CHAPTER 24

For clean laughs we listened to Jenny the restaurant owner’s wife as she jealously commented over Al Spannelli’s shiny new Cadillac. After we placed our order on that hot summer night I went with Al to pick it up. We were quite fed up with her chatter by the time that her pint-sized husband Harry brought it out to us, but as Harry was a good hearted soul who prided himself on his excellent cuisine; the end justified the means. We didn’t tarry too long after paying the bill, for we knew that a flock of hungry mouths was waiting for us at the hospital courtyard.
The trip up the hill from the hospital gate took but seconds, and the members of that waiting crowd never gave Al a chance to fully stop his pride and joy when they came at us as if food rationing had returned on a wartime basis. We had hardly rid ourselves of the cloying throng and were not too certain that the finances were straight when we began to hear loud meowing. Our first thoughts were of one of the orderlies making those noises as he stared down at us from our ward’s latrine window in the hopes of shaming us into presenting him with a sandwich, but such was not the case.
The sounds persisted, and though it was dark three sets of tiny eyes stared pleadingly up at us from but a few inches above the ground revealed to us that the creators of those unwelcome calls were genuine cats. When they came right up to us not only did we confirm that they were members of the feline world, but good and dirty alley cats to boot. Sharing our precious hoard with those four-legged monsters of the night was an expensive bit of altruism, but though we were undecided as to whether we were committing an act of charity or appeasement we cowards gave in to them.
We soon began to feel more like jackasses than humanitarians, for the cute furry bastards ate only the meat and turned up their noses at the bread. We were hoping that no one would notice us when up walked one of the guards who knew most of us by sight. Upon spotting what we were doing and ignoring our first names he caustically remarked, “What are you dumb jerks trying to do, spoil those hobos?” Before we could defend our good deed for the day he added, “we’ve got a basement full of rats and mice, and these gluttons are important to keeping the hospital clean.” We just couldn’t win that day for keeping our furry friends happy meant that we were also doing the same for the rodent world. Our little attempt at big-heartedness had given those disease carriers a respite from their natural enemies and our protectors.
We sudden1y found ourselves with a new stimulus to provide us with an interest in living. We had had enough of the low life which our rich poor boy had brought in with his two legged cats while the four-legged kind sat looking on. We found what we had really been looking for since young Crosby’s accident had failed to materialize on our behalf. A real life genuine big name personality became involved in a spinal cord accident. Roy Campanella of Brooklyn Dodger baseball fame made a miscue with his automobile, and without any formal investiture was a member of our not too exclusive wheelchair club.
What we could learn of his case from the papers and our own private medical grapevine told us that he was in real trouble. That accident had broken his neck, and it was all too obvious to us that his baseball days were past history. Even the doctors took an interest in the prospective patient, for we all knew that even a wealthy person such as he could not stand the taxing strain of the medical bills which he was going to receive for the rest of his life. The doctors’ curiosity was purely professional, but we had high hopes that his case and name would help us present our cause to the American people.
Our hopes were really looking up when we saw his picture on the front cover of Life magazine, but when we opened the pages to his interview we found just the opposite. He was completely ignorant of medicine and the gruesome facts of paraplegia. Instead of spreading the truth someone had filled the poor misguided soul with a world of misinformation for morale purposes, and he was passing it on to the public. We were not ready to admit to the disastrous effects which he was having upon our efforts to educate the American people, but believed we could rectify the matter when he reached our hospital. It was then that the next bombshell of bad news reached us. He was not a veteran.
With the assistance of Junius Kellogg, the Negro basketball player who was also a paraplegic, further attempts were made to approach him but to no avail; the damage had been done. There was a strange bit of irony to all this, for he in all his press releases told of how with the aid of medical science and faith he was going to get better, but these many years later if one bothers to tune into “Campy’s Corner” his television program he can still be seen sitting helplessly in a wheelchair the same as any quadriplegic. His money has begun to run out, but he is fortunate in one way in which the rest of his civilian counterpart`s are not, for he happened to know people who were able to give him a job which was geared to his ability.
There is a second paradox to this yarn which tells that in spite of all that he has said and believed in the past if per chance you should receive a letter from the National Paraplegia Foundation which appeals to you for funds for spinal cord regeneration research you will note that is signed by Roy Campanella himself. The bitter truth has finally reached him, and he now realizes that the only path back to life must follow our way of thinking.
Though the milk was spilled and would continue to be so for many a year there was no sense crying over it, so we turned our thoughts to gayer things and the coming holidays. In keeping with this idea but in a slightly more mischievous vein we started thinking of the forthcoming party which was being brought to us by the Textile Veteran’s Association. Instead of a freely loving and not too clean female who repented her visits they treated us to a once-a-year affair with oodles and bevies of gorgeous girls. They found their sources of supply through the legitimate channels of the models who worked in their industry and drew upon them heavily and generously to be certain that the party would be an overwhelming success.
