Nobody Reads This Page – “Scoundrel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

“The trouble with fighting for human freedom is that one spends most of one’s time defending scoundrels. For it is against scoundrels that oppressive laws are first aimed, and oppression must be stopped at the beginning if it is to be stopped at all.” – H.L. Mencken

 

Trying to provide assistance for my friend Janis Mays, while housed at a skilled care facility in Ashtabula, has become an endless pursuit. We first met nearly 15 years ago, when both of us shared the same workplace in Geneva. A common interest in Chinese food caused us to pair up for visits to a local buffet in that city. In years that followed, we helped each other with everyday tasks. Then, her health began to decline despite being younger and seemingly in better shape than myself. A heart attack and strokes followed. But her rowdy spirit was not slowed by these challenges. She continued to manifest an individualistic approach to being alive.

 

Members of the staff soon nicknamed her ‘Scoundrel’ because of this contrarian disposition.

 

Strict dietary guidelines were imposed as a safeguard against self-injury from aspirating foods, or choking. Yet this ornery, forty-something woman refused to simply accept such mealtime discipline with a submissive attitude. She continued to experiment with snacks of all kinds, acquired by a variety of clandestine means. With a trial-and-error strategy, she was able to discover which of these unapproved treats worked for her, and which ones created a messy result and lots of coughing.

 

Her reaction to these risky tests was predictably, an emotional flatline. But for me, bursts of panic and concern filled my head and made my heart beat more quickly. A recent conversation proved that point, effectively.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, CHICA? IS THIS LIKE A GAME, OR SOMETHING? ARE YOU TRYING TO SEE HOW FAR YOU CAN GO OVER THE LIMIT BEFORE THEY SEND YOU BACK TO THE HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM?”

 

Janis took my criticism as a sign of old age and a feeble intellect.

 

“You sound like Granny, when I was a kid! Damn Rodbert, toughen up there, bruh! I’m not dead yet, so believe me, I must be hard to kill! That’s the truth!”

 

My hands shook uncontrollably while holding the cell phone.

 

“This is why they call you the S-word, right?”

 

She did not have any patience with my critique. So, our interaction over the wireless link got detoured by a plea for help via my computer.

 

“Look, I didn’t call to hear you blubber like an old lady! So, stop it! I need T-shirts. The laundry here is nuts, things get lost all the time. Or maybe other patients steal ‘em, I don’t know! Could you order some for me off of Walmart.com? Maybe something orange, or a design with Baby Yoda?”

 

I resisted shifting gears in our discussion so easily.

 

“Don’t you have a dozen orange shirts already? I suppose they all got left at your house, right?”

 

My combative comrade hissed and snorted.

 

“I LIKE ORANGE SHIRTS! OKAY? I COULD USE A HOODIE TOO!”

 

My stomach had begun to gurgle.

 

“I’m on the computer every day, trying to guess what might work. Couldn’t you download their app on your phone? It’d be easier to figure out what you like and don’t like...”

 

I heard lots of background noise. She must have been in the activity room, with plenty of company. There were hoots and grunts and peals of laughter.

 

“Such drama! You complain worse than those old biddies on ‘The Golden Girls!’ Which is damn crazy, because that’s what we’re watching right now. I love that show!”

 

I sighed heavily and tapped the desk with a ball-point pen. My coffee mug was empty.

 

“Your tastes are... umm... different. Not girly by any means. I never know what to buy!”

 

She cackled and spit words like the shells of chewed sunflower seeds.

 

“I’M NOT A DELICATE FLOWER, RODBERT! I... NEED... SHIRTS! AND... SHORTS! AND... A... HOODIE!”

 

My face felt oddly hot, though I had a fan on a corner of my workspace running at full tilt.

 

“Right, I’ll take a look this afternoon. Left me finish my coffee, I can’t get anything to focus just yet. I’ve only been awake for a few minutes...”

 

Her reaction was stiff and defiant. I imagined her sitting lazily at a dining table, with her hair frazzled and unbrushed. Probably still wearing pajamas.

 

“If you’d just take me to the store, I could figure out what I need! But nooooo! You get all nervous about me falling and shit!”

 

I had to clear my throat and find a positive frame of mind.

 

“The nurses are afraid of you taking a tumble. That’s why they want you using the walker religiously. If you hit the floor, I couldn’t help. I can barely walk, myself...”

 

She moaned with disinterest in paying attention.

 

“I SENT YOU A LIST THEN, JUST GO BY THAT WHEN YOU MAKE OUT MY ORDER! IT’S TIME FOR BREAKFAST, I GOTTA GO!”

 

The phone pic she forwarded via text messaging was a cryptic mess. Lines of scribbled ink on a sheet of notebook paper. It looked like what a preschooler might produce, while passing time under a mother’s supervision. I guessed that it was a clue to what her brain had survived.

 

“Yeahh, okay... I will figure it out. No worries. Call me again later, by then I’ll probably be out on the porch with a beer!”

 

She ended the call rudely, which I knew wasn’t on purpose. Her sense of social grace had never been polished, but was now on the level of an inmate behind bars. I didn’t need a kind word to conclude our chat. The harsh click in my ear was expected. Once the device screen cleared, I turned to my iMac. A search for novelty apparel brought up thousands of results. When I filtered them for size and color, that didn’t winnow down the number by very much. But using the tag of ‘scoundrel,’ my hunt took a turn for the better.

 

I discovered a festive tee with this pejorative term in bold letters of yellow, across the chest. Some sort of cosmic design had been stylistically placed behind the text, as if to evoke a Star Wars theme. I knew she would be thrilled to wear her new handle proudly, in front of aides at the rehabilitation center.

 

“Scoundrel it is! That’s what you are, Miss Mays!”