Two observations of a homeless person.

The other week I was heading from my lawyer's office to my one job where I assist a woman with disabilities, and I had to take a bus on a busline that I'm usually never on.

And, at one stop, like about 5-6 (black) (homeless) men got on.

And, as we went up the street in this chi-chi neighborhood, this one guy who seemed affable was just sprawled out on a seat and talking loudly about where people he knows lives.

And, as we passed this old shuttered ornate bank, he tells this guy, "Yeah, like ten to fifteen Polish guys live in there, if you're out here in the morning you'll see them coming out in the alley," and he said that they live in the basement and even have beds and put down carpeting and everything.

Then he saw me listening and was like, "You probably can't believe this, can you?", and I said no, and then I asked him how they got in, and he said the lock on the front door was broken, and they originally got in that way.

Then, he went back to talking affably to his friend.

And, a few blocks later, we pass a U-Haul storage place, and he's like, "One of my friends lives in there, he has a little box, seventy-six dollars a month, and he just rolls out his bedroll and sleeps in it, seventy-six dollars a month, that's smart."

Conversation at the local bar.

The other week I was at the one neighborhood bar that I tend to go to, and this one eccentric (older) (Italian-American) guy who says he's from New York City was in there, and somehow me and him started talking about the November elections and backlash against elites, then Bernie and Trump, then the 2009 financial crisis and the like, and we were talking about all of this last topic for quite some time.

Finally, he was like, "And I know some guys who work down on Wall Street, you know what they tell me when they get drunk?".

"That they want to suck cock?", I was like.

At that, he was stunned, and just stopped talking for a noticeable span of time.

The one quiet artist girl who tends bar heard, too, and though she's usually unflappable, she laughed pretty hard at that, and just looked genuinely surprised at my reply and dumbstruck as she laughed.

Comment on Trump of this one resthome resident who's near a hundred.

This one resthome resident who's near a hundred is a retired businessman who tends to have a dark sense of humor, for example he always makes jokes about me or him jumping out the window, and he enjoys it when I do the same, like when I'm assisting him and I tell him to go stand up and then the next instruction I give him is something like, "Now, go jump out the window."

Anyhow, the other week the topic of Trump came up, and right away he was like, "I hope that son-of-a-bitch drops dead," and he said it slowly and clearly in the same slow calm tone of voice he always has, but he was just dead serious, like he almost never is.

Two comments of my one (Mexican) resthome coworker who likes true crime.

The other week at the resthome, my last resident of the night to help was this one resident who likes her nighttime TV and who I try to help between TV programs right when one program has ended and before another one begins so that I don't bother her and interrupt her TV watching, but on that particular night I got delayed and I got there at like 9:15pm or 9:20pm, not at nine on the dot.

And, she was like, "Do we have to do this now? I want to watch this" when I said I had come a bit later than usual but still wanted to assist her, and then when I said we could still do it quick between commercials, she was still surprisingly stubborn, since usually that's less than ideal but still okay with her.

And, her program came back on when I was assisting her, and I half-listened to it some while I was working with her so I could catch her up after we had finished, and wouldn't you know it, I got hooked, since it was the story of the only known instance where a Munchausen by proxy victim upped and killed the person who was taking care of them and pretending that they were sick.

"Do you mind if I watch this with you for a bit?", I was like, after we had finished and I had escorted her back to in front of her TV.

"Please do," she was like.

And, I kept watching the TV show for like twenty or thirty minutes, I was so addicted.

Afterwards I had to run down to the office to get ready to go since it was already time to clock out, and I bumped into my one (Mexican) coworker who likes true crime.

When I started gushing to her about the great true crime show I had just been watching with that one resident and I ended my summary with "...and the daughter turned out not to be sick at all!", my one (Mexican) coworker was like, "That's a good one."

Later, she also observed, "See, when you're tired, you're tired" (i.e., 'when you get sick and tired of something, you really get sick and tired of it'), since I guess that that was the lesson that she had learned from that true crime story.

Resthome crack: Trivia about John Wayne Gacy.

So, I'm reading the memoir of John Wayne Gacy's lawyer, and the other week when I was working at the resthome, I kept it in my front uniform pocket like I always keep some reading material for when I have downtime, only I had it cover-in so that no-one would see the cover and be scandalized or anything like that.

(I highly doubt that anyone would be scandalized, but still, you never know.)

Anyways, when I went to go assist the one retired psychiatrist, he saw the book and asked me what I was reading, and I told him, and he asked me if I learned anything interesting, and I said, yes, I did, that when Gacy was a boy he used to steal his mothers pink silk underwear and rub them all over himself and then go bury them under the porch.

"And you never did, motherf*cker?", he was like, with a perfect mock-serious tone of voice to suggest that it was something that everyone does.

LOL.

Comment of a hundred year old resthome resident.

A few days after her birthday, I popped in to check on one resthome resident who had just turned a hundred, and she was sitting at her one desk in her living room, and like every square inch of her desk was covered in cards that she had stood up so they faced her.

"Oh my gosh, what is that?!?" I was like, to her.  "Did you get a card for every year of your life?!?"

"Probably two," she was like.

Busier shifts at the resthome.

It's really interesting how the amount of work can ebb and flow at the resthome, as new people move in and as other people leave through death or to go to more care intensive facilities, or as the same people who have been living there require more care than ever.

Lately, for instance, one new man moved in, and then another guy who's been living there has been needing more time per check-in and more check-ins overall per shift as his dementia has been progressing.

Like two days in a row I slept over ten hours after getting off shift and going home, and at first I thought it was a fluke due to me not getting enough sleep and maybe the weather, too, but then I realized it was because I was working that much more per shift with less downtime than ever, and I needed the sleep to recharge.

Right before this period, the amount of work had been light, and so you'd get maybe a half hour's downtime in the early afternoon, and then again at dinner, and then maybe towards the end of the shift, but now it's like ten minutes early on, and maybe twenty minutes at dinner, and then finally some sit-down time like right before you go home.

That extra work really adds up, to drain you.  You just get to work and it's go - go - go for like eight hours.

I really do like this job, though; it's busy and fun and always different, and my coworkers and the residents are so nice.

A crack by that one retired psychiatrist who I assist at the resthome.

The other week I went to go assist that one retired psychiatrist who I assist at the resthome when he was getting up from a nap, and when I go in, he's lying there all groggy and clothed on his bed with his shirt accidentally pulled up a bit over his big white belly and exposing his navel a bit.

"Is it me, or is it cold in here?", he asked all groggily as soon as I got in.

"It feels pretty normal," I was like, "But maybe it's how your shirt is pulled up and showing your stomach."

"That's supposed to be sexy," he mumbled.

Kindness on the subway.

The other week when I stood up on the subway and was waiting at the door as the train coasted into the one station where I get off to go to work at one of my jobs,, I put my hands into my pockets to check for my hat, and just as the train was finally coasting in and the doors were about to open, I realized that my hat wasn't in my pocket, so I quickly turned around and glanced back to where I had been sitting, to see if it had fallen out.

And there it was, a black knit blob on the seat, and this (younger middle-aged) black lady in a pink coat with an eyebrow piercing raised her head up to get my attention, as she was pointing at my hat on the seat beside her.

How kind of her.

I nodded at her with a smile, rushed back, snatched it up, and then dashed out the opening doors at my station, without missing a beat.