Are you enjoying newfound positivity in the world? I am! Every day I hear something that makes me smile. “That thing that pissed you off and seemed like it would never change… is changing.”
It’s been a long time coming.
Drink deeply of the world at this changing of the tide. Press, or media, or “history” won’t remember these times on our behalf. They’ll “memory hole” as much as they can; through incompetence or malice as you choose to interpret it.
If you let this time go from your heart, it’ll be gone for good. Do that and you might devolve into believing “the narrative”, whatever that happens to be. The “narrative” is a false construct. It always has been. It will always be so. So hold this memory tight. Please, observe and remember. It’s a special time.
Now for today’s story, which is absolutely true:
I was at the local medical monopoly obtaining minor care. When I say “medical monopoly” I mean exactly that. In my area (and yours) hospitals are “allowed” by the government based on “need”. Should another server wish to open a new hospital, the government can and does decide if the local service is “adequate”. If it’s “adequate” (according to their rules and not yours) more services are not “allowed”. It is the exact precise definition of “monopoly”. We’ve grown used to such things.
The service is as you’d expect from a monopoly. It’s not intolerable, but they’ll shiv you with a smile on their face.
Lucky me, I’m basically healthy. I drive there to get what I need, leave quickly, and hope I won’t pick up some sort of exotic disgusting contagion while I’m there.
The bad service was harder on Rheta.
Rheta was a sweet little old lady. She’d gotten to the facility using some sort of public transport and now she was stranded. How unfortunate! She was decades past the age of driving.
In rural areas, public transit (even to the medical monopoly), is almost comically bad. Someone had run some sort of shuttle bus to get poor Rheta here, and that’s good. Whomever offered that service had subsequently shut down for the day, abandoning her. That’s bad.
I listened as people at the desk tried several ideas; taxi (non-existent), shuttle (not answering), Uber (pretty much non-existent), etc… Urban planners and their glorious people’s light rail fiascos never reach far. There are parts of America where you need a car.
Rheta was worried. So were the desk people. One of them mentioned they’re specifically not allowed to check out and drive someone home. (I’m sure there’s a corporate “policy” that makes sense to planners and lawyers alike, none of whom have watched a sweet elderly lady get abandoned in a lobby.)
Sighing, I approached. “I have a truck that is ridiculously tall. It’s not easily accessed.” I was looking at Rheta’s walker. “But if you want, I will drive you anywhere you want to go.”
I was terrified! My truck is a no-bullshit truck; a true work machine. It’s completely unacceptable for frail little old ladies!
Rheta was a foot shorter than me, weighed nothing, and looked like she was 200 years old. A being like that might burst into dust just at the sound of the engine!
I wished I’d brought my wife’s car!
Having introduced myself in a situation I could have ignored, I stepped back. I was kind of hoping they’d turn me down. Instead the desk people swarmed me with much thanks and kindness. Rheta beamed, super happy to have “a ride with this nice lad”.
I tried to smile. I’m not a mean person but I don’t look friendly. I think I look like the average MAN, but men of a different era. By 2025, men have been watered down completely. On the scale of weenie to man-bun I look like I might kill and eat the average barista. I worried I’d make them nervous. Nope! Plucky Rheta and the two most active ladies at the desk thought Curmudgeon-based transport was a grand idea.
I scampered off to ready my truck. “When they see this beast, they’re going to realize it’s impossible. They’ll surely find a minivan somewhere.” I thought to myself.
I pulled in beneath the ER’s overhanging roof and left the big diesel idling to keep the cab warm. To my delight, the front seat was immaculate! The back seat was heaped with ammo cans, tools, chain, jackets, etc… but the front looked presentable. Rheta either didn’t notice or had the good graces not to ask about the two toy ducks on my dash. I glanced around for shit that would “trigger” normies; no spent shotgun shells, whiskey bottles, or raccoon traps. The cab looked civilized enough.
I hopped out, opened the passenger door, and then fled. No way was I qualified to be lifting anyone, much less a super frail woman, into the truck. I went back to the desk where one of the desk people was filling in while the two others were trying to hoist and cram the poor woman in my truck.
“Where am I going?” I stammered.
“Here’s the address, it’s very close.” They mentioned that like I cared about distance. I didn’t give a shit about distance. I’d drive the lady to Pittsburg if she wanted. I wanted to know how I’d get her out of the truck.
“Have someone waiting there. To get her out. Please.” I urged.
“I will.” She assured me.
I was not assured. And no, she didn’t make the call.
I glanced back at my truck. Two desk ladies and Rheta were pushing and pulling trying to get her into the truck. “Don’t you have like… what do they call ’em? Orderlies? Ambulance guys? Someone who knows how to…” My words failed me.
The desk lady chuckled. Apparently I’d said something funny. I assume there are beefy but trained people who show up at car crashes and shit? Probably there’s some sort of “policy” that they’re no help unless you’re getting billed for the ride.
