The Walking Man (3 page)

Granite archways capped both ends of the Leicester County Hospital Access Road. Built into each archway were guard posts that were manned twenty-four-seven by a staff of state-paid security guards who for decades had successfully argued that their positions were vital because the hospital's quadriplegics posed a "severe flight risk."

In fairness to the guards, adjacent to Leicester County Hospital was a small minimum-security prison. Also present, was an emergency response building that housed the snowplows and the ambulance vans necessary to shuttle multiple quadriplegics to a real hospital should the need ever arise. There was also an ugly steel Quonset hut used to store sand and salt: the materials required to keep the LCH Access Road passable during the winter months. The structure was a larger version of the buildings adults buy to house an extra car, or keep the family meth lab away from their children.

Although Leicester County Correctional Facility was technically a prison, it was not exactly Alcatraz. It had a sixty-inmate capacity and it looked like a Holiday Inn. Its administrators referred to as a "detention center" for it lacked the guard towers required to store violent offenders. Subsequently, the facility primarily housed embezzlers, check-bouncers, shoplifters, drunk drivers, and guys who failed to pay child support. Punishment consisted of a television-viewing limit of six hours per day and the mandatory wearing of an orange armband so the "guards" would know when to check their wallets. Otherwise, Leicester County Correctional Facility was the perfect place for a petty criminal to spend some time before committing additional petty crimes. Sentences were always six months, or less. The food was great, and visiting hours were limited. So, there was no major incentive to escape.

The rooms in Leicester County Hospital were built to sleep six crazy people in cots. In the 1950s, when the hospital was renovated to service quadriplegics—mainly returning veterans of the Korean War—each room was retrofitted to house two deluxe hospital beds. The beds were spaced ten feet apart to provide enough room for a body hoist to help patients in and out of bed. The floors were covered with black vinyl tiles, speckled with gray chips. The walls were painted bright white with high gloss enamel. Acoustic tiles composed of cork and asbestos covered the ceiling while three equally spaced hanging fixtures blew high-intensity light upward to enable glare free examination of the room and its contents.

When I first entered Leicester County Hospital, I was surprised to find there was no lobby, or even a front desk. When Jimmy Something-or-other pushed me through the front door of my new lodgings, nobody was present to say hello or stick a needle in my foot to certify my pitiful state.

"Hey, is anybody home?" my man Jimmy yelled. "I got a dude here that can't walk!"

In addition to his mechanical inaptitude and his distinct lack of intellectual prowess, Jimmy lacked sufficient social skills to proposition a stranger, so instead of stopping a nurse to inquire about my destination, Jimmy pushed me through the hallways of Leicester County Hospital for about an hour before a tall and well-dressed woman asked, "May I help you?"

"I gotta deliver this paralyzed dude to somebutty," Jimmy informed her.

The tall woman was Juliette Dritch, the hospital's administrator. Juliette Dritch eventually became one of my heroes, but my first assessment of her was not flattering; she came across as cold and severe. And, I did not like the way she dismissed my clueless driver.

"I'll take it from here, young man," she said to poor Jimmy. "You can go now."

"Me?" Jimmy Something-or-other asked, pointing at himself to clarify any ambiguity. "Yes, you," she said sharply. "Somebutty will return the gurney to your ambulance in a few minutes." She then turned her attention to me. "The man from Apple, I presume."

"Yes," I said.

"Welcome to Leicester County Hospital. Some people say it's not the best hospital in the world. Those people are wrong," she declared without the slightest sign of a smile. "We run a tight ship, and we pursue excellence in everything we do. No task is too small not to be done perfectly. This institution will provide you with the best possible care."

"I'm happy to be here," I responded timidly, intimidated by Juliette Dritch's powerful presence. "Caring for me was driving my mom crazy."

"You're moving into room 302, third floor east," she said with a cough. "Your room gets morning sun. I think you'll like it. Your window bears an etching of a walking man from the Victorian era. We call him 'Johnny Walker.' He has a cane, but he doesn't need it. And, he definitely is not the whiskey Johnny Walker."

"The walking man," I said. "How ironic."

Juliette Dritch considered responding to my snide comment, but instead she peered at me and said, "Your roommate is a man named Arthur Slank. He's middle-aged, and from Hyannis. We're thinking you'll get along."

