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First Night on a New Job
or
A night of Hell
I should have written about the night of hell
while tense frustration was raging
or soon after.
Now I squeeze the moisture off the grass
from a dissipated cloud of memory.
It had to do with 911
and sending a non-responding resident
to the hospital.
It had to do with having 5 minutes
to do 20 minutes worth of paperwork
and copies of files to be made
with both copiers in the facility broken.
Meanwhile, a raving guttural-groaning resident
spun in her bed and pulled her G-tube
out of her body
and I had to put a new one in right away
before the hole clamped shut.
Simultaneously, all the complainers
and drug seekers
were not only on the call bell
but yelling down the hall, "Nurse, nurse!"
Of course the aides assigned to me were mad
because they normally work another hall
and decided to brush me off.
The one asked to get vital signs on a distressed resident
went to the break room.
The one asked to watch the confused man trying to escape
disappeared and was found sleeping in an empty bed.
While I pushed my 3:30 A.M. body and brain
to snap everything into a miracle
the drug seekers grew angrier and louder
and EMS arrived
and questioned me suspiciously.
This was a night of baptism by fire,
a night of misaligned stars,
a night at work
before they loved me.
Peter is back after only 9 days.
He was caught directing traffic, naked,
claiming to be Charlie Manson and Hitler.
He's sunburned, scratched up.
His feet are cracked and cut
from being barefoot in winter.
His voice is garbled, sounds like he's barking
with a mouth full of gravel.
But he continues dropping lists at the desk.
Some lists tell us who he is: " a homosexual and a lesbian
and the Zar governor of Andromeda Strain..."
Some tell us diseases he wants cured: Soviet's tongue,
Heineken's turmoil, defecation rot..."
Other lists tell us who he wants
at his "ordination breakfast"
where "Wurlitzer coffee" is to be served.
He wants Clinton, Popeye, Queen of England,
Daffy Duck, Mortimer Snerd, King Tut...
In the past he's told me
he sold dope to Jerry Garcia,
shot up with Grace Slick.
Said he liked "combo shotgun"
and rattled off a list of drugs.
He showed me "tracks" on his arm.
But I didn't see much, 2 or 3 faint dots.
And I just got his toxicology screen results.
Negative for all drugs.
His problem is his brain.
Schizophrenic for 50 years.
He's basically harmless.
Claims to be God-fearing
and---God.
Peter orders dinner
in a note stating:
"Please give moral character of GUN SMOKE and HIGH NOON
in my supper meal.
Give Bible character lessons of GOD'S LITTLE ACRE
in my supper meal.
Give love and security of LEAVE IT TO BEAVER
in my supper meal.
Give character of MY THREE SONS
in my supper meal.
Give simple love of John Boy from the WALTONS
in my supper meal.
Give universal knowledge
in my supper meal
and coffee."
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