I went on a field trip today. Somewhow I was selected as guest for the redidication of a building on the University of Louisiana campus. Years ago my father donated money to the music department so they attached his name to a building. A recent donation by one of the wealthier families in town kept it from demolition. I gave a short speech thanking everyone, then sat back down for the final thirty minutes of gladhanding by the president of the universty. I couldnt recognize anyone, the faculty I knew all retired or died. I spent a while by the reception tables. I wanted Janice to come with me, but she couldn't risk leaving and catching another cold. She would have enjoyed being on campus again.
Beatrice met with the local Episcopal minister and his son. Beatrice is not going to live much longer, her breathing is slow and raspy. From the look on her face it has to be painful as well. She smoked cigarettes her entire life. Last I remember she was at a carton a day. The cement near the back door is dotted with the marks from her extenguished butts.
When the minister arrived she reaked of smoke. Her hair was, at one time, blonde. Her bangs were tinted dark brown from the ash and fumes she exhaled. It was horrible how bad she started to smell over the past month. A few minutes after she walked by no one wanted to step into the hall. The window in her room was covered in soot. She leaned out to catch a few drags during the evenings when we werent allowed out.
When she met Reverend Clark outside she told his son "Your father has forgiven me for smoking." The boy, barely thirteen, had no idea what she was talking about. From the look n his face you could tell he had a difficult time fighting her smell. He hugged her anyway. The boy stayed outside after the minister helped her back to her room. Her stench filled the hall again.
They just told me. She smoked herself to death over the past month. A carton a day. She chained them as long as she was awake. The nurses did not stop her because she gave them a cut of her immense stash. They knew they could take a smoke break if Beatrice was outside. She sat in the same rocking chair every time, lit her first cigarette and did not stop until she was done. If it was raining she leaned against the door to keep from falling down or getting wet. Their wasnt enough room to rock and stay dry. The amount of money she spent on cigarettes lept into the thousands before she died.
Her son visited her once in the five years she was here. Rumor has it she burned a noticeable chunk of his inheritance in the last year to spite him for locking her up.
There was a wheelchair collision at the receptionists desk. Two women rounded the corner at the same time and ended up locking wheels. The receptionist didn't look up until one of the ladies startd yelping. During the confusion the older of the two ladies turned on her wheel brake and pinched her own fingers to her chair.
Milfred, who was on his way to lunch, muscled by the wreck and caught his bathrobe in the spokes of one of the chairs. He tried to roll away and ended up moving in an arc around them, tightening up the robe as he moved. When he pulled the robe free one of the ladies, no one told me which one, thought he was intentionally turning her wheels to get her out of the way. She got flustered and started slapping anyone close enough to touch. It wasn't really anyone's fault. If anything it was the fault of collective loss of coordination, weakened mental ability and vision of the decrepit chair bound migrants tangled in the hall. Ultimately it is God's fault for designing a body that lasts too long.
This isn't the first collision at that intersection. Several of us know exactly when the biscuits come out of the oven for breakfast. We appear in the hall at the same time and try to make it to the cafeteria before the biscuits cool off. The wheelchairs jockey for position. One and a half wheelchairs fill the width of the cafeteria line and jam it. I walk so I know not to step into the straight away until the chairs go by. They focus so intently on being being first in line they don't notice when they run us over. Even without hearing aids in you learn to train your ears to pick up the creeks of oncoming chairs. Usually you hear heavy breathing or caughing first. Asthma doesn't dampen our desire to eat the steaming flavorless biscuits we use to mark the begining of another day we've made it to.
Every morning someone crashes because they aren't using both hands. They are covering a caugh, or straigthening a shirt, or fiddling with a scarf and forget that pushing on one side makes the chair veer off course. They end up against the wall or turning in front of the pack that sprints for the breakfast line. Elbows start shoving at the corner near the end of the hall. The pack is unforgiving. Pampalona.
It's safer to turn into the wall. The pack will toss you sideways and knock you over. Worse than interstate traffic. Sometimes they yell if they think you might step in front of them. Milfred likes to throw the brake on the side of passing chairs so he can logjam the hall and take the lead. The more aware wheel chair riders swerve away from him. The chairs he locks up get pushed aside while the occupant tries to figure out what happened.