< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket #45
Recently I came close to quitting my job, or getting fired, one or the other.
I work at this Assisted Care Residence in New York. I’m single, separated
from my good for nothing husband. My daughter is finishing high school.
Not that any of that has anything to do with my job. Well, it might because
I might have problems finding a new job while raising my daughter, who
would get on my case. I mean, she’s already on my case.
She's at that stage ‒ on a swing suspended from a big mango tree branch,
swinging herself and thinking about boys. That stage.
All these years getting her up and off to school, guiding and shielding, then
one day she declares she wants to stay out rather late; telling me her best
friend’s mother lets her boyfriend sleep over, and why can’t I do the same.
Why do you have to be such a bitch about it!
See that? First my husband, now my daughter, wanting to have things always
their way. Well, I’m sorry, my mother never gave me such latitudes. She
taught me how and when to pause.
There’s no way I’m going to have my daughter’s boyfriend spending the
night in my house with her; and having sex, which they will have! My child,
in the next room, all fired up, rushing into this. I won't be able to sleep
though the silence, worrying: How does she give herself? why couldn't
she wait to be noticed, to be found "interesting"?
Asking me to relax my responsibilities. No, no way. I’m a good parent.
I had to sublet the basement. I had no alternative. There are bills to pay
every month. I can’t tell the lady what not to do down there. I hope I
won’t have problems with her and any man. I had to talk to her about her
cat. It kept coming upstairs. It had to go.
I used to think, maybe I’m not a good person. I’m convinced something else
is going on. Certain men acting childish must always have things run their
way. They never learnt how to disagree and move on.
Like this man at the Residence where I work. He’s from Canal District, which
I only have vague memories of because my mother migrated when I was five
and I really grew up in New York city.
How he came to be here I don’t know. Our Residence is an expensive place.
It costs a lot of money to maintain it. Mostly wealthy white people stay here.
He must be the resident from Canal District.
Maybe some rich businessman could start up an Assisted Care Residence back
in the District, charge a lot of money like they charge to keep him there.
Who knows? I might go back there in a flash; tell them I was born there, and
I have New York “experience”; though from what my nephews tell me, the
right “encouragement”, under the radar or inside an account, will get you
results.
Only problem I see, there might not be seniors rich enough to pay. And they
might prefer to stay in their homes ‒ call on relatives, behave bad, curse
and carry on till people get sick and tired and just leave them alone. Like
Mr. Canal District, resident here.
His daughter brought him in. I think she’s in the medical profession, or some
profession. The dignified way she stands, her arms neatly folded, the smile
that switches off making you a stranger again as she walks away.
And she’s married, to a white guy who came with her once, so polite and
curious, and never came again. Maybe he was too distressed, or too
embarrassed to accompany her when she visits her Dad. She seems the
stronger partner.
She calls her father Dad. I can’t think of anybody back in the District saying,
Daaad, would you stop talking like that, please. Daaad!
She's the one who told the supervisor it would be nice if her Dad had
someone from back home attending to him. Exposing all my background
information to the supervisor. So now the supervisor (Mrs. Buttafuoco)
knows stuff about me I prefer to keep personal. Not that I’m hiding
anything.
And now I’m like the hands-on person responsible for him, and I’m
expected to report to her when she visits.
Acting so presumptuous. These people, I swear!
I wanted to tell Mrs. Buttafuoco I didn’t think this was a good idea, but I
couldn’t, of course. So I made a switch with Petranella, my workplace
friend. She’s been at this job longer than me. We have a little worker
solidarity going. We look out for each other.
But here’s what I think happened. This man came up from the District,
staying by the daughter. They have some big house on Long Island. Way out
in Syosset, I think she said.
It must have been embarrassing, the way he was carrying on in the guest
room, ranting and cursing, asking for home-cooked meals, like he had
special family “rights” there.
They had no idea how long he intended to stay. Maybe they got tired of him
and decided the best move would be our Residence.
He has medical issues. Early stage Alzheimer’s, or late Prostate C. He’s in
and out, calm one moment, agitated and difficult the next, his mind
releasing fears and resentment kept quiet inside.