Being the true executives that they are they laid plans for the events months in advance. An added incentive was provided for the older fellows many of whom were married, and afraid that their wives might learn of the pleasant evening which they were going to spend with these young models. Gifts were presented to these men made of the products of the trade so that they could pacify their jealous and not too understanding mates. The organization also saw to it that each patient who happened (and there were a few) to be a father of a child was provided with a gift for his offspring. The rest of us cared little for the presents, and were quite content to be nothing more than guests at the gala affair.
Their timing was perfect, and every party was thrown a week or two before Christmas giving us the best holiday present of all: a chance to forget about our wheelchairs and relax with the best of them. Like everything else there was a curtain for this, and at nine o’clock they took back our dream, but the girls left us with pictures of themselves, which we could paste alongside the rest of the pin-ups.
Another subject which made our mouths water and which I hope has the same effect on all normal people was the holiday menu. The night that those foods were so nobly displayed for the festive season did not quite have the same effect on me as it did the others, for I still had to be confronted with my eternal problem, but it was fun to look at and see that Uncle Sam was trying his best for his boys. During the war he had promised to give the same to his G. I.’s, and I can remember swallowing down gulps of turkey dressing as I ducked German shells, but this time I was not up to honoring our Uncle’s beautiful gesture. He may have tried his best at the noonday meal and found me unappreciative, but at supper time when the rest of the boys were not too happy about the bill of fare I made up for my noon time indiscretion. When the government treats its wards to a large and delicious spread someone reminds the chefs about economy, and the rest of the meals must suffer.
That night as on other holiday nights we had hash, but I went against the trend, and was not too unhappy as were the others about the meal. Hash was easier to swallow, and my calorie intake was larger than normal. The boys really had no right to complain, for the Veterans’ Administration could have fallen back to the idea which it had inherited from the military; cold cuts when there weren’t so many patients around. The army certainly didn’t reward the man who had thought up the idea with a commission so he could wear a different uniform. He was saving it large sums of money.
A topic which is certain to provide food for conversation for many a month to follow with favored sights for rehashing opinions about the well-shaped subject being the dining room meals and the recreation hall before the showing of a picture was naturally sex. When the tone of such a conversation became too torrid the best place for such man-to-man talk was in any of the rooms on the ward while waiting for the portable motion picture projector to be set up. This was of course provided if the volunteer projectionist were not a female. If the projectionist was slow about his chore or ran into complications as he frequently did we would find one of the viewers who couldn’t resist starting to brag about his gay adventures when he was still on his feet and healthy before one of our nation’s enemies decided to do him in.
The way the tales and lies poured out of the mouths it sounded more like a rat race than a round robin, but as conversation is a parap1egic’s best sport as well as his by-product we sat back and tolerated each other’s prevarications like true gentlemen. We attempted to make an effort of maintaining the impression that we were truly gentlemen by planting one of our number at the doorway to be certain that we could be warned in time to alter our conversation should any female aide happen to chance in our direction. We didn’t even flinch at the sight of a male nurse, for every one of them had a repertoire of spicy tales far better than any of ours.
Despite the fact that these bull sessions were held but for one purpose; to amuse ourselves they sometimes proved to be just the opposite. Some of the braggarts in their eagerness to spit out their lewd tales forgot that many of us found our ways into our chairs because of some war, and went on to recite stories about the great times they were having while the shooting was still on. Stanley my partner in counterfeiting who saw action against the Japanese in the Pacific forgettingly told this ironic story. Prior to his entry into the Marines he held a defense job in his home state of Delaware. Like all the industries connected with the war effort it too had to partake in air raid drills and blackouts. That was when opposites attracted, for while the lights were out the boys chased or were chased by the girls who worked there. The axiom of this saga was very plain. We fought while they played.
The leeches on the Democratic System are ever present, and though it was bad enough having them around during the war with their black markets and draft dodging their little brothers could be found ever present in their Veteran’s Hospital System. It takes but a little misdeed on the part of a member of personnel to anger the patients, but in all fairness we must also examine our own backyards. The process of weeding out any and all who do not merit hospitalization at government expense is if not a difficult one to say the least not an easy one, and the constant flow which through remedial legislation has been cut to a trickle nevertheless continues.
