September something or other, the year of our lord 2019
I am getting tired of the calendar, so look at the post date to find out when I wrote this.
The Indian lady who claims not to be Indian with the hight cheery voice is the blue shirt for the day. That’s good and bad. The good, she’s well intentioned and doesn’t make the bed so that the comforter is squeezed so tight that it takes all my strength which isn’t much to pull it out from the guard rail and the mattress, and sometimes she is so cheerful that it gets on my nerves.
For example she walks in this morning while I’m in my underwear with electric pads attached to various muscles on my left leg (the weak one) and essentially sitting there twitching as the program shocks the muscles.
She says, oh I saw that in the nursing home. I guess everyone has some burden they must carry. Or something to that effect.
Then she cheerfully looks through the two garbage pails, and says: you never have any garbage; oh (eureka) here’s some. Meanwhile I’m twitching and trying to type at the same time.
And she leaves to go to the next apartment.
That’s the background. The electric stimulator is still going so excuse any typos or insane ideas.
But I have been thinking about the elevators from the previous post (I think) and I asked one of the blue coats what was up with these women who it seemed to me rode the elevators all day?
Oh, she said. I know that Fran was evicted from her apartment building for riding the elevator all day.
Fran: (description) About 70, short cropped hair, a puzzled expression at all times, and the sort of glasses that make your eyes appear small. I would have to compare her to a small Sphinx with glasses. She usually wears a baseball cap (don’t ask what team it’s for) and pink pajama bottoms.
I didn’t do her justice because this is a case where a few pictures would do it, but let her go.
I get into the elevator a few days ago, and ask her what floor she’s going to. She looks at the numbers on the panel and says seven.
I’m on my way to visit someone on twelve.
We’re going up.
So at seven, the elevator opens and she just stares into the hallway. I ask her if she wants to get out here, but she just gives a blank stare. So for fun, I decide to forget about my own thing on twelve and stay in the elevator with her.
When the door opens on 12, I don’t get out.
Now all the lights on the panel are out, and she pushes her rollater towards the blank panel. The elevator isn’t moving, and she stares at the blank numbers the way I used to stare at roulette numbers.
Finally she turns to me and says, I think 14 is a good one.
I say, that’s the dining room, but it’s too early for lunch.
She presses 14 anyway.
When we get to 14, the door opens, and she goes towards the door as if she’s going to get out, and she stands in the elevator doorway until the warning buzzer starts, then she steps back in.
Don’t expect an explanation. I don’t have one. It’s only women who do this, and I suspect it is related to shopping in a large department store.
The old men can’t get out of the elevator fast enough.
It did get me thinking about all these space elevators they’re planning to build. You know, instead of firing rockets, you just build a very very tall elevator, with a platform at the top, and you can do easy launches from there.
I have a few candidates for the first space elevator riders.