The weather is, and is not. The walls, roof and floor furnishings are more than enough for the quiet man at the moment. His accommodations are more than comfortable. The weather does it’s thing outside. A lot of times, the man scarcely notices. He doesn’t have to concern himself with the weather at this point in his life. Assisted living is self-contained. He can choose to go out or stay in. It’s always up to him. It’s great to have an air-conditioner/heater, not to mention the money to pay for it. Speaking of money, the man wonders how long he’ll be able to afford living in a place like this, the way the money’s going and going?
But he’s not supposed to worry about it.
The man sits alone with his laptop, escaping into his own mind-altering world, one keystroke at a time. People were talking outside his room. They’re not talking about him, though. He’s not that important, for the staff of a place like assisted living to be talking about a guy like him, minding his own business, sitting alone in his suite writing. Be serious. His phone is not likely to ring. There’s no knock expected at his door, either. The man’s got perfect privacy to do his work.
The whole scene is vapid, vacuous, like it was when he was in the state hospital up home, except now there are no people in the room with him. He’s free to sit in silence, instead of being required to sit and listen to TV and radio all the time. He’s at least afforded a measure of privacy in his quiet, new world, where he’s been staying for a little better than a year now. He’s been put in a home, but the place is comfortable enough for the man to call it home. He knows the difference between a home and an institution. There’s been a difference all along.
The man is hoping to go to Heaven when he dies. His death is not likely to be looking over his shoulder at the moment. Or… What? Who knows? Maybe he is? The man has this concept of Heaven being this wonderful place where dead people stay, in a completely animated form, forever, unless God destroys them before they get there in the first place. One can talk to God there, and talk to all his own dead relatives all he wants, after he’s died and gone to Heaven. But he’s not dead now. Now, he’s alive – and alone. What sort of vanity makes him think anyone will want to keep his company in Heaven? No one wants to now.
The one reason he avoids drinking alcohol is so that he can have company when he’s dead. Seems like the guy is a dyed in the wool loner already. Why would he want anyone to be there for him when he’s dead? There’s no one here now. Or are they? It sounds like he’s talking himself into taking a drink of alcohol, but that’s not where he’s going with this. His perpetual thirst has been thoroughly quenched on the spiritual plane in that regard.
The idea is that he has his work to do now, in this time of his life. That’s the reason he’s been permitted to survive all his drinking and smoking. Life is sweet, and it’s made for getting things done. He’s been led to become a writer, in earnest. The man has something to say. Sometimes it seems he’s playing a game, but it’s not really a game to him anymore, since he had that epiphany back in ’83. Then there were other things that happened to him, to make it clear to him that he’s fortunate to be alive in this day and time. The man is just as fortunate to be alive as anyone on this earth ever was. Who knows? Maybe his writing will become important to somebody some day?
There are plenty of reasons for the man to avoid drinking alcohol, and just as many for him to avoid smoking cigarettes. His health is not all that great, and he feels like he’s bursting out of his clothing already. He’s been told about his expanding obesity and his heart. Oh yes, he knows that putting on too many pounds is not good for his osteoarthritis as well. He might suffer another broken hip, or his weight could have bad effects on some of his malfunctioning organs. He has no clue when his time is up, just like nobody else does.
Oh, you want a name for this man? So does he, but if he had one, he’d have to teach it to somebody. The document is already signed. Let that be enough. Now, there’s no one out in the hallway, except for the one med tech, doing his job at his desk. The med tech already knows the man’s name. There are no glamor girls to flirt with where this guy is. No misunderstandings to clear up. No haunting troubles hunting him down anymore.
The last of the professional females, who held him responsible for the fact that he’s masculine, were in their 80’s, living here in assisted living. They’re all decrepit in some way or other. The whole idea that a woman is a professional at being female is a disgustingly literal expression here. There are some women, who are only female bodies, taking up space in this world. Their entire comprehension of their position in life is that they are female, in a male world. Whatever men there are in this world, there are some women who are always in the business of ingratiating themselves to them, by hook or crook, as an occupation they’ve been practicing all their lives.