Part of that tide was the patient who rolled into my room, and whom though I had never seen before said to me, “Joe; how’s about loaning me ten bucks?” His abrupt request caught me off guard for a second, but I recoiled in time to take a second glance at him; reassured myself that I was not in error by believing that I had not seen him, and said, “Who the hell are you, and where did you get your damn nerve from?” This didn’t faze him in the slightest, and he nonchalantly replied, “Oh you know me; I’m an old buddy of yours from the third floor.” To that I replied, “If the price of your friendship is ten dollars, I prefer that we remain as enemies.”
To that he presented me with a sour face, and as he slowly rolled from the room he desperately tried to convey the impression that my ill-thought action had cost me his friendship. Like the birds that follow the sun to escape the rigors of winter he had checked into the hospital which was to serve as his Southland. As was to be expected he came in broke; hoping to find a few idiots from whom without unfolding the true depth of his plight he could borrow a series of ten-dollar bills. His poor presentation spoiled his effort with me, but as for the rest of the fellows the majority of them was familiar with his sponging ways from previous winters, and had dubbed him as they had many other leeches such as he; “Snowbird.” His sun had set that day at Kingsbridge Hospital.
After my short encounter with that financial wizard I was very much Snowbird conscious, and shortly thereafter spotted a rather healthy looking ambulatory patient who was spending more time on our ward than I felt was necessary. It was a common practice for the fellows who had friends who were also patients on other wards to have them come and visit them, but this ambulatory patient was making himself at home. Discretion dictates that it is best to mind one’s own business in situations such as this, but common sense was telling me that this was the sort of thing which had been the prologue to the rash of petty thievery with which the ward had been plagued. I didn’t own one of those newly marketed transistor radios, which were such easy prey for thieves, but I was haunted by the thought and could not shake it.
One day I saw the object of my curiosity walking to the doctor’s office, and growing even more interested I rolled to an angle at which I could see its occupants. To my surprise and disillusionment my doctor was giving the interloper a physical examination. I was a little disappointed when I learned that the intruder had been assigned to the ward as an overflow patient from the overcrowded Orthopedic Service. With that chip taken off my shoulder I found it quite easy to strike up a conversation with him, and discovered that we even had a mutual friend.
He approached me a few days later to ask me to introduce him to that cute visitor whom he had seen at my bedside during the afternoon before. He was a little bit hurt when I told him that the nice dish about whom he had become interested was not a personal friend of mine, but a female clinical psychologist who was giving intelligence tests to those who were willing to submit to them. This didn’t sway him any, and he insisted that I find out complete details about her including her specifications, name and home address. It was quite a sacrifice to make for a newfound friend, but as before our introduction I failed to give him the benefit of the doubt; I was forced to submit to many more mental tests by that comely redhead to ease my conscience and to satisfy my buddy. It was another sad case of irony, for a man in a wheelchair was doing the legwork for a lover boy with two healthy legs.
His taking only to that psychologist was a little unfair to the rest of the female members of the staff, for there was plenty of fair game still loose in the hospital, and in my opinion more attractive than the redhead. The youngest and cutest ones could be found as part of the dietitian’s training program; with every autumn bringing a new crop. One didn’t have to be a regular client of the mess hall to meet these young ladies, for they could be seen in the evening dressed in blue jeans and denims as they slyly slipped past the guard to make their way to seats in the Recreation Hall. The rigors of their studies were taking their toll, and the girls found these triweekly presentations a more than welcome respite. The advantage of their mannish costumes was that it made it a great deal easier for them to melt into that all-male audience, and far harder for the guards to detect their unauthorized presence. To the patients the sight of those tightly clinging trousers was a pleasant change from their food-spattered uniforms, and to be certain a far sexier picture.
On the nights when the girls were too busy to have time to change into a disguise, and also seek some form of recreation they chose the glee club as the medium for their short stint of relaxation. Aside from the identifying marks of their uniform they could be easily picked out, though there were other females present because they clung together like sheep. The purpose of their little wanderings away from their quarters I had always believed was a manhunt, but the way I had always learned it only wolves traveled in packs. Whatever the reasons were they never met my buddy, and he was soon on his way home back to the happy unthinking outside world.
With the girls chasing the boys, and my friend chasing the girls, things appeared as they should be: quite normal. If you can call a cold spell at a time when the snowdrifts are so deep that the phone company would ask its clients not to make any but emergency calls normal. On just such a day I was summoned to answer the phone, but before reaching the booth I had all sorts of visions in my mind; all spelling out trouble at home with my mom or dad. When I picked up the receiver I was delighted to hear the voice of a new member of our paraplegic fraternity. He was a rather fat youngster leaving no doubt that his dad’s ownership of a grocery store was a contributing factor to his obesity. He always spoke with a jolly tone to his voice, but this time it was gone, and he actually sounded worried.