“This is bullshit.” I muttered. “I carry firewood, cargo, you know… bags of feed.”
“It’ll be fine.” The desk person was completely unconcerned.
Back at the truck, I chose to focus on the stout walker instead of the delicate person. Rheta’s walker, even folded, didn’t fit well in the back seat. I removed her stuff, mostly a “clutch” purse that looked frightfully old and also far too stylish to be in my Neandertal hands. Then I gingerly placed the folded walker in a completely empty 8′ cargo bed.
Two helpers and Rheta hadn’t yet summited Mount Truck. I was near panic watching them. “They’re gonna’ break that nice lady in half… and there will be a sweet grandma lady who’s dead IN MY TRUCK!” I thought.
Someone joined me as I stood there. Another desk lady. She took my name and number. Then I was like “What? You think I’m a kidnapper of sweet old ladies?” The desk lady blushed a bit and said “Well it’s policy.”
This pissed me off. They didn’t care enough to arrange transportation. There was no ambulance guy or an EMT or something to get Rheta into a truck. But there sure as hell was a “we left her with this serial killer” list. I’m on that fuckin’ list!
Despite my worries, Rheta was eventually seated. She seemed to be enjoying the view. It’s a tall truck, she’s probably not had a view like that in forever. I hoped my windshield was clear.
I handed Rheta her handbag clutch. She had a jaunty beret pinned in her hair at an angle. The handbag and the hat matched, and so did her dress. This woman had dressed up to go to the doctor. Probably all those accessories were super fashionable at one time. They looked vaguely French, for reasons I can’t define. Modern people wear sweatpants in public but Rheta was from a much earlier time. I respect that.
It was like I’d picked up an aging star. Who knows what this woman did 40 years ago?
As I walked around to the driver’s seat, one of the desk people told me I was doing a good thing. Thanks. She also said Rheta was 92 years old. As if I weren’t nervous enough!
I settled into the driver’s seat and pulled out like the Dodge was a Rolls Royce, trying for the smoothest ride possible. Rheta seemed charmed with the view and looked at everything with bright eyes. (I’d washed the windshield! Yay me!)
My heart was melting, loading and unloading were worries but actual driving is no big deal. I’d be perfectly happy driving her all afternoon if she wanted.
She chirped away, teaching me to spell her name and asking about my connection to the area. I’ve lived here for decades… merely a newcomer. I’m from far away. She was from right here. Good for her.
The big truck seat and wide view seemed a good thing. I wanted to ask if I should drive her to get groceries or just enjoy the scenery. But I also didn’t know how to offer a touring ride without sounding like that guy from the Door’s song. I was having a good time hearing her tell me about people who’d probably died before I was born. I’d been misled by what I thought was fancy clothes, she’d been on the farm, probably in the time of horses.
She did not talk about politics. She didn’t complain about the weather. I never heard her last name. She talked about a town that was here before the medical monopoly turned corn crops into insurance billing. It was a privilege to hear an elder. I listened carefully.
Sadly, it was a short drive. Rheta lived in a very new and hopefully nice place for elderly people. I hopped out and the place was abandoned and locked. Oh no! Now what?
In the vestibule I pressed a button on an intercom. A young-ish woman answered. I explained I had Rheta here and I super extra deeply would appreciate someone to help get her out of a tall truck.
A person (I don’t know the job title) showed up. She was all smiles and officially useless. She explained that she was not allowed to touch anybody entering or exiting any vehicle, but she was sure it would be fine. I assembled Rheta’s little walker and barely got back to the passenger door in time. Rheta was already trying to climb out of the cab!
Could she do the impossible on her own? I waited. Then Rheta paused a bit.
“Would you like help?” I asked, hoping she didn’t.
“Yes, maybe just a bit.”
So much for that. I reached up and, ever so gently, like she was a Fabergé egg, lifted her to the ground. She weighed nothing and I settled her at her walker so smoothly it was like gravity didn’t apply. Whew!
I wanted to hug Rheta but didn’t dare. I’d given a frail person a ride in my lumbering death truck and nothing had gone wrong. That’s enough luck for one day! I turned down her attempts to pay me and wished her well… and I really meant it. The facility person, who was all smiles, led Rheta into her facility.
I’ll never see her again.
Back in the truck, the cab seemed a little less pleasant. I missed Rheta’s smiling disposition and bright observant eyes. But also a huge weight was off my shoulders. I have no training in how to haul very old people.
I drove to a Starbucks, pulled in, and sat at a table slurping overpriced coffee. I needed to calm my nerves before the long drive home.
I’d done a good deed. I’d do it again. But it wasn’t something to which I’m accustomed. That’s how it goes. God doesn’t give you the challenge you’re prepared for, he gives you the one that needs doing. Dealing with a tree across the road wouldn’t break my stride. Being free Uber for the elderly was much harder.
Maybe I’ve learned something. Next time I go to the hospital, I’ll borrow my wife’s Honda!