"I'm sure we will," I said. "I'm easy-going."

"Excellent," she said, once again without the slightest trace of a humor. "Leicester County Hospital has a strict no move policy," she said soberly. "Once you're assigned a room it is your room, period."

I grimaced. "Sounds strict."

"Not so," she quickly assured me. "If we move one person, everybody will want to move and soon we'll be playing matchmaker to two hundred fifty-two quadriplegics. It would be complete chaos."

"Chaos is bad," I snickered.

"I'm glad you understand, young man. Individuals often need to make sacrifices for the good of the group. My staff looks forward to serving you."

"Thank you," I said.

"You're most entirely welcome," Juliette Dritch assured me as she elevated my gurney to a sitting position before pushing me into my room where I was introduced to Arthur Slank, my first of seven roommates.

"Arthur, your new roommate is here."

Arthur grunted. "Cellmate more like it." "Arthur can twist his head and has partial use of his left arm," Juliette Dritch said with a noticeable level of disdain. "He can also raise his eyebrows."

"Ain't I the lucky one?" Arthur said.

Arthur Slank looked exactly like Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, but his hair was longer and whiter. My guess was he was fifty, thirty years my senior. His fingernails were yellow. Years of smoking, I figured.

Arthur tilted his head slightly, showing off, no doubt.

"Do you like
Tom and Jerry
?" he asked me.

"The cartoon?" I responded.

"Of course, the cartoon," Arthur said. "What the fuck do you think I was talking about? You know another Tom and Jerry?"

"No, I guess not."

Juliette Dritch patted my arm. "Don't mind Arthur. He's quite a joker. I have to go now. Nurse Judy will be by shortly to show you around our wonderful hospital."

Less than ten seconds after Juliette Dritch departed Arthur launched his first attack.

"I swear to God, kid, if you fuck with me, I will kill you," he hissed.

"Really," I said with a wry smile.

"Don't mouth off to me, you fucking punk—as of this minute you are my slave. And I'm your master. Say it!"

"Say what?"

"Master," he said. "Call me your master!"

"You have to be kidding me," I calmly said.

"You think I'm kidding, bitch? Check this out."

Using his one good arm, Arthur extracted a disposable lighter from a mattress crease and sparked a flame to life.

"So you have a lighter," I said.

"Yes, a lighter," he declared, before laughing evil genius-style. "I have the power of fire."

I was beginning to understand.

"Fuck with me and I'll toss a lit napkin onto your bed and fry your pathetic ass. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," I responded.

"Then say it," Arthur shouted.

Slightly freaked out, I recited, "You are my master."

"That's better," Arthur Slank said as Nurse Judy entered the room.

"Hello there, sweetie!" Nurse Judy exclaimed.

"You talking to me?" Arthur asked.

"What do you think, Arthur?" She said while shaking her head. "Jesus."

Nurse Judy was a chunk of woman. She was feminine, but built like a tank. She had red-brown curly hair, rosy red cheeks, and an ass bigger than a wheelbarrow. Like all Leicester County Hospital employees, Nurse Judy always provided her patients with top-notch care, but if she liked you, she treated you like a king.

"My boy from Apple. I'm going to take good care of you," Nurse Judy said as she grabbed me under my armpits, pulled me out of my bed, and tossed me over her shoulder. "It's bath time, kiddo."

Before I could even say hello, while still on her shoulder, Nurse Judy stripped off my pants then plopped me onto a net that was resting on my bed. The net, a weave of polyester rope, was then attached to a moveable hoist by three chains. Next, via a hand crank, Nurse Judy lifted me into the air until I was suspended two feet above my bed.

"Well hello, Nurse Judy," I said.

"Welcome to Leicester County Hospital," she responded.

"I feel like the catch of the day."

"You are." Nurse Judy laughed.

"What is this thing?"

"They call it a Hoyer Lift. It's the best device in the world for giving a motionless person a bath," Nurse Judy said.

After covering the Hoyer Lift with a "privacy cloak," so nobody could leer at my regularly exposed and ultra pathetic private parts, Nurse Judy pushed me down the hallway to the tub room.