“Joe,” he said, “I’ve got a problem.” To that I coldly retorted, “So what? You’re an advertising genius. Solve it!” He half pleadingly continued. “Please Joe, this is serious. I’m here on the Concourse at a friend’s home in the Bronx, and this snowstorm has made it impossible for me to travel back out to Long Island to my home.” I then butted in, “Doesn’t your friend have a room big enough to board you for the night?” “Yeah,” he retorted, “but I can’t get into the bathroom.” I couldn’t resist, so I snapped back, “What’s the matter; you too fat for the doorway?” “Don’t be a comedian,” he continued to plead, “You know damn well I’m talking about my chair. Joe, what’ll I do?”
Realizing that my boy was terribly worried I ceased the teasing and said, “Call the hospital, and say that you need an ambulance as you don’t feel well.” He yelled back, “What if they ask me what’s the matter; what’ll I say?” “Tell them you’ve got a pain,” I replied, “after all you’re no doctor.” He thanked me and hung up. I thought no more of it until the next day when Harry awakened me as he delivered the morning papers. “Hey,” he shouted, “You know about Dickie Schmidt; he checked in yesterday with heart trouble?” They wouldn’t let me visit him as they had put him on the cardiac ward.” I began to smile to myself, but Harry couldn’t understand how I could be so cruel.
My boy had thought of the pain that was necessary to have him admitted to the hospital. He had complained of a severe pain in the center of his chest, and being extra heavy were all the signs the doctors needed to diagnose his case as a heart attack. He had only bargained for a night or two of free lodging, but his portrayal backfired, for he found himself undergoing a week’s study; plus sternly enforced bed rest before he was finally discharged as well.
After he left, the secret of how his visit came about quickly crept through the ward, but in the interests of discretion the doctors were not told. I’m not certain, but I still believe they know nothing of the truth in that case. It is just as well, for sooner or later the story would have been magnified entirely out of proportion, and made it sound as if a horrible crime had been perpetrated. It takes no effort to enlarge a tale as can be illustrated by the story of the colored boy who came in drunk a few minutes before curfew. He quietly slipped into bed with none of the fellows in his room being awakened by his movements. The whiskey he had drunk did its usual dirty trick, and he quickly fell into the arms of Morpheus.
We to our misfortunes had working on the ward at that time an ancient crone of a nurse who prided herself with her reserve army commission, and despite her being modest about it; fat. She believed in the book of rules, and even felt that it was worth stretching a point or two to see that they were enforced. She stretched more than one regulation that night, for after the orderly reported that the patient had returned from pass she decided that only she could determine the truth of that by checking it personally. She arrived at his bed, and found him to her disappointment soundly asleep. His presence was not enough, and she bent low over his head to smell his breath. Sure enough just as she suspected; he had been drinking. Though the facts were slightly adulterated; the report on the doctor’s desk the next morning read that the patient had returned from pass intoxicated. There were two sides to that story, for he was an arrested tuberculosis case. The spirits were bad for his disease, but the boys could never forgive her for the sneaky underhanded methods she had used on him.
As much as the boys hated that woman they treated her with an awesome respect, for they knew that she meant business. It was ironic that they should treat her respectfully, for there were volunteers who came onto the ward and freely worked their hearts out for the boys, only to have them respond with jeers and snide remarks. We had a cute little projectionist whose breasts were admired by the connoisseurs of finer things because they also projected beautifully, and who made a mad dash twice a week after work while skipping her supper to show pictures on our ward. She was a common and welcome sight for five years, doing her best to see that the fellows were never forgotten.
Over the years the character of the patients changed radically, and if the title of the picture were not to their liking they would greet her with insulting remarks. When I had first met her the tone of conversation about her was always complimentary; even to include a few saturated drools for her anatomy, but over the years the average mentality of our patients had dropped below the moronic level, for New York was no longer the enlightened city it had once been. The day soon came when the Mongoloids broke the camel’s back, for without provocation when she asked them if they wanted to see the movie they answered with a fusillade of insults and barbs.
She ran from the ward pushing the movie cart with one hand while holding a handkerchief to her tearful eyes with the other. No matter how sincerely we older fellows apologized to her, and tried to dissuade her from her decision she never returned. It was to be many months before special services was again to permit one of its volunteers to project pictures on our ward, and then as a precaution against the repetition of another such embarrassing incident we were sent a tall, strong, and very much athletic male.
The wisdom of the Recreation Department’s decision could not be challenged, but though he was a pleasant and obliging person that male projectionist was no fun to ogle at leaving us in the unwanted position of being forced to watch the movies, and not having a diversionary subject to gape at. A few if not all of us learned from that bitter lesson, and in the future I made it a point to exercise discretion during all my encounters with volunteers. I even made it a point to stay in practice by saying hello to all those unpaid employees even if they were old married ladies.
