I was about to enter the front door to the Morning Glory nursing facility when I saw Mrs. Culpepper sitting on the bench in the foyer with her Depends around her ankles. Thank God she had on her nightgown and was covered from her shoulders to the top of her knees. I couldn't see if the floor underneath her was wet, or worse, but I was hoping she hadn't relieved herself yet or I'd be dealing with the mess once I got inside.
I tried the front door, but it wouldn't budge. I could see the red lights on a panel on the wall of the foyer, indicating the door was locked, but I didn't see any nurse or assistant around to unlock it. That was odd. This was a 24 hour facility with safeguards to keep the elderly and demented patients from stepping out into the dangerous world the rest of us occupied.
I went around to the back door and faced the same situation as I had at the front. Though I had a key for both doors in my capacity as a janitor, when the red lights were on, it took a supervisor to enable the doors to open. Fortunately there was a side entrance in the basement that didn't have the same safeguard, as it was almost impossible for any of the patients to access from the inside. I entered and walked up the stairs to the first floor and was greeted by Wallace, a Korean War veteran who had no family and spent his days watching TV in the lounge area. I was surprised to see him in the main entrance area and asked where everyone was. He mumbled something about Agnes having the sandwhich he'd made for himself and proceeded to walk haltingly down the hallway towards his room.
Oh no, I didn't want to deal with Agnes. Agnes Wilshire was one of the more unpleasant patients at Morning Glory. Tipping the scales at some four hundred plus pounds, she was usually bedridden, except on those rare occasions when she managed to pull her bulk out of bed and make a raid on the snack bar in the kitchen area. For reasons unknown, she seldom stayed dressed, preferring to cover her bulging girth with a thin cotton sheet. She had a habit of complaining incessantly to the nurses or aides whenever they came into her room. On more than one occasion she hid food under her massive breasts, apparently intending to have a snack after the kitchen was closed. Obviously she suffered with some form of mental illness. I hated going in to her room to clean. Her constant eating left crumbs and wrappers on the floor, and she was always dropping used tissues just short of the wastebasket. Even with gloves on, I used a long handled grabber to pick them up and dispose of them. Because of her size, she sometimes stank, even after the aides had given her a sponge bath. She was lonely, in part because she treated people so poorly, but for some reason when I came in to clean she wanted to talk. Go figure. Sometimes she'd let her sheet slide down, perhaps thinking I would like a peek, but I strived not to look, knowing the vision would stay with me for hours and perhaps long into the night, leaving me with nightmares that couldn't be forgotten. One thing I knew for sure, I wasn't about to play hide and seek in a search for Wallace's sandwich. If she'd hid it under those jugs, that's where it would stay.
I worked my way out to the main room where there was an impressive arrangement of charts, and a wall full of lighted displays, all glowing red, something I'd never seen before. There wasn't a staff member to be seen anywhere, and I noticed Al Johnson sitting at the front desk talking to someone. Actually, talking isn't exactly the right word. Yelling might be more appropriate. He was somewhat deaf and if he wasn't wearing his hearing aids, had a tendency to talk loud. I didn't realize he knew how to use that particular telephone system. Who knows, maybe he didn't and was just going through the motions. It wasn't my job to keep the patients safe or correct their behavior. I knew none of the patients were supposed to be using the phones but I wasn't high enough up the pay scale to worry about it. Besides, I got distracted when two male patients whom I didn't know, both came rolling up the hallway in their electric wheelchairs, each wielding a crutch in their hands, swinging them like hockey sticks, trying to hit a vase on the floor. The contents of the vase were scattered behind them in an array of fall colors, and I could easily make out several mums and marigolds, along with a long wet streak on the hall carpet. I was sure hoping that was water from the flowers.
I turned to the left and walked a few steps to the elevator that went to the second floor. Looney Lucas was grasping his walker with one hand and pushing the elevator button with the other. He noticed me unfortunately, and started speaking in a British accent, though he was as American as mom's apple pie. Depending on the day, he was either MI 6 or a member of the CIA. He could disable me with one blow from his steel-like fist, but wouldn't because he liked me. He claimed to have been in on the raid of Osama Bin Laden's compound and while he didn't fire the fatal shot, he was about to. I decided that I didn't really need to go upstairs and left him to his fantasies.
I'd seen enough. I don't know what happened to the staff who was supposed to be monitoring the madhouse, but I wasn't going to stick around. Full moons were always a bad time to be here, and tonight was a doozy for sure.
