This is getting old quick. For Steve, I'm sure it got old about a week ago. Much will be improved when that son of a bitch motherfucker Ed gets discharged.
I thought, early on, that I saw some compassion behind his eyes, belying the gruff, crusty exterior. But the more I encounter him, the more I realize what a son of a bitch motherfucker he is.
Not a kind word for anyone. Not a decent thing to say about any part of or item in the Universe. I always make a point of greeting him when I visit Steve. I always bid him farewell when I leave. Except for the one "Fuck off, Ed" that I intoned when Steve turned on the TV the other day, all has been civil.
On Saturday my friend Jessie came over to visit Steve. She lives over a Basque bakery in L.A. and was going to bring pastries over for a Saturday brunch. I made a point of asking her to bring a couple extra with her; one for Ed and one for his wife, Kit, in case she was visiting.
When we arrived, our friend Steve McCuen was visiting with Steve. Jessie and I started unpacking our bags, listing off the contents: four different types of muffins, three raspberry cheese danish, three apple turnovers, a piece of apple pie, a croissant and fresh coffee with cream and sugar. I asked Ed if he wanted something; he looked at me with surprise. "It would be rude not to bring enough for everyone," I said. He passed on the coffee but did take an apple turnover. "I'll save it for dessert after lunch," he muttered and put his nose back into his book. He's always reading a book; that's how he escapes the boredom of the nursing home.
We had a good visit, everyone had a little something, and as we packed up to leave, I noticed that Ed had finished off the turnover without a word.
It was really good to have Jessie over. She's had her share of sickness and dying in her family over the last few years, so I feel like I'm talking to a kindred spirit when she's here. She had things to do, so she left for home and I got to work on some web stuff I'd been wanting to check on.
One thing that bothers me is Steve seems to be getting disoriented, which is understandable, since he cannot move more than his right hand and foot without assistance. He lays in bed all day staring at the walls, save for meals and a daily session of physical therapy in the bed. The highlight of his day is getting transferred to the wheelchair to go to the john. I try to spend a couple hours a day there, but there's nothing new to talk about, nothing to report when you go in the morning and then return in the evening again.
It's been 10 days that he's been in convalescent care, and I've been wracking my brain trying to come up with something—anything—that would be a distraction or entertainment for him. The problem is, all the possibilities I've come up with (DVD player, Kindle, jigsaw puzzle) require two hands.
Then it hit me: the solution is sitting in his room, up on the wall: TV. A remote control can be operated with one hand, but Steve's kept the TV off because Ed objects to profusely when he turns it on.
What a son of a bitch motherfucker asshole. In a few days, he's going to leave and go back home to the people who love him (or at least say they do), and Steve's stuck with at least another month of recovery. What kind of self-involved, bitter, nasty, vile person would try to deny a full-on cripple the one diversion he has available to him? Answer: Son of a bitch motherfucker asshole Ed.
And then I got angry: What kind of God takes a sweet, loving, gentle, compassionate soul like Steve when there are so many SOABMAs like Ed that the world can do well without. After pondering it for a while, I figured it must be because there's room in heaven but hell has a waiting list of these bastards and can't take them quickly enough.
I started imaging scenarios of revenge: Bringing in three or four outrageously dressed drag queens every hour of so for the entire day, every day, and let them fawn over Ed. I could do it with just a couple of phone calls. Drag queens have the biggest hearts on the planet.
Then I thought about how Ed would go home and, standing at the top of the stairs, push Kit away ("I don't need your help!") when she attempted to assist him. His legs buckle. He tumbles, twists and turns and ends up at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck, paralyzed from the neck down (hold a book now, motherfucker!) or, better yet, end up a vegetable. Killing him off right away would be too merciful.
I took a mental step back and realized that I had been infected; I was thinking like a SOABMA. I've gotten too wrapped up in feeling protective of Steve, too wrapped up in trying to be the chipper, positive, supportive husband, taking over all the chores and duties of the household, taking time out to go and visit Steve, still working on my clients' projects and smiling through it all. That's tough to keep up for any period of time without another day of breakdown.
Usually in my life when I meet a person like Ed, I take a step back and say, with relief, "Thank God I'm not the one stuck inside that skull, driven to be that foul and detestable by nature." It makes me appreciate the insight that God and the Universe have taught me, and makes me pity that growling, nasty, angry person. One thing I know is that you have to accept people just as they are. If you can understand them, so much the better, because everyone has a lesson to teach.
Now, before all this mental activity, I had gone to visit Steve around noon today. I was still in the find-something-for-him mode, and asked if he would use a Kindle. He looked at me kind of sheepishly and shook his head. While I was there, Kit came in (obviously coming from church) with two women in tow. The ladies chattered and Ed was morose and mute, speaking only to correct them on the name of a novelist he read. All three were out of there in under five minutes flat: They were visiting to make Kit and Jesus happy, not to spend time with someone they liked.
I came home and started the laundry, since I was on my last pair of reserve underwear. (Women may not know this, but men keep underwear forever: When the elastic separates altogether is usually when they get chucked. The philosophy behind this is "I might run out of clean underwear, and then I will have backups just in case." I have seven pair of backups, and all but one was in the clothes hamper, the last pair being on my body). With Steve being gone, the hamper just never filled up.
I forgot to set my timer for the washing machine, and so forgot about it until I went down to clean the cat box (which is outside the door to the garage). In any case, I realized I would be washing well into the evening if I wanted to get everything done (towels, sheets, etc.), so I called up Steve and asked him if he didn't mind me skipping an evening visit. He was OK with that. And then the subject of SOABMAEd came gushing out of me.
I told Steve that it was bullshit that Ed should lord it over the room. "You have every right to have that TV on all day, if you want," I told him. "And if you don't want to tell him that, I'm more than willing to read him the riot act."
Steve said I should calm down, and that he would take care of it. I then mentioned he might check and see if the hospital had remote earphones so he could watch with the sound off in the room. He said he would check. See? Even when I'm trying to be a SOABMA, I still end up looking for compromises that will keep everyone happy, no matter how vile and undeserving of happiness they are.
As with every other SOABMA I've met, I'll be more than happy when the bastard is out of our lives forever. Now I have a name to check for in the obituaries. I only hope that Steve's next roommate likes television, or at least can tolerate it being on.
As for me, the last load of laundry is going into the washer, and I have clothes to fold.
Bastard.
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