New iMac

After my last MacPro broke down, my neighbor at the old place gave me his ancient iMac to tie me over so I’d have something to at least write my blog on and stay in touch with you.

A customer on the west coast just sent me a much more recent iMac, maybe five years old because he bought a new one. I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to use his name, but that is a heck of a gift.

It has been sitting down in the lobby since yesterday. Nobody told me. Okay. They don’t tell you everything. In fact, the entire place is filled with secrets. I would call it House of Secrets for now.

For example, when someone falls, or gets sick, or disappears for some reason, unless you have their cell phone number, nobody on staff says much. It’s like one day they were there at your table and the next day they’re gone. Zapped.

That’s how it went with Nan. I asked several staff members if they knew her hospital number, or which hospital she was in, but was told because of HIPPA rules they weren’t allowed t0 tell you.

[ed. I don’t know if it’s HIPPA or HIPA, and I don’t know if that is even true]

I should do something about the titles of these pieces because this one has very little to do with the new iMac. It was just how my day began. Secrets.

So I had moved into her spot at the dining table because a) knowing she had broke her hip I figured she might never be back; and b) I have friends at her table. People who can tell you stories.

I had been sitting next to a retired boxer / musician who had been friends with Nan. But you couldn’t get him to string more than a few words together at a time. He doesn’t see that well, but is the definition of the gentle giant. Heart of an angel.

Each day, he looks over at the table where Nan used to sit, and asks me if Nan is there. I tell him no. Not to expect her back for a while. She broke her hip.

He rests his tired head on his open hand and closes his eyes. Once I asked him if he had tried to call Nan, and he said no. I said, you must have her cell. Why don’t you call her? She’d love to hear from you.

So he slowly reached into his sweat pants, and took out a flip phone that looked like a Star Trek device, and called. He told me it didn’t even ring. Most probably he dialed something wrong, but I had interfered enough and he returned to his table and put his head back on his open left hand.

It was a perfect fit.

And then, somebody in the kitchen complained about me sitting at Nan’s spot and I was given the bum’s rush and moved back to the Gentle Giant’s table. That brightened him up a bit.

Is Nan coming back, he asked with the slightest glint of hope in his watery eyes.

No, I said. They don’t want me to sit there for some reason.


And so we went back to a gentle wave he’d give me to show I was recognized, and then he lumbered out.

I was told that a woman wearing red in the kitchen had complained about my moving to Nan’s spot. I don’t know who the woman in red is, but I plan to look for her at lunch.

It’s also possible that an old woman at the loquacious table blackballed me for trying to explain that she had Croque Monsieur on her plate, and that it wasn’t grilled cheese.

The wait staff had never heard of Croque Monsieur so they were telling everyone it was grilled cheese. The olde lady kept complaining that she couldn’t pick up the sandwich and that it wasn’t grilled cheese.

I tried to explain that there was ham in it, and that the bread was sort of like French Toast.

I can’t blame her. She mostly blind and mostly deaf, and her hands have a severe tremble. So I offered to cut the offending sandwich into smaller pieces. And she grabbed the knife from me and yelled she could do it herself.

And somehow my good intentions irritated her. And she mashed up the Croque Monsieur until it resembled road kill, and then returned it, insisting that they shouldn’t tell you it was grilled cheese if it was something else.

So I think that’s really how I ended up back with the Sleepy Giant. And that is how you get from new iMac (not setup yet) to Croque Monsieur incident.

Published by Dave

My name is David Beckerman. I am a fine art photographer working in New York City. Or I was before I had two strokes. I now write from a Nursing Home.

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