Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Visit
As he tried to enter the building, wheelchairs hemmed him round, the women having swung them into his legs with unbelievable force.
"I'm Claude Harrelson," he laughed while trying to extract.
"My mother is Mrs Harrelson. On the seventh floor!"
"Don't you try to fool me, Richard!" screamed one whose neck was horribly bent, the words bouncing from the pavement to meet ticking noises coming off her wheelchair’s underseat battery.
"His own mother!" scorned a fat woman plopped in a handlebar number, her skewed wig of a red not seen in nature. Others echoed her, popping up in their aluminum, mostly manual, chairs. Claude nearly broke free, the rows of letter boxes and the security TVs of the lobby beckoning.
"He was never funny until he married that bitch," sneered Crooked Neck, who had maneuvered behind him and now buckled his knees with a motorized thrust.
"Excuse me ma’am. You don’t know who I married, if anyone."
She had pinned his foot, and, as he ripped clear, the vehicle rolled slowly downhill, sparks and smoke flying from its hulking battery. The woman, able only to mutter as to his ungratefulness, couldn't stop the chair, tilting now towards the chrysanthemum bed and threatening to deposit her on the sidewalk. Claude felt obliged to give chase down the insanely gradual pitch, past a blue mailbox and a harpy waving a letter who shrilled, "Millard! Look what I was doing!
You can stop me now if you got the guts!"
He got to the chair just as it snapped into some briars.
It proved heavy to pull out and heavier to push back up the incline. Panting, Claude had leisure to discover that the woman at the mailbox had sunk to her knees and was wearing a floor length nightgown covered with rosettes. "It's too late now,” she sobbed. "Everything is."
Just as he is wedging Crooked Neck between two other wheelchairs, ("You ruined my chair, Bright Ass! How can I get to Rec for Bingo now?") he is also chastised by a white-jacketed doctor in a pencil mustache. Doors are open on his BMW coupe from which Mozart slides across the buttery front seat.
While counting out pills on the roof: "Life isn't the Keystone Kops my good young man. You have to be more careful."
Shortly, the physician dispenses ribboned prescriptions from a basket--to hands greedy and blue waving above the wheelchairs. "Now now! Enough for everyone, My Darlings!"
A black ambulance driver shaking a paper confronts Claude, requesting a clarification. "Fuckin Mrs Honderlee or some such? Look! Look!"
"I’m just here to see my mother when I got trapped into this wacky mess," Claude still pants. "Give me a break!"
The women, more emboldened by medication, shove him into the driver who roars at Claude "Don't you fuckin push me!" Claude finds himself careening into the doctor, now back
at his car.
In truth, could’ve stopped.
The surprised physician cuts his lip on the open door of the BMW, glasses clattering over the roof, counterpointing Mozart.
The women shriek the louder, a corkscrew humpback declaring "He's no son of ours!"
"You are insane as well as irresponsible!" the doctor hisses at the suddenly lunatic-grinning Claude, before fetching his glasses and wiping them methodically with a tissue. "And now will I hasten to cell-phone the police."
"Why not the National Guard? You can probably hasten them just as well!" Claude squeals.
The black driver shakes his head. "Out of control, everything, and the young dude, he’s completely lost it. Oh yeah!"
The woman from the mailbox has been crawling towards them on her knees, her nightgown pulling off her mottled shoulders. "It's still too late. It's all too late now!" she wrenches.
As he tried to enter the building, wheelchairs hemmed him round, the women having swung them into his legs with unbelievable force.
"I'm Claude Harrelson," he laughed while trying to extract.
"My mother is Mrs Harrelson. On the seventh floor!"
"Don't you try to fool me, Richard!" screamed one whose neck was horribly bent, the words bouncing from the pavement to meet ticking noises coming off her wheelchair’s underseat battery.
"His own mother!" scorned a fat woman plopped in a handlebar number, her skewed wig of a red not seen in nature. Others echoed her, popping up in their aluminum, mostly manual, chairs. Claude nearly broke free, the rows of letter boxes and the security TVs of the lobby beckoning.
"He was never funny until he married that bitch," sneered Crooked Neck, who had maneuvered behind him and now buckled his knees with a motorized thrust.
"Excuse me ma’am. You don’t know who I married, if anyone."
She had pinned his foot, and, as he ripped clear, the vehicle rolled slowly downhill, sparks and smoke flying from its hulking battery. The woman, able only to mutter as to his ungratefulness, couldn't stop the chair, tilting now towards the chrysanthemum bed and threatening to deposit her on the sidewalk. Claude felt obliged to give chase down the insanely gradual pitch, past a blue mailbox and a harpy waving a letter who shrilled, "Millard! Look what I was doing!
You can stop me now if you got the guts!"
He got to the chair just as it snapped into some briars.
It proved heavy to pull out and heavier to push back up the incline. Panting, Claude had leisure to discover that the woman at the mailbox had sunk to her knees and was wearing a floor length nightgown covered with rosettes. "It's too late now,” she sobbed. "Everything is."
Just as he is wedging Crooked Neck between two other wheelchairs, ("You ruined my chair, Bright Ass! How can I get to Rec for Bingo now?") he is also chastised by a white-jacketed doctor in a pencil mustache. Doors are open on his BMW coupe from which Mozart slides across the buttery front seat.
While counting out pills on the roof: "Life isn't the Keystone Kops my good young man. You have to be more careful."
Shortly, the physician dispenses ribboned prescriptions from a basket--to hands greedy and blue waving above the wheelchairs. "Now now! Enough for everyone, My Darlings!"
A black ambulance driver shaking a paper confronts Claude, requesting a clarification. "Fuckin Mrs Honderlee or some such? Look! Look!"
"I’m just here to see my mother when I got trapped into this wacky mess," Claude still pants. "Give me a break!"
The women, more emboldened by medication, shove him into the driver who roars at Claude "Don't you fuckin push me!" Claude finds himself careening into the doctor, now back
at his car.
In truth, could’ve stopped.
The surprised physician cuts his lip on the open door of the BMW, glasses clattering over the roof, counterpointing Mozart.
The women shriek the louder, a corkscrew humpback declaring "He's no son of ours!"
"You are insane as well as irresponsible!" the doctor hisses at the suddenly lunatic-grinning Claude, before fetching his glasses and wiping them methodically with a tissue. "And now will I hasten to cell-phone the police."
"Why not the National Guard? You can probably hasten them just as well!" Claude squeals.
The black driver shakes his head. "Out of control, everything, and the young dude, he’s completely lost it. Oh yeah!"
The woman from the mailbox has been crawling towards them on her knees, her nightgown pulling off her mottled shoulders. "It's still too late. It's all too late now!" she wrenches.
Labels: elderly
