CHAPTER 13

Met a new boarder who had taken the bed next to mine. He told me quite a few stories about himself, and how he had a farm and plowed his land with a hand controlled jeep. He would have made a permanent impression on me except that one day he asked the doctors to cut off his legs, so as to enable him to move about with more ease. I decided to listen less to him and concentrate more on crossword puzzles. Finding that the little bedsore for which he had been admitted was healed, and that the doctors would not cooperate with him on his ideas about operations he decided to ask for a discharge to which the doctors quickly obliged.
After he left new linen was placed on his bed, but the lazy aide goofed, and never scrubbed it as all beds are supposed to be after discharging a patient. The bed lay idly for a few months; doing nothing better than serving as a perch for those who were healthy enough to sit up and talk to me. The seat soon had to be given to a disabled veteran, and that morning the nurse came in to draw down the sheets. She yanked down the sheets with rare vigor when out from under the mattress bounced a spanking unused fifth of Bourbon to the floor. A near riot ensued, but to no avail; she was adamant. It had to be confiscated. The boys cried, yelled, and moaned, but she would not accede to their wishes. The conversation for the next twenty-four hours had but that one theme. How could that bottle lie under that mattress all those months, and no one feel it as he or she sat on it? Could all of my visitors have had paralyzed arses? It couldn’t be blamed on their noses; for the bottle had been sealed at least until Carrie Nation’s protégé poured its contents down the drain of the nurses’ office sink.
Joe Zacharia, the paraplegic who was to occupy the bed, thought that the furor had something to do with his arrival, and that Tennesseans didn’t want people from Louisiana to live with them. When I told him of the disaster that had just occurred he decided to join the crowd and weep with it.
The nice thing about his being admitted to our ward was that it helped complicate the roster a little bit more, for we had six or seven “Joes” including myself. Speaking about “Joes”, there was the Joe who was always drunk. Not that he was the only patient who ever drank, but he did a more thorough job of it. He was so consistently drunk that the doctors became annoyed, and decided to have him watched. No one ever saw him touch a drop of the spirits let alone handle a bottle of whiskey. The situation soon became serious, for he was gradually killing himself with cirrhosis, which was slowly setting into his liver. They never did find out how he was getting it into his stomach, but as a safety precaution they had him transferred to another ward. Eight or more years at college and not one of the white-jacketed dopes could detect the odor of the liquor from his water jug as it stood silently on his bedside table. No one of the patients ever told, though perhaps if someone had, he might have been doing Joe a favor. The best we ever did for Joe was to make up a caricature sign that we posted at the ward entrance with these words on it “Ward Four A Off Limits to Joe.” I’m not sure, but I think they buried the sign with him.
That is the way things go with GI Joes. A strange paradox was that as Joe deteriorated, the Joe in the bed next to mine strengthened, and built up his muscles. He built up his uppers to a point where he could do a handstand on the Balkan frame. (A Balkan frame is a network of bars that is used by handicapped people to pull themselves in and out of bed.) A handstand is not an unusual thing in this world; save for the fact that Joe was dead from the bel1y-button down, and has to counter-balance the pull of gravity on his legs with the strength in his chest and arm muscles.
The doctor walked in on us one day as Joe was demonstrating one of these stunts on my bed, and his sudden appearance so startled Joe that he lost his grip forcing him to fall directly upon me. Instead of examining me and asking if I were hurt he said, “Silver what are you doing here?” “I don’t understand, doctor,” I replied. He added, “You have no business being in this room with these drunks.” “But Doc,” I interrupted, “I like these fellows, and it is just my rotten luck that I can’t go out and raise Cain with them.” He shrugged his head as Joe rolled into his chair. Neither Joe nor I complained of being hurt leaving the doctor nothing to do but walk out.
A week later my inability to go out with the boys gave me a special position on the ward. I became the bank for all the drunks who deposited their monies with me for safekeeping. The bandage that held the dressings to my buttocks and ran around my abdomen was always bulging with hundreds of dollars. One night an ex-GI named Joe gave me ten fifty-dollar bills to keep for him as he was receiving delivery of his new car the next day, and he wanted to be certain that he would have the final payment money when the dealer arrived. It was a fortunate thing that he had taken this precaution, for that night he was on the floor drunk. Before anyone other than a patient could notice him, he crawled all the way onto his bed in a fashion that a swimmer might use; arm over arm. He slept well that night, but I didn’t.
He was happy as a lark after receiving his new hand-controlled vehicle until one day when he suddenly discovered that it had disappeared. It was dark blue, and new cars in those days were not hard to trace. He immediately notified the police who shortly thereafter reported to him that it was being washed by one of the hospital aides at a car wash in town. When they had questioned him the aide insisted that the owner had delegated him to do exactly what he was doing. Upon being brought back to the hospital, he ignored the frustrated complainer, and insisted upon bringing the keys back to the rightful owner who had sent him on his fateful mission. He didn’t wait long, for soon one of the boys rolled up yelling, “Where the hell have you been all day? And why didn’t you take my car to town as I asked you to? That damn thing is still sitting there just as dirty as ever. To top it off, it looks even worse setting next to that shiny blue one.” One of the police officers began to laugh as he took the keys to confirm his suspicion that he could open both cars with them. It wasn’t a true car theft, but a case of General Motors efficiency which had treated one patient to a car wash at the expense of another.
