6:15 a.m.

I hear someone shouting at the next apartment door: Mr. Wilson. 6:15. Time to wake up.

Then the jangling of some keys. “Wake up, Mr. Wilson.” Into iPad communicator: “He’s locked the damned door. I can’t find the key.”

Well it’s a new voice. People change around here faster than – oh I was going to say something about the current prez but am doing my best to stay in a political vacuum. Why?

Because it is just useless.

However, she doesn’t knock on my door. She just opens it and yells 6:15. “Time for breakfast.”

You’re new, aren’t you?

No. I’m… oh yeah, she says, I am new. New to this floor.

“I don’t go up for meals,” I say.

“No meals?” she asks.

“Not until I run out of cash,” I replied.

If you need to make the bed, I think, come back after nine. But I’m sleepy and annoyed at having to break in a new blue shirt who will probably be here a week or two. Then they leave or get fired (maybe) but most likely get switched to another floor.

You can’t box the wind.

Fighting the Wind

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. https://dave-beckerman.pixels.com

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