I had stopped by the cardiac ward to exchange a few words with the blond nurse who was on shift duty there as I was on my way to the Recreation Hall, and had barely said, “How are you” when she excused herself to answer a patient’s call 1ight. I was left sitting by the office doorway all by myself. My back was to the ward secretary’s office from which there emanated a feminine, “How are you?” I automatically responded, “Fine,” and turned myself about. There before me sat a handsomely dressed woman who was to my estimation not more than ten years my senior. I remarked, “Isn’t it rather late for a ward secretary to still be in her office?” To which she responded, “I’m not the real secretary. I’m just a volunteer who answers the phone when the nurse is not available.”
Still having a few minutes before chow time, and with curiosity getting the better of me I struck up a conversation in an effort to find out if there were any more such special secretaries around the hospital. She said that there were, and then the conversation wandered until I finally asked her what her husband did for a living. Very modestly she replied that he was president of television Channel thirteen. I didn’t know whether or not to believe her, but as it was show time and since she had informed me that she was giving one night a week to the hospital I promised that I would drop by to see her again the following Tuesday. At the next meeting I mentioned to her my need for a volunteer typist, and she quickly offered to do all she could for me in between phone calls.
Her graciousness and altruism were still hard to believe when on one of the following weeks I told her of the efforts which the National Paraplegia Foundation was making to educate the public to paraplegia, and of the film which it had produced to establish this end. She replied, “Joe, why didn’t you tell me of the picture before? Let me speak to my husband; I’m certain that he can arrange to give you boys a half hour of free air time, so that your picture can receive some real publicity.” I gave her the Foundation’s phone number, and completely forgot about the fire which I had started.
A few days later the Foundation’s office called and informed me that it had received a call from the television station asking for the film, but didn’t know what to do. Could I please explain what was happening? I told them to stop vacillating, and to do as had been asked of them, for they were no longer dea1ing with small people. I in my own quiet way had started something which even our paid executives had not dared to think of while I was not even authorized to do the same.
I may have been having my little problem with the Foundation and its phone calls, but somehow my troubles never reached the scale of the ones that were plaguing our Negro porter. He was rather quiet; being well mannered as well as an excellent worker. It was a pleasure having a proficient man on the job, for we no longer had to witness the charge nurse forcing the porter to complete his menial tasks. When a man such as he is on the job it is usually found that he finishes his work in less than the allotted time. He was a good man to ask though unauthorized for little favors, and all the guys soon realized that he was the right one to have to run down to the canteen for a hot dog or a pack of cigarettes. To make himself even more popular he stated that it was beneath him to take payola. To repay him for his kindness and though it was rarely that it were possible whenever he cared to take a short break from his labors he could feel certain that all of the fellows would shield his disappearance from his superiors.
When a person is as kind to us as he was we always made it a point never to ask him about his personal life, and so we found ourselves unprepared for what happened next. For no apparent reason, and without any word to the hospital he ceased coming to work. With his unannounced and unofficial resignation came a deluge of phone calls, and all for him. The entire female population of New York’s Harlem seemed to know the numbers of our ward’s phones and was using them. Each caller claimed that she was his wife, and that he owed her alimony or something. The old saying about being careful and watching out for the quiet ones had again proven itself true, but that was not our problem. Our job was to find a replacement for our delivery boy whom those damned women had driven away.
Perhaps it was a bit unorthodox and strictly against protocol to jump from the bottom of the hospital echelon to the top, but a few days later as I was rolling along the ground floor towards the canteen I passed the assistant manager who was walking in the opposite direction accompanied by a short completely bald headed man with pop eyes. I hadn’t made but two or three more pushes against the hand rims of my chair’s wheels when it hit me. The name which I had heard rumored around the place as that of our new manager was true. It was Doctor Kleinman the internist from army days at Halloran who had taken the corned beef sandwich away from me. Making a quick right about face I loudly called his name. He stopped in his tracks, and turned as I rolled to him. I then added, “You’re Doctor Kleinman from Halloran, aren’t you?” He was bewildered for a second or two and then smilingly said, “I remember you; you’re the kid who always had a Levine tube in his nose, aren’t you?” I couldn’t smile to that identification, but added, “You’re almost right, but that tube was only in half of the time. I hope you like your stay here as our manager.” He thanked me, and we parted.