What they’re looking for is a decent living for themselves, through suspending the concept of the unspoken promise of sexual favors, as if all men can ever want is sex. Man, when the women are 80 years old, who wants them for sex? But sex is not their game. The game of the octogenarian woman is m-o-n-e-y, and that’s all there is to it. If she’s trying to hit on some man, who is obviously doing well for himself, the idea is that she’s trying to marry well another time. There’s nothing so disgusting, in my book. I got my heart broken a long time ago, and I’m not interested in having it happen to me again.
There are questionable, independent means for a dumb blonde, or a professional redhead, who chase after men as if their only successful future relies on catching a well situated man. It’s a game which some women have been playing ever since they first learned what sex is in the first place, way back when they were children. Some women are just into the touchy feely world of human sexuality, as their stop gap plan to survive in this world. A man with resources is an attractive man to a broke female. Catching a man with resources is some women’s occupation, always has been.
There was a woman who lived across the hall from the man, whom everyone called the Queen around this place. She was a Queen alright. She reigned here at assisted living until she ran out of money, and then tried to continue to rule the roost, in spite of her poverty. They put her out, by order of the court. She refused to go, so they took and forced her to go legally.
There were a couple of the older, more mature men whom she was after, shamelessly, around here, trying her age old remedy for having run out of money right up until the day she had to be out, by order of the court. That woman has no future, and her youthful attractions are gone, long since.
Go catch a well to do man. He will solve all your problems. Well, it didn’t work, and the woman is out on her disabled tush. She is utterly incapable of living independently. But assisted living doesn’t care. She doesn’t have the money to pay them. Assisted living is a business. There’s no free lunch in this place.
Al went to the hospital before she could schmooze a marriage contract over on him, and Bob seems to have all the cool in the world, to associate with people like her, without getting overly involved, where his obligations are concerned. The Queens and Barbie dolls just don’t seem to get the idea, that he is an untouchable. He just enjoys playing the field, but they’re not catching on to the idea, and the man across the hall won’t sit with him in the dining room anymore, while all the mercenaries come to his table, day after day, meal after meal.
At least the Queen has a daughter and a granddaughter to fall back on. I wonder how long she’ll get along with them? She’d been royalty around here because she’s been here for such a long time. She learned all the ropes of our assisted living home, such that she thought she was untouchable. No doubt she’s taught the same attitudes to her offspring that she’s been practicing herself, for a lifetime. I imagine she’s going to outlive her state of royalty at her daughter’s house before she realizes what she’s done to her. But if her daughter is halfway intelligent, she already knows that good ole mom has spent her entire inheritance, and has not succeeded in securing a man of means in the senior living community. The Queen has been removed from the old man market.
The man from across the hall from the Queen’s erstwhile room wonders what he’d do, if he ever ran out of money to pay for this assisted living place when he’s gotten older and might run out of money? He’s a relatively young man, for a senior citizen. Oh well, there’s always the internet, for a search engine to use to find everything under the sun. There may or may not be enough money to see the man thru, but there is always Google to look under, for alternatives, if push comes to shove.
There’s always public assistance to fall back on, but how does a man go about getting public assistance in a strange city and a strange state? He has no social worker. He has no specialist, who would take care of his circumstances other than the staff here at assisted living, his family, and his trustee. Well, why worry about it? He’s not in very good shape, and he’s putting on weight on a regular basis. He’s getting fat, obese. What a horrible reality obesity is becoming to the old man. He’s gaining weight daily, in his sedative lifestyle of doing his writing and his three squares per day.
He’ll have to lay off the ice cream, that’s for certain.
The one thing the man does have, besides a realtor in the family, is his own internet connection. If push comes to shove, the man across the hall from the dethroned Queen will just have to start searching for more modest accommodations elsewhere, on the web. He has a reliable trustee, and is certain his trustee would say something, in the event of too few funds to continue his present lifestyle was to develop in his life. He’s not to worried about not having enough money. He’s already been there, done that. If he has to go back to that lifestyle, then he will, it’s as simple as that.
One might plan to go somewhere else to ease up on their finances, if one would suspect the funds might be getting a little too low too quickly. The powers that be have told him to quit worrying about it. So, the writer writes, with his big belly hanging out over his keyboard. He knows he has cirrhosis of the liver, and COPD. He’s got at least those two things to consider, in regards to how long he’s going to last in this world. Besides, he has a faith to fall back on, all things considered.