I’ve seen our future and it ain’t pretty

Last evening my friend Donna got back from Washington and we decided to meet for some pie at a Flying Star, one of the local coffee shop chain. It was nearing 9.

I had to make a left turn on the way and it required a wait for traffic to clear. Opposite me turning left from the oncoming traffic was a vehicle with its bright lights on. I tried to avoid looking at the lights, of course, but couldn’t help it somewhat as I watched the oncoming traffic in the adjacent lanes. Finally I was able to turn left, then I took the first right.

It was an unlit street and the glare from the bright lights was still bouncing around my retinas. At first I thought I was seeing things. And then I did see it.

It was an elderly man in a wheel chair crossing the street. No lights, no reflecting tape, only my headlights barely illuminating him. I slowed and went around; by the time I passed he was nearly on the dirt next to the street along a large undeveloped field. He was moving slowly, Fred Flintstone style.

I continued the quarter mile or so to the parking lot of the Flying Star, recovering from being startled and wondering what to do. There were two long-term care facilities back where the man was. One was assisted care apartments; the other what used to be called a nursing home. It might be he was fine; it might be he was not. Was it my business?

Donna arrived and I told her about it. We decided to go back and see if he was still there.

He was, just about where he’d been a few minutes earlier. We drove past and went to the nursing care facility.

I wandered in. No locks, no receptionist. But it was clean and it was nice and it was as scary as hell. (Perhaps it is hell.)

I continued back, finally seeing a nurse or orderly down the hall. I called to him, eventually got his attention and told him about the man. We ran out a back door and I showed him my apparition in the dark on the other side of the street about 100 yards away.

The attendant went and got John and wheeled him back across the street. John did not want to come this way; it was “goddam this and goddammit that”. His arms were heavily bruised and bandaged. I helped lift John, a big man, and his wheelchair over a curb. The attendant thanked me for saving the man’s life. I told him there was no need to get dramatic, but I was glad I saw him and could help. I left them there, outside the door we’d come out. The attendant called someone to unlock the door. It was raining lightly.

We had coconut cream pie.