After completing my few chores at the canteen I quickly returned to the ward with an extra broad grin on my face. The charge nurse who was giving her report to the male nurse who was coming on for the afternoon shift spotted me through the office window and yelled out, “Joe just swallowed the cat and the canary.” Report or no report that was my signal to roll into the office to taunt the two of them. “Stricture or no stricture you’re damned near right about what I just swallowed. It was even bigger than the two of them combined.” They were obviously annoyed by my display of elation, for I could see that their curiosity was slowly killing them. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist rubbing it in, so I told them the glad tidings. I saw their faces quickly drop, for they well knew that I meant to take full advantage for the patient’s benefit of my stroke of luck.
My occasional conflict of interest with the staff could be considered as a sport or frolic if one wished to elongate a point, but when it came to entertainment of a really substantial nature, I always turned to the radio guild and its Monday night visit. Over the years I had grown to know many of its members, and learned to my delight that they were a group of people who were sincerely dedicated to the idea of bringing a little something to a hospital veteran’s life which would brighten up his existence.
I was sitting inside the doorway of the recreation office sweating out one of the guild’s visits when Doctor Kleinman who was strolling by poked his head into the room, said hello to me, and then continued on his usual unconcerning way. One of the recreation crew who was slightly under the spirits saw what had occurred, and casually remarked to me as I rolled backwards towards his desk, “Who is the bald headed guy with the Eddie Cantor eyes; a new doctor on your service?”
For a moment I felt that I had been presented with an opportunity to bury another civil service employee, but the truth was he had never done me any harm, so I contented myself by saying, “Oh, he’s nobody of any real import, just your boss; the new manager of Kingsbridge Veteran’s Hospital.
To that he, half frighten, sobered up for a second or two, but then relaxed as he broke into a broad grin and said, “He’s the new manager we’ve all been hearing about, and he didn’t even come far enough into the office to see if I was working. Why if he had stepped in here and introduced himself to me I would have rubbed out my arse trying to look busy. Boy! What a soft Joe this joker is. This racket is going to be softer than ever.”
With his unwarranted declaration of independence the guild’s members began to throng into the recreation office, and their stay began as usual which was as if it were the preliminary bout of a three-ring circus. Though starting time was seven o’clock, they would start trickling in at least a half hour early. The first to arrive were quiet doing no more than saying hello, and asking if any of the others had shown up yet. As the crowd grew in size, so did its accompanying thunder, for it was no simple task to assemble these show folk. As there was no segregation of the sexes each male had to greet each female as she made her appearance with a fond embrace and a smiling how are you?
When all the cordialities were finished a quick inventory had to be taken to determine who had what piece of equipment, what car did he come in, and where the heck was he now? What on the surface appeared to be a world crisis was in reality underneath a well-organized group, for when the clock struck one minute to seven all its members took off to their assigned wards to bring another batch of bedridden ex-G. I.’s two hours of fun.
It was during the last five minutes before show time that the actors tried to make me one of them by pushing my litter or chair depending on what I was on because of my skin. I like any other actor had my moods, and in order to act I had to be in the right one. On those evenings that I lacked the urge I would resist their proddings by saying that acting isn’t my vocation. When asked what my profession really was I replied with a very solemn face, “I’m the Veteran’s Hospital radio guild camp follower.” From that they took the hint, and let me be until the following week.
Not all volunteers because of the limitation of their talents and training can give the boys the high level of diversion such as that of the guilds, but their efforts are nevertheless just as sincere. We had a woman who in her own humble way and without the aid of recording equipment and mikes brought the boys a few rays of sunshine by simply being at the hospital when the fellows needed her. Josephine Abbott was her name, but all the boys called her Joe, for she along with her husband George went to great lengths to see that we were not forgotten. She could be seen quite frequently at mealtimes in the rooms with the quadriplegics seeing to it that they were fed before their food had a chance to cool on its untouched trays.
The job of dragging herself all the way across the borough of the Bronx to see to her boys’ feeding, and then returning home to tend to her own brood wasn’t satisfying enough for this dynamic woman. She had to place upon herself the extra burden of weekly inviting one of the boys to her home for a change from the hospital diet. I was one of those who took advantage of one of her invitations, and know that she had to perspire heavily to see that we and her family were taken care of.
In keeping with the luck of the men in the League of Broken Backs, hers too turned bad. She had just completed one of her usual visits to the boys, and was on her way home when as she approached the glass door in the main lobby a gale struck, and ripped its pane from the frame. The breaking glass struck her in the throat and severed it. There is not supposed to be any place better for emergency first aid than a hospital, but our bad luck was constant. She died in the operating room before anything could be done. The boys had lost another true friend.
