A-ha! Just what I predicted. It's been a whole month since my last entry. That's the length of time I've gone through where the days blended into one another. Aside from the holidays, I've been working every day with Ronald Beetsel. That's not his real name, but it's close enough. (Future Dave: Are you able to recall his actual name?). Every morning I open his door with a key I pry out of a lock box. I always seem to have to deal with them during the winter time, and have been known to give them good kicks with the bottom of my foot, because they were frozen shut. Not the best technology in the world, but his seems to open up just fine. At the door, I'm greeted by Oreo, his fat German Shepherd. The first time I came upon here, she barked and I thought, "Hmm. It's been a while since I've had to deal with a dog this size. I'm new to her. One wrong move and she could bite my face off." We're pals now and she likes when I scratch right in that soft divot of her ear. Her eyes glaze over and she has that far away look of pleasure. Poor thing is always itching. I asked Ron when was the last time she had a bath, and he said, "Never." I pointed out she's always in the mud and quite dirty, and he went to start a sentence, but then he got to thinking.
Two months ago when JayDee died, I didn't know I would be working forty hours at another guy's house. I guess things could be worse. Lately I pour Ron a glass of OJ, set out his morning meds, place a banana neatly on the table and watch as he chokes down ClearLax with his juice. I'm usually not awake and can only muster questions like, "How'd you sleep last night?" Ron makes an effort to talk, but once apologized to me for being boring. During our getting-to-know-you phase, I simply brushed him off. "NooooOOOooo. You're not boring! We've got plenty to talk about!" That was when I was only seeing him two days a week. Not that his previous caregiver is gone, I have him guaranteed for at least five days a week, and I came to a realization: he is boring and we've already run out of things to talk about. Often time I never waver in my devotion to come up with something to talk about, but I just can't be bothered. The realization that he is boring hit me like a ton of bricks yesterday. I shouldn't complain; when he doesn't need me to drive him to the bank, we spend most of the day watching old Westerns like Bonanza and the Rifleman. I used to sit in his faux leather recliner all attentive and loyal, watching even the commercials with an unbroken gaze just in case he has something to say about the Medicare ads or side effects to a new medication. The honeymoon is over, and now I catch up on my New Yorker magazines, because hey... time on this earth is limited.
Most of our breakfasts are at the Country Dell, and Ron is kind enough to treat every time. Once we went to the WaWa and I bought him breakfast. I really don't wanna' feel like money comes between us, especially considering that at heart Ron's a decent blue collar guy who worked his ass off for retirement. Then again, that was back when people were given pensions, something most of us working stiffs have no clue about. I'd love to know how he's turning 85 next week. He eats large breakfasts every day, and probably has for decades. The IHOP might be slipping in sales, but it's only because Ron doesn't eat there. He's a regular at the Country Dell, and everyone - servers and customers alike - knows his name. It's probably a tradition he and his wife enjoyed before she passed away. Ron is about 5'10", but all his shirts are 2XL. His belly is large and round, and reminds me of a bloated tick. Poor guy still is able to rock his way up and out of a chair, but I'm not sure how much longer that will last, and that means it'll be me who will be expending the discs in my vertebrae.
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