No Visitors
Muggy and cloudy. There’s a new resident who has a dog, apparently. He sticks his head through the snazzy railing on the balcony that is directly above the doors of the entrance to Oak Knoll Assisted Living. It’s my second of the two visits I make every weekend to see my father. I walk through the front doors and several confused residents are milling around in the brick foyer. Brick. Who chooses brick for the flooring in an old people’s home? Gladys, the head mistress (as my sister and I call her), chose it during the remodeling last year. I suppose she thought it would seem modern. To me and the residents in wheelchairs, it’s just bumpy and a disaster waiting to happen. I take the shortcut through the lobby and walk through the nicely landscaped grounds and enter my father’s room. He’s watching a lively college basketball game but he looks like he’s watching the weather report.

“Hey Dad!” I make sure my voice is loud but not too startling.

“HELLO! Hey babe! You got any coffee?”

“Sure. I’ll go get a cup for you.”

“Oh god no. Not if it’s too much trouble. How did I get so lucky? You know, none of these other poor bastards ever get a visitor.”

“I know. But I love to see you. It’s relaxing here (I read this in a book—-make the Alzheimer’s patient feel important and tell them you came for any reason other than to take care of them). “It’s not too much trouble for me to get you some coffee. It’s right next to the dining room and there’s a thermos of it.”

“Jesus. You’re too good to me. How much does it cost?”

“It’s free. Don’t worry. It’s not too far and I’ll be right back.”

“Good god, thanks babe. You’re too good to me.”

I meander 30 feet across the grounds and get my dad some coffee from a thermos. I pour it into a Styrofoam cup that reminds me of the cups I used to sell lemonade in when I was five. I go back to my dad’s room. He’s staring at the television.

“Hey babe!”

“Hey dad. Here’s your coffee.”

“Jesus. Thank you. You know I keep asking myself. What the hell did I do to deserve this treatment. You know I never see any other visitors here. Am I the only person that gets visitors?”

“Yeah, I don’t see too many other visitors.”

“I mean it. I never see anyone else who has visitors. I’m the luckiest guy in the world. What did I do to deserve it?”

“I love coming to see you. Drink your coffee dad. It’ll get cold.”

He takes a sip from the gnome-sized white cup. I’m afraid he’ll spill it.

“Ohhhhh. Nothin’ like a good cup of coffee. Where’d you get this? Did they charge you?”

“No, it’s right across the way next to the dining room.”

“You know those bastards never serve coffee at breakfast. Where’d you get this?”

“Right across the way.” I get up and stand at his sliding glass door that looks out across the courtyard and point toward the dining room. “It’s the room just next to the dining room. They have coffee there all the time.”

“Do they charge you for it? Jesus, I don’t have any dough to pay for this.”

“No, it’s free. It’s just there. Right next to the dining room.”

We sit. Smile at each other occasionally. He watches T.V. and I read the Sunday paper.

“I’m sorry babe. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

He gets up out of his chair, uses his walker and goes into the bathroom. Twenty minutes pass. He returns

and sits back down in his chair.

“I got you some coffee. Drink it before it gets cold.”

“Ooooooooooh, thanks babe. Where’d you get this?”

“I got it right next to the dining room. Go ahead and drink it before it gets cold.”

“You want some? Babe. What does a cup of coffee cost around this place?”

“Nothing. It’s free. They have it next to the dining room. It’s there all the time.”

“Well I can’t thank you enough. You know, I think I’m the only guy in this place that gets visitors.”