Now that I was one of the boys I didn’t feel hesitant about asking them to do some of the things for me that I couldn’t do for myself, such as shopping off of the post. My favorite for these tasks was Joe Zacharia. Joe was more than friendly to the fellows; he was also the greatest lover in the ward, and it wasn’t unusual to see the charge nurse coming to his bedside to ask him to answer a phone call in her office, which had obviously originated from the nurses’ quarters. His hectic schedule of trying to please the ladies always brought him in late in the morning, and in no mood to wake up in a manner that is necessary to go to the mess hall.
Knowing that I owed Joe a debt of gratitude I devised a simple plan of repayment. I erased my name from my tray card, and replaced it with his. The first morning that he received a bedside tray he was dumbfounded, but I managed to make Indian sign language to him in order to shut his mouth in time. When all was calm and the coast was clear, I complained that I had not received my breakfast. They made a hurried check, but naturally couldn’t find either my tray or its card. With an apology that it must have gone astray, a new card was made up, and my tray service continued. For many months to come, Joe and his girls in the City of Memphis lived on happily.
Joe wasn’t the only one to have fun in Memphis, for Memphis is a fun-loving city with its people as open-hearted to a veteran as any town can be save for the automobile dealers. To them our money was no good, and Uncle Sam’s money just as worthless. Despite the fact that they could sell us cars and not have them counted on their quotas they just wouldn’t be bothered by Government red tape. We had to go out of town for our needs, but not too far. A dealer in nearby Jackson, Tennessee realized he had captured two hundred and fifty customers for Oldsmobiles, and came directly to us to write up the orders. The gimmick of course was to keep the purchase price under sixteen hundred dollars as the law stipulated. We managed to do this, but there was always the matter of accessories. Our dealer made up to us for his altruism by suggesting that we buy all types of new gadgets including spotlights that naturally were not included in the bill sent to the Government. It was a fortunate thing that the police in Memphis did not have a rule at that time about spotlights, or we would have had trouble with them also.
Buying a car even with a Government priority in those days for a paralyzed veteran was not so simple as it is today. The dealer refused to accept any driver’s license except from the state in which the deal was to be transacted. In order to learn how to drive I was put in the embarrassing position of borrowing a friend’s car. He doesn’t know it, but I ran it through some bushes before I finally mastered the art of driving with hand controls. It took quite a while to work up enough strength and nerve to qualify for a license. I strengthened my back with long sessions of sitting up and pushing around in an old-fashioned wooden wheelchair.
I made quite a picture at a party rolling around the dining room floor of one of the town’s finer hotels in that chariot with a half-gallon jug tied to its back to serve as my urine reservoir. Of course I covered the glass with tape so to hide the color of its contents, but the hose and odor were still a problem. They were a problem that is; until the party started rolling. Once dear spirits fermenti took over as an anesthetic, everyone’s nose automatically smelled only the finest perfumes.
After finally concluding all my licensing requirements my car gave me a newfound feeling of independence, but I still had that old truck horse of a wheelchair to contend with. The die was cast, and I purchased a small trailer with which to carry the chair. I was quite picturesque on my sojourns to town with that chair jutting into the air for all to see and comment upon.
As most of our parties were monthly affairs at the Ridgeway Country Club ninety-nine percent of my trips fortunately were over rural roads. On one such occasion the adjustable leg of the chair fell off and on to the road. It took the better part of an hour jockeying the car backward and forward until I was in a position to reach down and pick the leg up without running over it. My other hand was holding the hand control brake and steering wheel at the same time.
No matter how large or small the effort on the part of the people who threw these parties I loved every affair. Nowhere has an organization such as theirs given me such a sincere demonstration of proof that it was not throwing parties to build up its own ego. The slightest impersonal barriers between us, the nurses, and the doctors were broken down at these affairs, for it was not unusual to find a good representation on the staff’s part at each affair. The same thing held true for the manager himself.
Resurgence of life amongst the half dead bastards left over from the war was not without its drawbacks, for with the mechanical age came complications: The first being an effort on the part of one of the young gentlemen to climb a tree in his car on an icy night. He offered the ice as an excuse, but the insurance company was not too happy though he was unscathed about the two thousand dollars worth of scrap iron he bee accumulated, for which it had to pay.
The coming of compensation brought to the boys a new means of recreation: galloping dominoes. The first of such events began when our female aide started to roll the cubes with a patient for nickels on his bed. All went well until she had to go home, for despite her being ahead two dollars the boys were anxious to see her leave.
