A Date with Mr. DeCrepitt

I’m from a small town that never really catered to bored teens itching to find adventure. Because options were slim and personal finances were slimmer, my sister and I created our own excitement. Ever since my sophomore year of high school, my parents left my sister and I home a lot on the weekends because they drove down to Florence to work on resuscitating our century old lake house. Call me crazy, but leaving your two teenagers at home alone regularly doesn’t sound like a stellar idea, innocent though they may seem. The ’rents still don’t really know it, but we got into a lot of trouble on those weekends.

One time my sister and I went out for dinner and I ended up throwing away my $200 retainer on accident. My sister refused to drive me back to town to search for it in the garbage bins at 11pm.

Another time we had an infamous and nearly fatal party on New Year’s Eve, which ended up ruining the lives of at least four people, mine included.

On another occasion my sister and I both almost got arrested for forgery. But all those are separate stories for a separate time.

Like I said before, we created our own excitement. One of our more mild weekends involved a hospital visit. I was watching TV at four o’clock on a Friday when it all started.
“Hey, Jo! What do you want to do tonight?”
“I dunno.”
“Do you want to go out for dinner?” Jess asked.
“I don’t have much money.”

Which is why we decided to get dressed up and drive to the hospital. Most people think hospital food is wretched and tastes like cardboard, but I got news for you—it tastes good some places. And it was cheap. My sister and I drove into town, parked in the non-ER parking area, and went in for some good dinner. We thought we’d look at the new babies afterward. You know, press our dirty fingers to the window and breathe on the glass, like the babies are the penguin exhibit at the zoo. Maybe we’d see some doctors there as well, if we were lucky.

A lot of people hate hospitals because that’s where people die. People get born there, too, but this is hardly on the forefront of most people’s minds. Everyone serving the food at the hospital is really nice, because they assume that if you are at the hospital long enough to get hungry, then most likely something miserable has happened to someone you love. Excellent service and they don’t expect you to tip. Another thing I like about the food in hospital cafeterias is that a lot of it is yummy soft foods, like applesauce, mashed potatoes, jell-o, and chocolate pudding. It’s what is left over after they feed the sick people. Price reduction!

After eating our fill, Jess and I were looking for some entertainment. Free entertainment. We decided to go to the retirement center about 10 minutes away. Our great-grandmother had lived there before she died, and we knew there was a pool table on the floor she used to live on. Playing free pool with old people is considerably more appealing than playing $5 pool with hard-core smokers at the bowling alley.

Getting into a retirement center is just as difficult as getting into a hot LA night club. They don’t let just anybody in. After we got to the building and walked close to the door, we saw a sign posted. It said that all guests had to be at least 18 years old unless they were accompanied by an adult. They card you to get into nursing homes. At that moment I could just envision my 18^th birthday. “I’m going to buy a lottery ticket, a pack of cigarettes, visit a porn shop, oh, and finally get into that nursing home…”

Since my sister and I were not 18, we would have a challenge. All of the other times we had come to visit it had been during the afternoon (when old people are most coherent) and with our mother. Two teenagers could not just walk into a nursing home at 7:30 on a Friday night and not get noticed. Which is why we decided to create a diversion.

“How about when we get inside the door, we just jump inside of the elevator and ride it up before someone can stop us?” my sister suggested. Like that was the most inconspicuous way to do it.

“How about not,” I replied. “What we need to do is fit in. We can go to the grocery store, buy some flowers, carry them in front of our faces, and just take them upstairs like we are visiting our grandma.” It seemed legit.

A lot of the same people who hate hospitals despise nursing homes as well. It’s mostly because of the smell. Sure, the people may stink of 70 year old wool sweaters and orthopedic shoes, but you gotta love those toothless (or dentured) smiles that you receive. And you really feel the love when so many people are fighting over you, saying you must be their granddaughter. They also like to play Bingo, or card games for low-stakes nickels. Another good thing about this particular nursing home was the quality of their pool table. It wasn’t stained, or ripped, and none of the balls were missing. We really wanted to get in. Which is why we were hoping our plan would work.

You have no idea how expensive a crappy pot of flowers is. Jess and I looked all over the store for a cheap-o balloon, plastic bush, or anything that could pass as a loving gift to a grandmother. The idea was to play pool for free, not for $17.99 worth of flowers. Discouraged and defeated, we returned to the nursing home empty-handed. Could we get in without proper identification or artificial plants?

Bravely, we approached the door. Then we saw another sign. No visitors after 8pm. It was 8:07. Our efforts to procure a diversion had cost us time. Saddened that we couldn’t get into an old folks’ home, we went home to watch a movie and find new mischief.

You can see why I am such an exciting person. I mean, who wants dinner and a movie when you can dine at the hospital and then shoot pool at a retirement center? If that doesn’t make your heart beat faster, what will? Certainly not your new pacemaker.