Editor’s Note: The alleged revolt of the Electors did not happen yesterday, and the die seems to be cast for whatever is going to come next. I don’t know, but have not lost hope. Perhaps we can try being grownups for a while and see how that works out?

– Vic

Chardonnay for Breakfast

It was late August in 2012. Our pal Mac had been having a course of radiation treatments, and I thought I would drop by The Madison, the assisted-living high-rise where he lived to see how he was doing. When I talked to him over the weekend he was tired, and he attributed it to the massive blasts of x-rays.

I checked in at The Madison’s front desk and went up to his floor on the elevator. I rode with a nice Filipina who was wheeling a distinguished-looking gentleman in a chair. I knew the look in the man’s eyes. While he was well groomed and well dressed in a sport-coat and fresh shirt, he was starting down the road that my Dad had taken and clearly wasn’t all there. He had that 1,000-yard stare of growing imprisonment in his own body.

Despite it, the lady was merry, and wore a form-fitting blouse with a flare at the hip and tight leggings. We laughed about the coincidence of being destined for the same floor, and nothing in particular, and I let them get off before me on Mac’s floor, since I am still not moving as swiftly as I would like. I followed them along the corridor and I realized the man was Mac’s neighbor. The Filipina rolled him past Mac’s door, which was propped open, and I stopped to announce myself.

The Admiral shouted out for me to come it, and I stepped through the door and into the one-bedroom apartment, lit by the resolute light of the late August sun. He was sitting on his couch, boxes of medication on the coffee table in front of him and an oxygen tube under his nose. His walker- one of the black high-speed ones with emergency seating, tote basket and hand-brakes- was parked at the end of the coffee table, and the oxygen line was draped around on the floor like lines on a working ship.

“Hey,” I said brightly, walking with only a slight hitch across the room. “How are you doing, Sir?”

“Pain in the ass,” he said, pointing at his hip. “And the radiation is making me tired. I feel better today than yesterday, though.”

I pointed at my left leg. “Every day, better and better.”

He looked dubious. “I am not sure that covers me,” he said. “But sleeping at night is the best thing. Falling asleep in the afternoon is no good. Messes everything up.”

“That was the worst part about being confined to bed after the surgery I had last May,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep regularly for weeks.”

“Amen. Care for a glass of wine?” he asked with a sly smile.

“Why Admiral,” I said in mock outrage. “It is only three in the afternoon.”

“It is not Willow happy Hour White, but you might like it. I have a little knife and a corkscrew and the bottle is on the counter in the kitchen.”

“Chardonnay,” I said gravely. “It’s not just for breakfast any more.” Mac laughed at my faux outrage. “I think you know me pretty well. Of course I will.” I levered myself up off the couch, sharp pain radiating up both knees until I got everything straight. He did the same, only faster. “You don’t have to get up,” I said, but he already was, and swung in behind the handles of his walker. The oxygen cord threatened to coil around his leg and I was afraid it might trip him. “Don’t fall, Sir.”

“Falling is bad. I have three walkers here in the apartment and I use them to go everywhere. I hired a helper to bring a wheelchair up here to get to the bus and then to the hospital and stay with me. No chair here in the unit.”

Mac instructed me on the operation of the corkscrew, and we talked about the pluses and minuses of wheelchairs versus the practical transport chairs with the four small wheels. “My son likes the transporter,” he said. “But I prefer the ones with the big wheels so I can maneuver myself, just in case.”

I thought back to recent experiences in both. “I completely agree, Admiral. I prefer being able to move unassisted, if necessary. Or at least have the idea that I could.” I used the levers on the corkscrew to pry the artificial cork out of the neck of the bottle and admired the large tulip glass he had thoughtfully placed on the counter.

Mac turned and the oxygen line snaked along behind him. I did not know how he managed to stay untangled. I am still looking down for any possible obstruction that could through me off my feet and face down on the floor. “I have not fallen since before the surgery,” I said. “But I think the tubing would do me in.”

“You just have to pay attention to what you are doing,” he said with determination. “Take your wine with you and sit down. I have something I want to show you.”

Obediently, I sat down and he disappeared into his office. When he returned, he had a white plastic binder and he placed it on the table in front of us. He opened it, and I saw there were pictures and papers slipped into glassine envelopes. “I just got this back, and thought I had lost it.”

The first picture I saw was a color glossy of President Ronald Reagan with some people I did not recognize. The Admiral pointed at it. “I haven’t told you this story before, or only part of it. But one of the most precious things I have is in this binder.”

“Are you going to show me?” I asked.

“No, I am going to tell you the story,” said Mac. “Drink your wine and listen for a change.”

“Yessir,” I said. I really needed to get back to the office, but this was a lot more special than that. Unfortunately, now that I am almost healthy again, I have to actually pretend to work. Thank goodness there is no Chardonnay there at work for breakfast or I don’t know what ever would get done.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com