Katy Cooper

Put Me Out of My Misery

“Put me out of my misery.” Oscar rasps as he tries to slip me an envelope filled with cash. He sits crumpled in a wheelchair, behind him, a wall of nursing home mauve. He leans forward. In spite of his frail body Oscar still sports an incredibly healthy and vibrant red bulbous nose. “Well?” He asks. I say nothing.

This is our greeting ritual. I visit Oscar, he tries to slip me an envelope filled with cash in the hopes that I will use it to buy a gun, sleeping pills or an extra large pillow. I refuse and then we are interrupted by…

“You! How dare you?!” -- The screams of Oscar’s neighbor, Ella. This time, she’s down the hall next to the elevators. “You know nothing about me!”

“Who is she screaming at?” I ask Oscar.

“The trash can.” Oscar replies. “Please put me out of my misery.” He tries to hand me the envelope again. This time I cross my arms. We both sigh and look at the dark mauve carpet.

I started visiting Oscar at the beginning of my sophomore year in college for a biomedical ethics class. At the time I was writing a paper on the ethical treatment of the elderly and needed to interview residents from Sunny Brook Hall. On my first visit to Sunny Brook, I wanted to get in and get out as quickly and as humanly as possible. Looking back I realize how foolish I was. There’s never a quick way to clear out of a nursing home. Ever! What I discovered was that the moment I entered an elderly resident’s apartment for an interview and sat down on his or her uncomfortable couch, I was trapped, locked in for hours. My interviewees would hold me hostage not only forcing me to exhaust every last one of their photo albums but also force feeding me leftover food they’d filched from the dining hall the night before.

After my first visit which cost me nearly twelve hours, I didn’t want to go back. But by the second visit, I actually started to enjoy myself. It was as if I’d stumbled across a gold mine of history and past lives that had nothing to do with who did five beer bongs at so and so’s party and then hooked up with three guys at the same time or who passed out in the school quad after taking three roofies and woke up two days later in the bushes with squirrel droppings in his eyes. So while my friends were drinking giant red cupfuls of beer I was drinking tiny plastic pill dispenser cupfuls of scotch, watching The McLaughlin Group and reminiscing about the glory days of Eisenhower with my newfound elder friends.

During my interviews, I didn’t learn much about the ethical treatment of the elderly in Sunny Brook Hall. But I did learn that Charlie and Gladys on the third floor have a son named Ned who’s a big writer in Hollywood and has a mass of black curly hair. I learned from Oscar’s neighbor Ella, who in a moment of clarity told me that all of the stationary objects she yelled at were actually her Golden Retriever Buster who died in 1963. I also learned that Buster was an “evil, bad dog that needed spankings.” I learned that sexy Sandra Carpenter on floor five has an eighty one year old online boyfriend named Karl who sent her a genuine leather purse from Anne Taylor. A week later I learned that Karl has a wife and stole the Anne Taylor purse right out of her closet.

In spite of all my visits, I learned absolutely nothing about Oscar. There were no photos in his apartment, he made no reference to his family and every time I asked him what he did, he came up with a different answer. “Vending machines” he said one time. “Defense lawyer” He said another. “Stripper” he said which grossed me out. But although Oscar would not talk about himself, he had no problem talking about how the residents of the nursing home – every last one of them—were involved in a plot to persecute him.

“I’m banned from the dining room.” Oscar says to me sadly.

“How could they do that?” I reply with indignation. “That’s your favorite thing to do here. It’s what you live for.”

“Don’t rub it in.” Oscar picks at the lint balls on his misshapen cardigan sweater.

“What did you do?” I ask, already knowing that Oscar probably pushed Dave Goldberg, a ninety year old retired OB/GYN and self proclaimed president of the Dining Hall Oversight Committee, too far.

“Aside from sneezing in the salad bar?” Oscar says. “I wore my pajamas to dinner.”

“Oh. That’s bad.” The dining hall may only have three rules -- no sneezing in the salad bar, no pajamas and no colostomy bags -- but those rules are strictly enforced by the Dining Hall Oversight Committee. And since Oscar already broke two out of the three I wasn’t surprised that he was banned.

“Oh for God’s sake,” I say and get up.

