Keeping the Reservation Diary

Sept. 13th, 2019 3p.m.

[ed. He originally put the date down as Aug. 13th. Received msg from GR who said:

The anal retentive guy says, ‘Fix the date. Today is September 13, not August. You know the day after my birthday which you always forget. Puts sad face icon. I get concerned when you start reliving months.

FYI, nothing personal about your birthday. I still don’t remember my father or mother’s birthday, and they’ve both been dead a long time, esp. my mother. Not to mention I always try to remember Andy’s birthday which is in August and I haven’t got it right yet. I have a serious issue with birthdays, but not with historical dates. Belated Happy Birthday to everyone I’ve forgotten to say that to. Maybe it really just doesn’t mean anything to me. Quite often someone has to tell me that such and such a day of the week is my own birthday. Of course I know the date, since I’m asked it continuously before every hospital procedure and because it’s used to ID me all the time, but honestly, birthday’s have no meaning to me. To be honest, I don’t understand why people celebrate birthdays to begin with. It’s important if you want to understand a person to know the general time they were born, i.e. we both went through the 60’s etc. and the month matters somewhat in terms of how old you were during the school year, but had any of us been born a few days earlier or later, what would it matter? Your forgetful friend.]

I usually write these things early in the morning after I’ve taken my pills that stop my hands from trembling – but as you can see – I must’ve been busy today since it’s Friday afternoon.

During the last entry, as I remember it I might have been writing about how I was having a crush on my OT woman, who I’ll call Jo. Very far from her real name and just an insanely dumb fantasy that I think I’m over for now but the funny thing was that her original appointment was for 2:30 and she walks in at 12:30 just as a blue coat that I was hiding that entry from was leaving, and Jo asks if it’s okay if she comes at 12:30 because her other client canceled.

Hey, c’mon in I say. Excited to see she’s wearing my favorite tight pants outfit.

So she becomes my wife for that hour and moves things around the room trying to make life more comfortable for me. She asks how I reach up to get my socks from the highboy and I tell her it’s nearly impossible so she starts moving my things around into a lower dresser so that I can get to them.

And for a while I’m sitting there wondering whether I would buy her a ring if I had a few million dollars. And soon the fantasy ends, and she touches me lightly on the arm as she leaves and I know it will be a week until I see her. Oh well.

Michael the scooter guy will be here tomorrow. He’s the opposite of Jo in that he asks me every little thing and is taking forever to get the paperwork for the new scooter started and I say, whatever you think Medicaid will pay for that is the best and the fastest to get.

So you’re okay with an electric wheelchair, if that’s what we decide?

YES! I want to say. JUST DO IT.

Winter is going to be here soon and you can’t use any of these things in the snow. Also Medicaid will replace the chair when it needs replacing. Medicare won’t.

Anyway, what I meant to write was that yesterday, I was sitting outside the Castle around 5 p.m. I like to say good bye to the workers as they leave, just to remind them that the recluse is still here. Juri, social worker #1, passes by without saying anything. I don’t know whether she just didn’t see me, or she’s in a hurry to go somewhere. But #1 and currently only SW has pushed some papers around, and told me two days ago that I was at the top of her radar (her words) as far as getting cash into my Sterling Account.

The 2nd character is the financial person who we’ll call #2. A few minutes after #1 leaves, passing me by, #2 comes out, sees me and asks if I’ve taken any cash out of the Sterling Account?

I say, no. Is there money in there?

Yes, she says. Did you get your debit card?

No. I’ve been waiting for it and (the Indian blue shirt just walked in and said, I’m just here to see if you’re okay. I’m working up to 9 tonight so I’ll check in on you later. Good God I wish she wouldn’t. But she’s so much of a frightened rabbit, that I can’t disappoint her. Maybe she has a crush on me??? She has said that I’m her favorite person here.)

Sorry for long digression but back to the debit card story.

No. How do I get the debit card, I ask #2.

And of course she says, #1 has a form for Sterling that you have to fill out. Didn’t she give it to you, says #2.

No. #1 never mentioned it.

And I realize that it’s Thursday and I bet that #1 is going to be out tomorrow.

So that’s the rhythm of the Castle.

You know how to take the reservation, but you don’t know how to keep the reservation, and that is really the most important part of the reservation.

So today, as I mentioned at the top is Friday. At 2p.m. I take the scooter down to #1 SW office to ask about the Debit Card form, and one of the corporate guys is in the other office – and I #1’s door is closed.

Is #1 in today, I ask the Corporate Guy already knowing the answer.

No, he says. He looks sort of stern.

I tell him the whole debit card story. He says he’ll call Sterling bank. I say, that’s okay, I’ve already waited 4 and a half months. I’ll talk to #1 on Monday.

He says, no that’s okay. I’ll see what I can do.

Okay, I tell him. And you can always get in touch with me on my cell and I give him the number. And I’m so sure I’ll never hear from him. And the weekend is here which usually means a new batch of blue shirts who don’t know that I’m pretending to be living in an apartment with ghosts that walk in and out. That’s all they are. Ghosts in blue shirts from Jamaica and Haiti.

I don’t want to cross them. I just want to ignore them. BTW, I still think this Castle is actually haunted. More on that later.

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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