Once she was out of sight the noisy coins were quickly brushed off the bed, and out came the quiet green United States Government paper. Things didn’t go badly for the winners as every half hour or so another sucker from an adjacent ward would roll in to lose his compensation check, and then thoroughly depressed roll out. By nightfall the tempo had quickened, and we had at least one visitor from each and every ward. The news of the gaming had finally spread to the ambulatory wards bringing in a kindly looking old gentleman who politely asked if he might join the festivities. In less than an hour he accumulated sixteen hundred dollars, and then asked to be excused. The boys were dumbfounded, but helpless to act, for he had already paid another ambulatory patient one hundred dollars to guide him safely out of the ward. Considering that this guide had but to get him past a flock of wheelchairs the hundred dollars was more like a present.
Before leaving the old man decided upon an act of Christian charity. “Fellows” he said, “I’m going to teach you something, and that is that you should never roll dice on a blanket with a stranger even though he is using your own cubes.” With that he asked for numbers to be called, and immediately proved his point. He made only one apology. Don’t ask me to roll the numbers one or thirteen — I have trouble with those.” With that he did a quick about-face, and together with his guide swiftly left the ward. From that time forward the dice rules were changed, and all the games were played on Joe May’s bed, for Joe was a single leg amputee. His left leg served very efficiently as a backstop for the dice when they were rolled.
Not all the boys were gamblers; some were just plain Southern gentlemen. One was such an extreme gentleman that when he fell out of bed during the middle of one night he whispered, “Help” instead of yelling it. His whispers finally awakened his bed buddy who turned on his call light, and rescued the fallen angel.
As the days rolled on I became quite acclimated to the sound of hillbilly music. I was so conditioned to it that when I attended the wedding of one of the nurses I was confused by the wedding march. They were two sweet kids determine to crawl out of their miserable background, for miserable it was. I tasted a few hours of it when I drove the groom to his father’s home; more properly called a sharecropper’s shack. That was the only time I have ever been in one, and I hope it will be the last, for I saw enough.
Young people in love don’t need anybody or anything the poets say when their love is true, but occasionally someone fails to find his mate. We had a kindly old gentleman on the ward who was an indigent patient, and if he had had the money would have become as freely loving a bachelor as any of the rest of us. He knew that the key to forgetting his troubles was an automobile, but his pension wouldn’t allow it. Mr. Treat though years older than the average paraplegic veteran was a bit eccentric, but nevertheless determined to break loose with the boys. He never admitted it to anyone, and played the prudish recluse. Over the years the boys teased him, but he never deviated save to permit one of the fellows to treat him to a ride and a few beers. Day after day he spent his time making wallets and purses for sale to all comers. No one knew how well he was doing until one summer’s day one of the women volunteers drove up in a used car, and handed him the keys plus ownership papers. He had been secretly giving her his money to bank for him until he had saved up five hundred dollars with which she purchased the auto for him. From that day forward he was the gayest blade of them all.
The greater the number of automobiles, the greater the number of death certificates. The next casualty was a lad who had earned his livelihood as a professional motorcycle stunt driver. One of the daily stunts of his act was to drive his bike at top speed toward a brick wall, at the last second veer off to the left, sideswipe the wall, and ride away unhurt. On a day that the amusement park was closed, he was looping along at about forty miles per hour on a country road when a milk truck came out of a side road, and out in front of him. When he needed his stunting abilities most of all they failed him, and he was added to the paraplegic roster at Kennedy’s Veteran Administration Hospital.
The day his death certificate was signed he had borrowed someone’s car for a trip to Mississippi to visit with his family. He had even stopped to purchase a baby rabbit as a gift for his young daughter. After a few beers at the saloon next to the pet shop he was just ripe to do a takeoff at ninety miles per hour. Then somewhere down the road it bent where he didn’t want it to. There wasn’t enough left of him and the rabbit to make stew.
Two or three more similar reports, and the insurance broker found himself up the proverbial creek with his company. In one mass move he cancelled every paraplegic policy in the hospital. Every policy, that is, save mine, for by a stroke of luck I had made my purchase from an agent whose name I had mentioned to no one. The insurance policies may have been cancelled, but the boys didn’t let the girls or breeding stalls where they necked go to waste. Life must go on, and it certainly
While those gay young blades and their jills were trying to make a contribution towards the nation’s procreation needs which, truthfully, they couldn’t, Uncle Sam himself sometimes proved to be a young people’s party wrecker as the case of a rather intelligent but comely and virile nurse will illustrate. She was busily and adeptly at work placing a dressing over a bedsore on my backside when the paraplegic service’s nursing supervisor approached us. This woman, who was a Miss though old enough to be my nurse’s mother, interrupted her chore, and started to lecture her on the assets of taking advantage of the schooling opportunities which the Veterans’ Administration offered to girls of her mental ability. She thoroughly convinced my nurse that she should fill out the necessary application forms, and started to leave with an air of having completed a job well done, but stopped herself long enough to say, “By the way you didn’t tell me what your plans on marriage were.”