Vic Socotra

04 December 2010

Stepping Out

(Stepping out, in style at the Sheraton. Photo Siebs.)

It is the holiday season. The office threw a great party over at the Sheraton last night, and everyone was dressed to the nines. My partner in crime was the ring-leader, and the thing came off really well. I intended to wear my tuxedo, but when I pulled it out of the closet, it appeared that it had sagged over the summer, and the pants hung like Bozo the clown.

I shrugged and pulled on a pair of comfortable Levis and wore it anyway. I don’t know what the button-down crowd thought, but I was comfortable.

It was nice to hear the noise and watch the crowd, since it had been one of those days.

It started in the mid-morning. I was texting one of my associates about something important when a pop-up icon announced the arrival of an email from Potemkin Village.

I clicked over, knowing this could not possibly be good news. Here is what I read, addressed to the three of us kids:

“Good Morning all,

Our GM had to have a talk with your Mom today regarding the fact that your father had escaped the current locked door system twice this week in the overnight hours, and went into other Residents rooms, which was very frightening for them. A woman was screaming. Your Mom said she gave your Dad a key. This cannot happen again.” I would like you to help explain the gravity of the situation, and the consequences if this cannot be managed. Sorry to bring this news.

Best Regards,”

Shit, I thought.

I punched the numbers into the speaker-phone and Mom picked up.

“Mom,” I said. “What is going on up there?”

“They called you?” she asked, with a note of apprehension. I have heard that tone creeping into her voice often of late, like the time I called after the night shift found her sleeping on the floor next to the bed.

“Yes. They say that Dad has been out at night twice this week, and has gone into other people’s apartments.”

“That is not possible. He has been right here beside me in bed all night.”

She then attempted to deflect the conversation with a bizarre tale that illustrated where she is these days. She told me the story about how confusing the "1200" on the clock was. "It is so dark these days, you know?" she said, since everyone knows that the days get shorter in winter.

She got Dad up and took him down to the dining room for lunch.

It was midnight. They found the dining room dark as the night outside, and then went down to the lobby and sat in the nice cushioned chairs for a while, waiting for the place to come alive, and eventually went back up to their apartment. Mom described the adventure with a sense of wonder, as if darkness at noon was a completely natural thing.

She insisted that it was completely impossible that Dad had worked his Houdini routine. She said the screaming woman was lying, and she wants an official hearing to clear Dad’s name, after I suggested that they were one strike away from getting bounced out of the lease, and that did not mean going home.

She said she still wants a hearing, since Dad had done nothing wrong. It was impossible. Lies, all lies.

I looked blankly at the phone and thought that the hearing that will occur won't be about whether Dad can get access to the keys and transform himself into Raven. Rather, it will be one that has their personal Doc testify to the Judge that the time has come for the "revocable" phrase to be deleted from my durable Power of Attorney over Bib Momma’s affairs.

I told Mom to find the keys and get them away from Dad, and she said she would try.

The alternative is this:

“Dad will need to be in confinement, hopefully at the Village, so you can be together most of the time, at least during the day when it is light outside.”

“That is unacceptable.”

“It is unacceptable that he is going into other people’s apartments, Mom.”

“It didn’t happen. He was with me the whole time.”

“The Village says it did, and I believe them.” Then I told her I loved her and punched the disconnect button on the phone.

I then dialed the Potemkin management and told them to confiscate the keys and lock them down at night.

After I hung up, I looked out the window at the construction across North Glebe Road. The options trying the lock-down are not good. I drafted a note to my bother and sister, asking if they would be interested in having Raven and Big Momma live near them, and contemplated the idea that we might have to shut down the operation up there, and move them into something more confining near one of us.

Beyond the construction, temporarily visible due to demolition, I could see the tower of Culpeper Garden, the assisted living facility with the lock-down unit that looms just two blocks away.

This is so cruel on so many levels.

Maybe it is time to just shut down the Michigan operation altogether. This is way too hard, and Raven’s ramblings may just be the catalyst for more awful things to come.

Damn. You can imagine that pairing up a pair of jeans with a tuxedo jacket and crisp formal shirt and bow tie gave me a lift, not to mention stepping out a little.