Since a daily bath was a residency requirement of Leicester County Hospital, every patient floor had a tub room outfitted to clean its indigenous population. White tiles and perfectly white grout covered the walls, floor, and ceiling of each tub room. At the center of the room was a large stainless steel tub whose accessories included a variety of spray nozzles plus a contraption that looked like an outboard motor, which was capable of producing heated swirls of aerated water.

"I can't feel the bubbles, but they're great," I said.

"I know," Nurse Judy said. "They call it a whirlpool bath. There's something special about bubbles. Now close your eyes and shut your mouth. We're going to do a dunk."

The dunk was even better than the bubbles; it was the first activity since my limbs went dead that made me feel physically alive.

"Like that?" Nurse Judy asked.

"Yes," I said. "Do it again."

After five dunks, Nurse Judy said my time was up and then drained the tub. Next, she shampooed my hair, shaved my beard, and powdered my entire body.

"We call this the rock star treatment," Nurse Judy said as she dressed me in a white sports shirt and a pair of charcoal gray dress pants. "No Johnnies on my shift. You're not sick. You're just a man who can't move," Nurse Judy reasoned.

After I was all prettied up, Nurse Judy lowered me into a wheelchair using a device called a patient sling. She then announced we were going to make "the rounds," starting in the kitchen.

Considering the Leicester County Hospital's kitchen was required to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two hundred fifty-two people, I was expecting a stainless steel cavern with huge mixing bowls, shelves that contained five gallon cans of creamed corn, sinks big enough to wash a German Shepherd, and a room full of drones wearing paper chef hats and taking orders from a foul-mouthed ex-McDonald's "manager." Instead, I was amazed to find a kitchen facility comprising ten small kitchens that shared two centralized ovens, a separate dish washing facility and, believe it or not, a wine cellar.

The mini kitchens were separated by half walls and operated by individual chefs who were responsible for the feeding of twenty-five residents a day. Each kitchen featured unique décor. Some had a rustic look; others were ultra modern. Nurse Judy told me most of the hospital's chefs were once homeless people who were trained by head Chef Royalston to value life by seeking excellence in the preparation and serving of food.

"Like the rest of the hospital, Chef Royalston's team is dedicated to the pursuit of perfection," Nurse Judy said. "He calls the hospital's patients his diners."

"Unbelievable," I said.

"It is," Nurse Judy said. "To aid Chef Royalston in his quest, each patient is required to rate each meal one to five stars. The chefs compete for the highest rating. At the end of the year, the chef with the highest score wins a trip to Disneyland."

"That's a prize?" I said.

"Don't go tellin' me you got sumthang against da mouse." Nurse Judy laughed.

After we watched one of the chefs make a chopped spinach salad with walnuts, red onions, and raisins, a man walked backwards into Nurse Judy.

"Chef Royalston, I'd like you to meet our newest patient," Nurse Judy said.

"Hello," Chef Royalston said, the back of his head still facing Nurse Judy and me. "What can I get you?"

"Go ahead, tell him what you want for dinner," Nurse Judy prompted.

"I don't know. What do you have?" I asked.

"Everything," the backward chef said.

"How about a steak with a baked potato, green beans, and a large Ginger Ale."

"Done," Chef Royalston said. "Room number?"

"302."

"Very well," Chef Royalston said, without ever casting an eye in my direction.

After Chef Royalston backed away, I asked Nurse Judy if he was crazy.

"Crazy, is a difficult thing," Nurse Judy said. "By definition, you can't be exceptional without being different. So, who's to say who's crazy?"

"Do we always get to order what we want?"

"Yes, it's encouraged. Everyday at noon, we collect your food orders for the next day. There's a suggested menu, but you can ask for anything. Breakfast is juice, cereal, and muffins, that sort of thing. Lunch and dinner are wide open. Plus, dinner is a full course meal."

"Wow."

After the kitchen, Nurse Judy rolled me into the patient elevator, so we could go up one floor to the Hospital's Administrative offices where I was introduced to Dr. Horatio Bonjour, the hospital's only doctor—a psychiatrist. Dr. Bonjour looked more like a janitor than a doctor. He wore a blue denim shirt and matching pants. He didn't talk much, but when he did, he spoke in riddles. He had a peace symbol button pinned to his front pocket, and wore granny glasses like John Lennon. He was bald and his nose was a beak. I instantly took a dislike to him.