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Willard B. Vincent
sat in the common room, his eyes vacant milky marbles pointed toward the
tv, smoke purling upward from the glowing Lucky Strike wedged in between
two custard-stained digits brittle as Lace Candy. Yes, his children had
dumped him off at Senior Haven Estates against his protests. But they
had been thoughtful enough at least to hire him a personal care assistant
- someone to mash up his pills in a banana, keep track of his EKG fluctuations.
From beneath his cozy cigarette nimbus over his head, he imagined his
children seething with guilt over their opprobrium, and he allowed this.
But the truth be told, these were Willard's salad days. In seven minutes,
Nurse Ilke, the vanilla-scented voluptueux from Sweden (a real stickler
for hygiene), would come by to administer his two o'clock sponge bath,
and after, give him a thorough rub down with Tiger Balm on his aching
sciatic.
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