Nursing Homes

------- Caution : Foul Language Ahead ----------

I have stated before that one of my favorite places to deliver to is Sonny's B.Y.O.B. There are strippers there. The managers are friendly. The tips are good. Did I mention there are strippers there? There are though, places that I go to on a regular basis, that seem to leave me wanting to firmly plant my fist into someone else's face.

These places are … Nursing Homes.

They suck.

The people ordering food at these places are paid poorly, and as such, most of the time they insist on separating out each order to the penny, making sure that when they get their food, they keep 100% of the change. Some have figured out that when one total is $10.03, that particular person can hand me a 20, making me give back $9.97.

Needless to say, a couple of people do this, and I have little change for everyone else.

They are upset that I don't keep a hundred one dollar bills in my back pocket. Upset nurses though, don't appear to be unusual. I have never seen a nurse at a nursing home that wasn't visibly upset with the world around them, which consists mostly of elderly cripples in wheelchairs. Here are a few true to life occurrences with such people.

Bitch #1 - Short Hispanic Hag.

I walk into the nursing home, proceeding with caution as forgotten grandmothers gaze longingly at me. My guess is that their kids have left them there and only visit on days Haley's Comet is visible with the naked eye.

I get the feeling, that when anyone under the age of 72 enters these places, all patrons there imagine them to be their grandchildren.

I find a nurse, a short Hispanic lady who has a vague recollection of ordering food. She pulls out her twenty dollar bill. "Whoa, Big Spendah…." I sarcastically think to myself. She stairs up at all 6'4" of me and goes on an unprovoked tirade.

"Now you have change right??? 'Cause last time I ordered food I didn't get no change, I mean, that ain't happnin' again. Imma gunna get me some change, dontchu think I won't. No way, I'm getting screwed again, last time I ordered I didn't get no change."

"Ma'am, I have change." My reassurance is worthless.

"You better have change, cause last time I didn’t get no change, and theys no way itsa happen again…"

This went on for several minutes.

I'm a professional. I can take this. I do this all the time. Just as long as I end up with at least the total on the bottom of the Guest Check, I'll be fine. I leave that nursing home with a back pocket full of tens and twenties. They are my smallest bills. Making change for the next delivery was a little tough.

Bitch #2 - Fat White Trash.

I walk into another nursing home, this time a veteran to the calls from old ladies with Gollumesque hair and sunken eyes.

The front desk is clearly visible. More visible though, is the ample belly and chin/neck of the nurse perched behind it.

"You Jason's Deli?"

She can read my hat and nametag. Oh good. I thought for a second here I was dealing with someone with skills perhaps less than adequate than those required to receive the title, "Nurse." She puts a wad of bills on the counter and looks away, eyes glazed over. Perhaps some of the patients there are funding some rather unhealthy and illegal habits of hers. It's not my business.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" someone screams from a nearby room. I shit you not. It was blood curdling.

"Ehhh, fucking shit…." The nurse mutters. Without saying another word to me, she plops onto the ground, kankles holding up a massive torso, and proceeds into the room with the screaming patient. I count the money, and leave. Tip: 11 cents.

Bitch #3 - Black Cross Dresser.

I have a little trouble finding this particular place because "Shoddy Little Nursing Home" wasn't written on the check. Normally, all businesses are labeled on the check stapled to the bag I carry the food in. Businesses sometimes don't have addresses clearly labeled, so the business name is written. It is much easier to look for, "Zale's Jewlers" than, "6001 HWY 84."
When I find this shit-hole, I walk up the path and peer into the lobby. Do I have the right place? Who knows? Who cares? Purely on instinct, I head left. This next room has a few old ladies in wheel chairs staring at an old TV. Fun times at the nursing home. Instinctually again, I had left. This time I am met by a nurse who snaps, "This way." He turns and walks into yet another room.

The hallway wasn't well lit, so I didn't get the full impact of whom I was following until he made his way behind his desk. Picture this. A 250 pound African American man, dressed in gaudy women's scrubs, women's shoes, huge women's rings on multiple fingers, individually painted, long, fake fingernails, large gold necklace that seems to be paying homage to Mr. T in the same way it must be giving this guy back pain, huge hoop earrings in both ears, and blue fucking contact lenses.

An old lady in a wheelchair slowly does the one foot shuffle over to his counter.

"NO!!! This is not for you!!! Don't you even ask!!! Before you even ask, the answer is NO!!!"

This guy is yelling at a seventy-five year old lady in a wheelchair. She reminds him, "I said nothing." "Well….." he mutters back at her, back arched, lips perked out, arms crossed. He looks down on her with contempt.

Then, in just about the most effeminate way possible, with palms on the top of the desk next to a signed, blank check, he leans in towards me. As flamboyantly as possible, he asks, "Ten to fifteen minutes, huh?"

I notice that he is making no move to pay.

This is, apparently, not who ordered the food. He points to the name on the bill. "She will be out in a minute." I know how this sort of thing goes. I have waiting to do, in company I don't want to do it with.

Sneeringly, "You get lost?" Don't get the panties I'm sure you're wearing in a bunch mister.

"Umm, no. I just had to wait for another order to be made before I could take this one here."

"She say ten to fifteen minutes. You're late."

This asshole actually wants me to believe that the girl on the phone told him that his food would be ready and in his lip-sticked mouth in 15 minutes from the time he hung up the phone. You lying sack of shit. Quit trying to intimidate me because it isn't working. I'm at least 3 inches taller than you, so can quit the sassy act, where you look down at my chest, it being eye height of most of your clientele. I am going to get money from you and then I am going to leave and be on my way, so how about you shut the fuck up and go powder your nose, bitch.

I am not having fun.

"I got here as fast as I could." I am becoming visibly agitated by three things. This prick has the audacity to lie to me about the time in which I am supposed to get there, then complain that I'm late, and finally attempt to make me late for my next delivery waiting around for the person who actually ordered the food. Her check is right there, dipshit. It is signed. It was given to you by the lady who did the ordering for you to fill out when I got here. Get going Nancy.

Five full minutes later…

"So, tell me. Do YOU people thrive on being late?" he asks.

"Not that I know of," I calmly reply. I've had about enough of his shit. I don't care if he is dressed like a fucking woman. The only things keeping me sane here are visions of me introducing my foot to his sparkled, clumpy eye-lashes. No-one, has ever rubbed me the wrong way, metaphorically speaking, like this guy has.

"Hmmmmmm. I guess I can fill this out now." He fills out the amount on the check and hands it to me. It is the exact amount on the bill. Mother…fucker. You wonder why people spit in your food.

I hate these places.

"Thanks." I leave, already behind schedule for my next delivery.