Breakfast in the Nut House

On Weds. I don’t have early PT so I decided to go up for breakfast. When I got into the dining room it was freezing as usual. Somebody asked if they were at the south or north pole.

No good comeback from me. “Either’ said I sitting down and looking at my dining partner.

The ex-boxer had his head cradled in his right hand. A perfect fit given his long fingers. Sleepy eyes open as I fondle the icy silverware.

“it’s cold in here,” he says as if he’s made a new discovery.

I look at the hot cereal in the red bowl and it looks like some sort of grain in water. I ask him what’s in the bowl. He tells me oatmeal. I can’t remember seeing thin oatmeal like this before, but I take his word for it. I thicken it up with two packets of cane sugar. Something I’ve never done before.

And I eat it, and drink it.

The menu on the chalk board in the hall says:

Baked cheese omelet

Sausage Patty

Cinnamon Toast

and a few other items I can’t remember

“What are you having, Dave?”

I start telling her and she walks away.

“Hold on Ariel,” she turns around annoyed.

“I want to make a sausage sandwich. Just two pieces of dry toasted multigrain and a sausage patty. No eggs. Okay?”

“Yep,” and she speeds off.

In the meantime, I sip the coffee and the heat starts to go up. I take off my sweatshirt.

The ex-boxer is somehow finishing his powdered eggs and bread with fake butter with his eyes only opening long enough to find his plate.

My food eventually arrives. The toasted cinnamon bread is slathered in fake butter. There is the cheese omelette. And the sausage patty.

“Here you are, Dave” Ariel says. I’m about to tell her that the order is wrong but realize I don’t want to wait another ten minutes for them to toast some bread and toss a sausage on my plate.

Besides, the heat is disappearing again, and I’m putting my sweatshirt on again.

I drink a 2nd cup of black coffee, and call for my Rollator and go out into the hallway.

As I sit down to write this, just to give me a true to life ending, there’s a knock on the door. The “blue shirt” looks in.

“Are you going to breakfast?” she asks.

“I just came from breakfast.”

She shuts the door.

It makes me wonder what in the world is going on in this crazy place since there are two blue-shirts in the dining room walking back and forth during the meal checking off on iPads who is at each particular meal.

Also, they rotate the “blue-shirts” every two months, so just when they get to know your habits, you get a whole new batch.

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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