Doctors come and go, I don’t know exactly what they’re doing for him while
we keep him rested and comfortable. Whatever it is, it’s way above our
pay grade, Petranella said, cracking me up. She has this way of explaining
things. Yes, I know! but it still cracks me up.
His wife (second wife, the first wife died) came up from the District to see
him. While she was here she visited him almost every day. I don’t think
they got along well (the daughter and the second wife).
Whenever she visited, swaying her hips like she’s trying out new underwear,
she asked for me. I’d escort her to the room, and leave them alone.
Petranella says Mr. Canal District gets handsy. She said one time she walked
in and caught him with his hands up his wife’s dress caressing her backside.
She (Petranella) pretended she saw nothing. Now, if it sounds too quiet
inside, she knocks, waits five ticks, before entering.
He kept introducing his wife whenever she visited, forgetting he did it the
day before. This is my nurse, she’s a good nurse. She looks after me, he’d
say, sitting up in his bright striped pyjamas. And the wife, shaking an arm
of gold bracelets, would give Petranella a smile of concern, ready to help
in any way.
Petranella does all the meds, the bed and bath assists and monitoring stuff.
When he’s not erupting, he goes on and on: how back in Canal District he
has a nice house, and a front yard covered with concrete; about black
fellows with no ambition, loitering outside on kid bicycles; how his father
was a canecutter who worked hard.
Parts of his mind and body might be breaking down, but this buttocks
stroking thing, Petranella says somehow it puts him in a better mood. He’s
pleasant and cooperative. She makes sure his hands stay outside her fenced
-off areas.
I thank God I switched tasks with her. I don’t know what I would have done,
probably freaked out, having to deal with this man and his daughter and
the visiting wife. And the hands.
It got to the point where I said, You know what? I don’t care. They want us
to keep him here? let them spend their money ‒ his Canal District money,
the daughter’s money, the wife’s money, I couldn’t care less.
There’s a Doctor on standby here. A few more show up on a regular basis.
I think they treat some patients like they’re part of some private research.
Mr. Handsy from Canal District must be a real research challenge. I bet
they never met or examined anybody like him before. No, nothing could
compare.
+
So hear what happened. I had a week off and when I came back his room
was empty. Mr. C.D. was gone! taken away or sent away; back to Long
Island with his daughter, or back home to Canal District, I don’t know.
“What happened,” I asked Petranella. Well, he’s not here anymore. “I can
see he’s not here. Where did he go?” I don’t know! In any case, the
Supervisor wants to talk to you. My heart started to sink. “About what?”
About procedures, and my task performance. And, did I want to continue
working here?
Mrs. Buttafuoco, my supervisor, is what the staff here call a tough old bird.
Keeping all of us on our toes. Her children already grown, so nothing to
worry about at home. Her buttocks taking strokes from the leather chair in
her office, her neat little heaven on this earth.
Petranella says we have to be "intelligent" about our choices. We must always
be moving forward. See the big picture. And remember, Everything is water.
(I don’t know where she got that from, but I envy her. I see how she flows.)
I listen to Petranella. She once described her man as “a worthless piece of
shit”. The words shocked me, they sounded so harsh, like she'd wiped her
hands, she was finished, done! with disappointment, with pain in her life.
Still, I hope I don’t start talking like her. And I hope I don’t end up like Mrs.
Buttafuoco and have people calling me a tough old bird; or telling me I can
be a bitch when I want to.
Anyway, I told her I switched with Petranella because Mr. C. D. while he
was here was behaving in ways that made me uncomfortable; threatening
to get handsy; to the point where it was difficult for me to do my job.
And Petranella, stepping forward like a trooper, said she knew how to
handle handsy patients; so we switched. It was only supposed to be
temporary; we did our best for him.
Mrs. Buttafuoco ‒ blowing and wiping her nose, she had a cold that day ‒
said, I’m here to help; and if there was a problem, any problem, I should
bring it first to her attention, did I understand? The comfort of our
residents is our first priority.
In any case we were not likely to have someone like Mr. C. D. here again.
He’s from your country, right?
I assured her it won’t happen again. She tugged at the scarf covering the
creases round her throat, and with a few more ticks of displeasure ‒ with
her it’s hard to tell when she’s really pleased about anything ‒ that was
the end of that. Back to work.
Zareena G.
Queens, New York.
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 