Oscar grabs my sweater sleeve. I’m surprised by the strength of his grip. “Where are you going?” He demands. “Sit down! You’ve only been here for twenty three minutes. You have thirty seven more minutes to go!”

Wow. I didn’t know he was counting. “I’m going to talk to Dave.”

Oscar is clearly insulted. “You can’t do anything.” He says. “You’re just a girl.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask insulted.

“It means you’re no match for Dave Goldberg.”

I try to yank my sleeve away but Oscar doesn’t let go.

“Watch me,” I say indignantly. I yank again but Oscar still keeps his grip.

“Don’t make me take my sweater off” I threaten.

“Oh would you? Please?” He replies sarcastically.

I yank one last time. Oscar finally loses his grip but not without stretching the hell out of my sweater sleeve. I don’t care. I want to go and give Dave Goldberg a piece of my mind.

As I walk down the hall towards the elevator Oscar yells – “You better watch your back! Dave Goldberg will chew you up and spit you out!”

I wave him off.

On my way up to the seventh floor I think of the only time I dined with Oscar at the nursing home. The dining room had an actual chandelier and large round tables blanketed by crisp white table cloths. Nursing home staff in white shirts served residents three course meals. No wonder meals in the dining hall were the highlight of Oscar’s day. When we sat down alone at our own large round table, I could tell Oscar was proud to have me with him. I could also tell that no one in the nursing home liked Oscar much. One incredibly pale and wrinkly woman with florescent red lipstick that bled into the aged cracks around her mouth stopped at our table and said, “Hi Oscar, is this your granddaughter?” When Oscar replied, “No just a friend”, the woman remarked, “I didn’t think so. My grand daughter visits me every month.” Even though in a wheel chair, Oscar wasn’t going to take this sitting down: “Is she the fat one with the bald spot?”

Another thing I noticed was that Oscar listened in on the conversations at the table next to him and often interjected. “Your son’s gay!” He shouted when Alice Washington bragged about her successful son in San Francisco who owned shares in Microsoft. A few minutes later while listening to Laura Seigel, a forty year old resident with MS who drove a custom painted, bright orange wheelchair, drone on about her various medications, Oscar yelled, “Put a sock in it, you dumb ass!”

Afraid that the residents may rise up and attack us with their walkers, I tried to get Oscar to stop as I gulped down world’s smallest, driest, hamburger and its accompanying four French fries. But the more I tried, the worse Oscar got. No wonder they all wanted him out.

I knock on apartment 707. Through the door, I hear Larry King Live. I also hear, “Olive! Olive. Olive!

“What?!” Olive barks back.

“The door! That’s what!”

“Someone’s at the door?”

“Jesus Christ what did I just say. The door!”

“That’s impossible. We’re not expecting anyone at the door!”

I knock again.

“Oooolive the door!”

Three minutes later a tall frail woman with a gray pageboy hair cut, a pink polyester jumpsuit and saggy cheeks opens the door.

“Olive?” I say. Already I’m nervous. Maybe Oscar’s right. Maybe I am no match for Dave Goldberg. Plus Oscar never mentioned Olive.

“Who are you?” Olive asks, paranoid.

I hold out my hand. “I’m Elizabeth. Oscar’s friend?”

But instead of taking my hand, Olive disappears into the apartment. I have no other choice but to follow. The Goldberg apartment is like every other apartment in the home. Shag carpeting, one bedroom, a tiny living room and a kitchen that’s never used because of the dining hall. The Goldbergs have very little furniture – just two matching Barca Loungers and a giant flat screen TV.

“Sit down, young lady.” Dave tells me.

Dave has thin white wisps of hair around his ears and wears large thick glasses with black frames. He looks like an owl.

“Sit!” Dave repeats again.

I look around. The two Barca Loungers are already taken.

“I said sit!!” Dave barks.

I finally sit Indian style on the floor. Above me, I see a tuft of course hair poking out of Dave’s nose.

“Well?” Dave asks.

“Um,” I say nervously. “I’m here about Oscar.

Olive snorts. “He gives me indigestion.”

