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Tuesdays are always bad. It's Pill Day, and the changeup in their treatment schedules makes them all crazy, but he's in a worse mood than most. I had a hell of a time with Mr. Daltrey, but at least he's small and doesn't move around much since he swung that drip tray and one of the orderlies locked him in the broom closet. "It's time to go to lunch, Jim," I say. I've got my most reasonable tone on. I really do want them to think I'm their friend; it makes things easier. "James!" he yells. I tell him there's no need to shout, but he just does it again: "James!" It sounds like a seal barking. "Okay, then," I agree. Hey, at least he's not asking me to call him 'The Godfather' again. "It's time for lunch, James." He gets up, and does some kind of little spasm. He does that a lot. I used to think it was his hip acting up on it but his x-rays are fine. Now I figure it's psychological. The doctors try and talk to him, but most of the doctors are women, and he just mutters that it's a man's world. The nurses won't go near the guy. As we're walking down the hall, he starts doing some kind of dragging, shuffling motion with his right foot. "What's wrong, James?" I ask. Christ, I hope he's not having a stroke. "You know what foot that is, boy?" "Your right foot." "It's the good foot. It's the one." "Doesn't look that good to me, James. You seem to be having trouble with it." "Shut up, boy. You know what you do with the good foot?" "Soak it in epsom salts?" He stops completely and glares at me. He smells of cheap hair pomade, but he can look pretty menacing when he wants to. "You get on it," he says, in a low rumble. I make a note to up his mood pills. I do not want to have to roll him in carpet again like I did during the Emmy awards. "Okay, James," I say agreeably. "I'll try and remember that." I walk a little way down the hall, hoping to get him moving again; it works. "Cafeteria has pie today! Rhubarb pie. I know you like rhubarb pie." "You don't know shit," he spits. "James, there's really no cause for that kind of lang..." "How many songs you write, boy?" "What?" "How many songs?" Here we go again, with how many songs he's written. I wonder what it's gonna be this time. "I haven't written any songs, James. We've discussed this before." "I've written six thousand songs," he says. I know the next part so well, I mouth it along with him; I know he won't see me. "Come back when you've written six thousand songs." We shuffle down the hall some more. There's really no point in making conversation, but I try again; the habit is pretty ingrained. "Well, I'll write a song someday," I say. "Maybe I'll win a gold record, like you did!" Half the people in here say they've won gold records, whatever those are. I'm just trying to keep up the chatter, but whatever's coursing through his bloodstream makes him have a reaction: he pulls his little showman routine again. We're almost to the door of the cafeteria, when he pulls his ratty satin bathrobe around his shoulders and starts shaking like he's got palsy. "I...I can't go on! I can't!", he hollers, milking it to the hilt. Just then my pager goes off, and I call an orderly over. "I've got no time for your games right now, James," I say, with a little too much annoyance in my voice. It's not his fault, poor bastard; he doesn't know what he's doing. But first things first: Old Man Jagger's fallen in the bathtub again. |
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| QUOTE OF THE DAY: "One should not exaggerate the importance of trifles. Life, for instance, is much too short to be taken seriously." (Nicolas Bentley) |