Her demise to say the least depressed those who knew her for many months, but the quadriplegics were the ones who truly felt her absence. She was one of the few feeders who could give them their meals without their feeling that an unwanted but very necessary intruder was jamming them down their throats. With a strong effort and a great show of patience the fellows tolerated these women of whom they were not too fond, but on movie nights in the Recreation Hall all endurance broke down. The thought of having to look at a crone as she jammed food down their throat while there was a gorgeous young creature prancing across the movie screen downstairs was too much. Their motto became, “The hell with eating. Let’s all go to the movies.”
The news of this food boycott quickly found its way down to Doctor Kleinman’s office, and being an old internist he quickly became enraged. The boys had to eat, and he wasn’t interested in their opinions of the opposite sex. He gave an order to our kitchen to be certain that those boys received their trays before all others, so that there would be enough time for them to finish their meals, and still go to the first show. Doctor Kleinman shouldn’t have worried so, for in reality he was underestimating the American ingenuity of those so-called helpless quadriplegics. The boys always had a few dollars, and with the aid of a telephone would let the restaurants on Kingsbridge Road know that they were hungry. They may not have gotten their nutrition in at the assigned hours, but in the evenings, and to the profit of those restaurants they made up for it, but good.
City living makes people comfortable but lazy, and we were no exceptions. Kingsbridge Road had on it to our delight within two blocks of the hospital a Jewish restaurant, an Italian restaurant, a German delicatessen, a Chinese restaurant, and a couple of lunch rooms; not to say anything of the four grocery stores. The guards at the gate were kept quite busy checking the flood of packages, which was passing through to be certain that none of them contained the contraband spirits. They should have known better, for none of the grocery men was stupid enough to risk Uncle Sam’s ire by smuggling the liquid in for a few quick dollars of profit. Besides the repeal of the eighteenth amendment made bootlegging old-fashioned.
Tasty food was what the paraplegics wanted, and that was exactly what they were receiving plus plenty of variety. Variety is a wonderful thing except that in this case it drove crazy whoever had been gullible enough to volunteer to place the necessary phone calls. I’m positive that the many phone calls didn’t annoy the restaurant owners, for as an example it was not unusual for the kosher restaurant alone to deliver thirty or forty sandwiches in one night. Pizza pies were not too easy to carry forcing their delivery boys to make repeated trips. The other restaurants were doing just as well, and all seemed quite pleased with their windfall. The businessmen were happy, but our manager wasn’t. The next thing we knew the restaurants were refusing our orders. A short investigation disclosed that the guards at the gate were not permitting them to pass through with our goodies.
The boys all knew of my friendship with the manager and it fell upon my shoulders to ask him what had caused the sudden change in hospital rules. I went to his office to see him, but he wasn’t in. The next afternoon to my delight, and to everyone else’s surprise he came to see me. I told him of the unhappiness the food ban had caused to which he replied that he had been forced to invoke the ruling in the interest of good health. He claimed that he had no warrantee as to the standards of sanitation maintained by those hash houses as he called them, and he wasn’t going to take any chances with them. He further claimed that if the hospital ever came down with a case of food poisoning he would have no way of tracing it because the food coming in from the outside would confuse the picture.
His argument sounded logical and fair, but when I relayed it to the boys, they all laughed at me and said that I had been taken. They added that the only reason that Doctor Kleinman had placed the ban on our food imports was that he didn’t want anybody outside to learn of what we were doing. They also said that he knew it would be a black mark on the hospital if the public were to find out that we weren’t to keen on the hospital diet.
There was no arguing with them, but it really didn’t matter, for we managed to find ways to bring our food favorites in including the large pizza pies which to say the least were quite hard to hide. Ironically enough it wasn’t long after when a good representation of the public had its chance to sample our food. Being in New York City placed the hospital in the enviable position of being able to obtain for its patients two or three first-run Broadway shows a year. A volunteer by the name of Nettie Binder had close connections with the legitimate theater, and she prided herself going to great lengths to see that these shows were brought to “her boys.”
Naturally the plays had to be presented on the cast’s day off, and it was on a Sunday when I had the good fortune to almost roll over the prettiest bevy of females ever collected under a government roof. I had just fought my way through some very cold cuts which had been presented to us under the name of supper, and I was on my way to the Recreation Hall to be certain that I would be early enough to get a front row seat when I reached the elevators from which the bevy made a mad dash to line up at the Personnel Dining Room. The sight of those young things slowed down my roll measurably, and I was trying to think of an excuse to stop and admire the pleasant view when one of them said to me, “Are you coming down to watch the show?”
That was all the opening I needed, and after telling her that was the direction in which I was headed I added some warning words. “If you people are forced to stay in that chow line for more than five minutes my advice to you is to keep one of your pretty eyes cocked to the right, for any minute a wave of wheelchairs which is going to make a V-Day landing in Europe look like surfboards in Miami is going to roll by, and do the same as I.” The girls were quite pleased at the thought of such a popular response though how could it have been otherwise. I continued my roll and thought to myself, “Those people are kind and generous enough to come here on their day off, and Uncle Sam is feeding them hash. If that bastard Khrushchev were here to visit here he’d receive steak with all the trimmings.”