“The thing is,” I say, “he lives for going to meals at the dining hall so if you could just make an exception and let him back in.” Dave responds by handing me a piece of tissue thin typing paper. It’s the November fourth “minutes” report for the weekly Dining Hall Oversight Committee meeting. I read --

The committee agrees that the shrimp in the shrimp cocktail every Saturday night is not big enough and has voted unanimously to write a letter of complaint to management.

“Paragraph four.” Dave says.

The committee has unanimously voted to ban Oscar Greene from the dining hall because he’s a cantankerous nuisance and broke two of the three dining hall rules.

“Once the committee decides and I type it up on the minutes report,” says Dave, “there’s no reversing.” Olive nods her head in agreement.

“Well, who exactly is on this committee?” I ask.

“Myself and Olive.”

I am taken aback. Surely, there must be more people on the committee. “So you and Olive speak for all of the home’s fifty diners?” Just you and Olive?” I ask.

“That’s right” Dave replies.

“No other diners have a say in the committee’s decisions?”

“Nope.” Dave re-adjusts his thick glasses which rest his delicate, saggy ears.

“You two sure have a lot of power.” I say.

“Are you a lawyer?” Olive blurts out. I shake my head no. “Our son Donald is a lawyer. BU law? He could crush you in court.”

Dave interrupts, “Olive don’t be rude.” Olive shrugs.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead knowing that Dave and Olive will not be convinced, also knowing that the heat must be cranked up to eighty-five. I look at Olive. She’s wrapped herself in a woolen blanket. Perhaps she’s the weaker link. I go in for the kill. “Oscar doesn’t have much longer to live” I say.

“Neither do we!” Olive snaps.

“Please” I ask.

But Dave answers no as Olive shakes her head no. He then says “We all hate Oscar!” as Olive shakes her head yes, her cheeks flopping up and down.

“How about a compromise?” I plead. “Oscar eats at the dining hall oh say five days out of the week.” But Dave has already turned up the volume to “Paula Zohn Now” on CNN. Yet another girl goes missing from a cruise ship.

“Well?” Oscar asks. I look at the mauve carpet in defeat.

“You were right” I say.

Oscar slowly nods his head. “Thanks for trying” he says feebly patting me on the back. “You’re very brave. Now please put me out of my misery.” Oscar pulls the envelope out from his sweater.

“Jesus Christ. Do you carry that thing around with you everywhere you go?”

Oscar cracks what looks to be a faint half smile. “You never know. Someone might take me up on my offer.” I look at my watch. Even though it’s time to go, I can’t make myself leave. I wheel Oscar to the commons room where we sit and watch Paula Zohn in silence. Even Oscar can’t muster up a rude comment to MS Laura who uses a thin paint brush to carefully touch up her bright orange wheelchair with bright orange paint.

It is two months later and I am home for the summer. I have just received a letter from Oscar’s lawyer. Inside is a tattered envelop filled with cash. Immediately, I know Oscar has died. I feel a wave of guilt mostly in my stomach. Before I left, I promised Oscar I would keep in touch but I never did. Instead, I was and still am busy working as a waitress trying to make money for the fall semester. I am also busy partying with old friends. I have replaced shots of whiskey with keg stands and CNN with MTV. Before I left, Oscar did make it into the dining hall but he didn’t get to eat. The day after my confrontation with the Goldberg’s I broke protocol and wheeled Oscar into the dining hall. Dave turned bright red and slowly but boldly tried to block us with his walker. I responded by wheeling Oscar around Dave’s walker while Oscar gave Dave the finger. Unfortunately, Olive called security and we were escorted out before we even could it to the salad bar. Both Oscar and I surmised that security must be on the Goldberg’s private payroll. Nevertheless, Oscar and I did celebrate. We ordered Chinese food and ate in the commons area while watching “Hannity and Colmes.” We stole or rather “borrowed” a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label from the Teitelbaum’s unlocked apartment. We celebrated the fact that at the very least Oscar went out of the dining hall fighting. I take a deep breath and count the cash in Oscar’s envelop; five hundred dollars. But instead of thinking about how I will spend it, I shove it into the back of my disordered and chaotic closet. I am not quite ready to be put out of my own misery. Not just yet. Not for a long, long time.