He was slim in build, and even as he sat in his wheelchair, you could
see that he was tall. Infected, he claimed, by a serious bout of sexual
promiscuity with women and too much alcohol. He gave me an
overenthusiastic grin, trying just a bit too hard to be nonchalant, and
said “Hey good-looking, coming to see me next?” I nodded
absent-mindedly, trying to get through the note I was writing and
simultaneously fending off the 20-odd patients clamoring the halls, all
keen to get a word in with the doctor before their chance at an
intervention disappeared for another week. Even though we frequented the
nursing home far more often than mandated by state regulations, there
still seemed to be so much to do and such little time to do it in. I told
Mr. J I'd be with him in a minute, and he smiled affably.
“I'll be waiting in my room,” he said pointedly, knowing
full well it would take me too long to get to him.