The Lunch Menu

The Lunch Menu

It was lunchtime and both men knew that looking at the menu would spoil the surprise. The place looked like Heaven. Some might say it was only a step or two away. But it wasn’t. It was just a veranda with windows. Not an old, pre-war breezeway, but a modern, well-lit sunroom. The large glass windows let in the light and the sun - yet protected from the cold and the heat. The quiet buzzing of the air-conditioning saw to that. In any case, today, the place was pleasantly warm from the winter sun which streamed in picking up the lazy dust particles and where the rays missed an obstruction, they gave an imagined hallowed appearance.

However, it was, at its essence, a sterile place, devoid of the little things that make a place a home. It was too tidy; there were no family pictures on the wall, except for the odd head and shoulders of its founder and benefactor, Myra Chay, and the occasional print of Monet, van Gogh and Tom Roberts. It just didn’t have that “lived in” feel. Yet it had the almost euphemistic title: Residential Aged Care Home. Even worse was that it was deemed a “facility.” There had been an effort to pretend it was “home,” and perhaps it was to a few who lived there.

Certainly, it was Heaven to some, while Hell to others. To a few it was the last vestige of a kind of independence, the kind that is “guided” rather than self-expressed.

There were a few day chairs, leather, yet covered in those brownish throw rugs from IKEA. Several older people were sat on them, chatting, reading, knitting, doing crosswords, watching the mute television, or sleeping. Some were dying.

Two of the older men looked a little different from the others. One, in brown corduroy trousers and a beige silk shirt with an old-fashioned wine-coloured cravat around his neck dozed as he slumped in front of the tv; the other, slightly scruffy, but clean shaven in grey trousers, white shirt, blue and white tie and a blue sports jacket, was fanning himself with a menu.

A bell rang and activity stirred. People wheezed, wheeled, shuffled, limped, ambled or performed a version of a geriatric sprint to the dining room. One or two farted loudly, at least it was a hoped-for fart! One face showed it might have been more, but it didn’t stop the forward movement. The world should be thankful for pull-ups!

“Ah!” the cravat exhaled. “lunch! Coming Baz?”

“Too right!” Des pushed himself up, straightened his tie, and the two ambled off, joining the others. The menu was left, rightly ignored.

The residents’ dining room was large, airy and bright. The walls here were bright yellow and screamed wellness and happiness, while the tables and chairs were solid plastic, cream in colour and very staid and proper. The old folk made their way in at mealtimes, some by Zimmer, some by wheelchair, some by gofer and some under their own steam like Des and Barry. They all had their own special tables and the places only changed when there was a vacancy caused by a death – which was sadly only too frequent in a place like this.

Des and Barry made their way automatically to their table by the northern window. They enjoyed the warm Autumn and Winter sun and the shade awning outside protected them during the hot summers. They had carefully chosen this spot and waited patiently until the former inhabitants passed on, before scooting to it and laying their claim! When summer came, they had other plans, which made their stay shorter, but they never allowed anyone else to butt in!

Meals were nutritious and plentiful. There were five sessions a day that provided sustenance: breakfast, either toast or cereal in the privacy and independence of one’s room, or in the dining room, where a cooked breakfast was available; morning tea of tea, coffee or juice along with biscuits or cake; lunch in the dining room with sandwiches, soup or the occasional serving of quiche or a pie of some kind; dinner was the high point of the day and there were often surprises, some welcomed, some not so; and then a kind of supper – glorified morning tea of tea, coffee, juices and left-overs from lunchtime. The sound of the bell to announce the occasions was eagerly looked forward to and any business or activities were immediately suspended for the time being. It was also time to catch up on the news and gossip of the day.

The temperature was kept constant, and the staff served the meals briskly and with an efficiency borne out of repetition. It was a set menu of course, but it changed constantly, allowing no real complaints from anyone. And it was quite good too for mass-produced meals – and plenty of it through the two courses.

This day was no different from many others, except for Lorna. Lorna was 88 and fancied Barry, and what’s more made no secret of it, announcing loud and clear that he was her man, and the others should take note! Barry, however, did not share her ardour and not only shunned her, but was also downright rude. It made no difference to her.

“Oh, shit! Here comes bloody Lorna. Tell her I’m septic, Des! Piss her of for me, will you?” Barry turned his body in his chair and folded his arms. His body language was all too clear, and he hissed, “Go away!”

“Oh hello, Lorna!” Des gave his best smile. “We were just talking about you, weren’t we Baz?”

“Thanks, mate!” Barry grumbled. “Look, Lorna, we’re having a private chat. Could you go away?”

“Barry, dear Barry.” Lorna crooned. “You know Desmond, he’s the one!” Des winced at the name but forced what he thought was an interested smile. “I’ve never had a man. I had five offers but refused them all.”

Barry spun around and squinted at her. “What do you mean, never had a man? Are you saying you’re a virgin, then?”

“I prefer “maiden” actually.” Lorna beamed.

“Maiden? Barry said incredulously, “Maiden? Made in Australia, that’s about all you are. Bugger off.”

Des had difficulty with his control about then, and burst out laughing, farting loudly as he did so. “Shit. Sorry!” he managed, between breaths, grateful too for pull-ups!

“Now look at what you’ve done,” Barry spat at her with some vehemence. “You’ve made Des shit himself! Happy now? Just leave us alone will you. Now! I’ll have to look after Dezzy, and it’s not for a maiden to see!”

At that Lorna took the hint, screwed up her nose and spun around on her Zimmer Frame and legged it as fast as her 88-year-old legs would allow, to the other side of the room, where her friends were seated. It looked like she was relating Des’s incontinence to them and was getting sympathetic nods.

“Thank God for that, Des. You haven’t shit yourself, have you?”

Des shook his head. “No, but it was close. You had me there. Geez, that was funny, Baz. Where’d that line come from?”

Barry smiled a knowing smile, and chuckled. “Dunno, really. It did the trick, though, didn’t it?”

“Except for me nearly shitting myself, yes!”

The two men leaned back as their meals arrived. This lunch time it was vegetable soup, followed by Shepherd’s Pie with salad – one of their favourites. They hopped in and enjoyed their meal in silence. That is, until Des started chuckling. “Oh, not again, Des! Move on mate.” Barry said quietly.

“No, Baz, not that. Look at old Pamela Brown over there. Quietly, now to your right at three o’clock. Don’t let her see you.”

Des swivelled around a little until he could see old Pam. She was about 90, incredibly quiet and always kept to herself. She gave the impression to have all her faculties but just liked her own company it seemed. She had just finished her soup and had licked her spoon clean until it shone. It was placed neatly back next to her fork and looked like she had started ruminating - her face passive. Then she quietly and carefully removed the top set of her false teeth, reversed them and commenced sucking them clean of any left-over vegies or barley. After inspecting them and being satisfied with the result, she replaced them and ruminated again. She then repeated the procedure with her bottom set of teeth, sucked them clean, inspected them and sucked out any remaining detritus, before replacing them in her mouth. She exuded serenity and a sense of a job well done, unaware that at least two people were watching and surreptitiously enjoying each succulent moment of her exercise.

“Fuck me,” Barry murmured quietly and then with delicious joy an almost evil grin, “Bloody fantastic, eh?”

Des spoke from behind his hand, but with equal pleasure, “Never seen anything quite like that. We must come again, Baz!” Barry nodded and grinned. There was a piece of lettuce stuck to his teeth.

The laughter was loud and hearty, but in the circumstances, dangerous. The laugh froze on Des’s face. It was likely, this time, he had company in his pullups!