the knowledge of their physicians and nurses.

 

Though after three such events, and a heart attack, I also credit divine intervention as a factor.

 

We interact almost every day, through telephone conversations. These episodes are completely unpredictable and follow no regular pattern. So, I try to be near my cellular device when called. My rowdy cohort has done well to socialize in her new environment, yet still has some standing as a rogue of sorts among the residents. She is cheerful, but defiant. Never aggressive or combative, but always bending the rules just a tad. Each person at the home has a lockbox for their private use. A secure space to store valuable items or documents. She uses that privilege to hide candy bars and snacks, along with bottles of soda. Treats that have not been approved as part of her dietary regimen.

 

Swallowing is a concern always top-of-mind for her caregivers. They worry that she might have a choking episode with too many transgressions having been committed. Somehow though, none of these cheating episodes have caused a problem, so far.

 

Again, I figure that she is being protected by a power higher than medical science can provide.

 

During our most recent chat, she confessed to receiving a nickname from one of her favorite members of the staff. Someone with whom she seemed to have a great rapport. The woman humorously dubbed her ‘Scoundrel’ for manifesting secretive habits, despite repeated warnings. She appealed for understanding about the kitchen discipline being promoted.

 

“I would be sad if you were not here, one day! I mean that sincerely! I would give you a kiss on the forehead, before they wheeled you out of this room! Please listen to me, and behave!”

 

Harvard Professor Laurel Thatcher Ulrich apparently wrote in 1976, ‘Well-behaved women seldom make history.’ That observation might also ring true of my friend from near the Lake Erie shoreline. It is doubtful that anything in her in her personal timeline will ever be considered historic. But her restless spirit has endured so many challenges, that I reckon it must help to keep her strong.

 

She trumpeted this air of self-confidence, as we exchanged words on a Wednesday afternoon.

 

“I’m a scoundrel, Rodbert! Hah hah! How about that? I’ve been called a lot of things before, but that’s a new one. Hell, I’ve even been going to church with a lady I met here, at a spot somewhere in downtown Ashtabula. I sit there with dressed-up grandmas and Jesus freaks! But I’m still a scoundrel? Do you think the name fits me?”

 

I had to clear my throat before answering. It felt prudent to be diplomatic.

 

“Well, honestly, yes. I’d say that hit the bullseye...”

 

She must have wrinkled her nose, because the tone of her voice became narrow and sharp.

 

“SCOUNDREL! SCOUNDREL! THAT’S A GOOD ONE, I’M A SCOUNDREL! WELL, I CAN’T HELP IT, ALL THESE MONTHS EATING PUREED MUSH HAVE REALLY SUCKED! I WOULDN’T FEED THAT SHIT TO MY CATS! YUCK! EVEN MY CARETAKER AT HOME NEVER CALLED ME A SCOUNDREL!”

 

I rolled my eyes while nodding.

 

“Yeah, I get it. No fun allowed, that’s probably what it says on your chart. Look, they’ve got your best interests at heart. It’s their job, okay?”

 

My estranged companion cackled and sneezed.

 

“DOG BARF! THAT’S WHAT THEY FEED ME HERE! I WANT SOME TACO BELL! AND A POLAR POP FROM CIRCLE K!”

 

I covered my face with both hands. There was a noise over the connection like bedsheets rustling. I wondered if she was still listening.

 

“You’re fortunate to be alive, honey. Don’t you get that? Luck has been with you, or the blessing of a loving creator, however you choose to see it...”

 

Her answer buzzed in my ear like a honeybee.

 

“CRAPPPP! YOU’RE FULL OF CRAP, RODBERT! I WANT TO BREAK OUT OF THIS JAIL, THEY CAN’T JUST KEEP ME HERE, RIGHT? WHAT IF I SIGN MYSELF OUT? THEN WHAT?”

 

My stomach had started to ache. I scratched my gray beard and tried to think of a comforting reply.

 

“If you go back to that old house by the lake right now, how will you live? You can’t see to drive. The furnace is worn out and its oil tank is probably empty. You don’t even know if the electric bill got paid for certain, with you and your caretaker both out of commission. Think about it, right now, you need to be where you are...”

 

Janis whistled and played with her hair. The noise sounded like static.

 

“Okay then, I’ll come to live with you! I get around okay with my walker, I can help with household chores!”

 

Her ridiculous proposal rattled my nerves. I took a deep breath to clear my head.

 

“Look Jay, I’m disabled myself. You know that! I barely get along here, running solo. There’s no room, my hovel is full of boxes and books and vinyl records. Things are broken all around the trailer, I don’t have the income to keep making repairs. Benevolence from Community Action got me a ramp outside, I was grateful for that help. My nephew cuts the grass every couple of weeks. Neighbors keep watch, in case I fall or get stuck in bed. But adding another tenant here would be a no-no. Seriously, I think your roomie at the house was on target with the idea of assisted living. You need that kind of supervision and care...”

 

She did not like the tone of my retort.

 

“WHAT I NEED IS A CRUNCHWRAP SUPREME! AND MAYBE A CHALUPA ON THE SIDE! YOU CAN FORGET GIVING ME ADVICE, RODBERT! I DON’T WANT TO BE STUCK IN ANOTHER HOLE LIKE THIS ONE! I WANT OUT OF HERE! OUT! OUT! OUT!”

 

I folded my arms and rocked in the roller chair. My phone indicated a low-charge condition. It needed to be plugged in before our connection was severed.

 

“I see it’s almost time for your soap opera. And my device is flashing a warning about running out of juice. Call me later when I’m out on the porch having a brew...”

 

Janis sneered and snorted like a petulant child.

 

“CALL ME LATER! CALL ME LATER! OKAY, BUDDY! THIS IS THE SCOUNDREL, SIGNING OFF! OVER AND OUT!”

 

The screen went blank, except for a bubble that read ‘Call Ended.’ Then, a text message appeared. When I opened the app, a photo had been attached. It was of a religious tract from the church she had attended on Sunday. She wrote a plea underneath the pic.

 

“What does this say? I can’t read anything until they get me new glasses!”

 

Her photographic skills were lacking. The image looked blurry. But I read the page to myself, one word at a time. While peering through reading spectacles bought at a Giant Eagle pharmacy.

 

“Exodus 20:8-10, ‘Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns.’”