I had to roll past the South kitchen to reach the elevator which I was to use, and it was there that I spotted the supervisory dietitian who had given the ill fated lover a plate of chicken tail several years before. I told her what I thought about feeding that cast the same garbage as us common slobs, but she as with the lover had an answer for me. “Don’t worry big boy! We switched the menus for those people; you’ve got to give us some credit. They’re going to have the same turkey plus a few extras that you had for lunch. Do you think we’re stupid or something?”
My past experiences as a patient under Uncle Sam hadn’t proven much of a barometer in that case, but it was a great relief to know that we hadn’t insulted such a generous group of people. It was always easy to become concerned, for I knew that the recreation staff was not the kind to do so for us. As it was enjoying the shelter of the big town it was never necessary for the staff’s members to solicit entertainment. Aside from the people like the woman who brought us “Little Abner” that day there were others who were repeatedly offering to bring some form of entertainment to the hospital. Outside of the numerous veterans’ posts around Gotham there were many large companies which had employee groups which were constantly working up new amateur productions, and always on the alert for a place to show them off before an audience that couldn’t run away.
In all fairness some of these amateur productions were quite pleasant to watch, for the word amateur in reality applies best to the person who is not paid for his work, and not to his theatrical ability. The biggest problem facing the Recreational Department in presenting these acts was in hoping that they would arrive at the exact time of day at which they had been scheduled. Their amateurishness showed itself as they had never taken the oath, “The show must go on,” and many an anxiously expectant audience that had packed the Recreation Hall was forced to go back to its wards, for at the last minute one of the members of the staff would go up on the stage to announce that the entertainment had been cancelled as one of the cars had a flat, or the snow was too deep. That was where we respected the professional from amateurs, for the pros kept their theaters open mostly in the cold season, and if they weren’t to keep their schedule we were informed hours in advance.
Those actors were not the only ones around the hospital who were amateurs, for though we patients were supposed to be nothing better than amateur doctors or nurses it didn’t take much of an effort to uncover those members of the staff whose training and ability should have classified them on our side of the medical ledger. I had been trying my best to find a way to kill time one evening when a nurse who was on duty came to me and said, “Joe, what is H202?” I’ve never seen water written that way before.” I smiled and replied, “It would be pretty hard to write water that way. I’m afraid that is the chemical symbol for hydrogen peroxide. Where did you see it written? She answered, “It was prescribed by a doctor in the patient’s chart for us to irrigate his bedside sore with. Are you certain that you’re right? I wouldn’t want to make any errors.”
To placate her fears and set her at ease I found it for her in the medical dictionary. It was rather frightening to learn that inorganic chemistry was not a requirement for admittance to nurses’ training. It set me to wondering if there were any other basic educational requirements which had been taken for granted as being part of the nursing curriculum but weren’t. It gave me an awful feeling of helplessness when I realized how poorly our so terribly needed nurses were equipped for their chosen profession, but the cause for all this was too obvious. How could the profession draw academically well-trained young people to it when the financial rewards were so meager, and the work so hard? Uncle Sam is subsidizing everything else; it’s time that he put some money into nursing also. I may be slightly prejudiced, but for one reason or other I believe that the nation’s health should enjoy one of its top priorities.
It would be terribly unfair to make a blank description of the profession, and say that all its members are insufficiently prepared for the jobs they hold as upon occasion one meets a nurse who has stars in her eyes for her chosen career, and is studying hard to rise in it. These girls fortunately for us have the ambition to advance, and know that the best way to do so is by furthering their education. I met such a creature who seemed to possess the desire, for she had already received her college degree in nursing, but her love life was putting a damper on her efforts to move on.
Despite her being a little short in stature I had always considered her sort of cute when one day she set me back with this question. “Joe, do you think that I’m sexually attractive? Playing the Father Confessor but not being forced into a lie I quizzically replied, “You’re really pretty, but whatever possessed you to ask such a silly question?” Almost on the verge of tears she added, “My boy friend says I’m slowly turning into a dog.” I then replied, “If you believe him you should have yourself admitted to a hospital, for then you will be as crazy as he is.” “Thank you for the morale build-up, Joe,” she continued, “but I’d rather be dead than in a hospital. I don’t have to tell you that; you know just as much about them as I do.” What she said whether in jest or in earnest was true, but the bitter fact that she also knew, and that was sometimes people just can’t help themselves.