ALF

I’m twenty-one and I’m surrounded by people in their 80’s, 90’s, and 100’s, but at least I have food, if you can call the stuff they serve us food. I do not want to be here, this was not my choice, but I am disabled and my legal guardians felt it would be best. At the meals I am surrounded by people I am not sure of yet. By the way, my legal guardian said this is my last chance. If I don’t make this work out, they’ll quit, I’ll become a warden of the state, and everything I have will be thrown in the trash can. So, I look at the boxes of my memories which I will unpack later. Things like the hand written letters from my grandmother. How can I put a price on that?

So, I go to the first meal with two elderly ladies. Liz chronically talks about the weather. “Oh boy, look at what the weather has been doing lately, it’s been raining all week.” She wonders when it will be sunny again. This woman could watch the Weather Channel all day and be content. Me, when there’s a weather announcement in the middle of the programs I watch, I write the tv station a nasty letter. If it was something important, like an apocalypse, I’d understand, but it’s always the same report: there’s a thunderstorm warning: there’s rain, lightning, and thunder: there’s a thunderstorm warning. I always imagine the day when the weather report will be as follows: “For anyone who gives a rat’s ass about the goddamn weather, look out your fucking window. Okay, back to Jeopardy.” I don’t care what the weather is doing, what it did, or what it’s going to do since we can no longer walk outside without a companion since we’re in a goddamn ALF anyway.

The other lady, Barbara, is always talking about how much pain she’s in. Every conversation. You can’t even imagine what this feels like. It hurts all the time. My doctor gave me a cream and it isn’t working. Then, there’s the fat white guy at the end of the dining room. Saying four things over and over loud: “Ok, alright, it is what it is, ce la vi.” Everyone is constantly telling him to shut up, but to no avail. Well, I got my stuff with my memories and food. At least I’m not homeless, hungry, or a warden of the state.  

They gave me a call button where I can push this button if I have any medical problem or if I need a nurse for anything. I don’t need a call button or a nurse. What I need is food and a fucking roof over my head. Then, I get told they’re going to play bingo. Oh, boy, bingo. Do you want to play bingo? If I’m not social, this place will say I don’t fit in, it was a bad match, and I’ll be a warden of the state. Sure, I’ll play bingo. I hate bingo. The old people think it’s fun, I don’t. Who cares? Bingo. Ante up for $2 on Monday, maybe you’ll win fifty freaking cents. I have to pay so I can fit in, so I won’t be a warden of the state for what I thought was my least favorite game in the world, that was until I discovered CLR. Pile of pennies in front of each player. Role the dice with C, L, and R on it. If I roll an L, I put a penny to the left, if I roll a C, I put it in the basket in the middle, and if I role an R, I push a penny to the right. I could be legally brain dead and play this fucking game...

I’m also the only one interested in sex in this place. Nobody wants to talk about sex, no dating (ew), but it’s very isolating. But on Fridays there’s dances to oldies. Dances to oldies? You know, things like Elvis, Bing Crosby, The Kingston Trio. I went to one, thought I would never go to another one, then I remembered if I don’t go, I’ll become a warden of the state. They also take us to Walmart every Wednesday and doctors appointments Tuesday and Thursday. I hate this place.  

Going out to restaurants I thought might be fun. So, we go on the bus, (my legal guardian gave me money for restaurants), and I order a meal, but the entire meal we’re treated like cattle. Okay, everyone get off the bus, but don’t go inside until we tell you. Then, one of the nurses goes in front of us, the other behind us, then they herd us in. I look at the menu and the waitress recognizes the nurses and asks what we’d like to eat and orders for us. I tell them I don’t want chicken Tariaki, I want the T-Bone. Well, apparently those are too expensive with what my legal guardian gave. I wonder if I have enough money for a gun so I can shoot myself.  

My life’s over right now, I’ve come to terms with that, but I was just hoping to be in a city with subways, buses that run 24 hours a day, maybe use HUD to get somewhere. This sucks. I masterbate at night and a nurse knocks on my door and enters to see if I’m okay or if I’m in some kind of pain. So, I get a blank sheet of paper and write “Do Not Disturb” and put in on my door. Maybe then they’ll get it or maybe it’ll make being a warden of the state come faster.

Just there are certain inalienable rights, including deciding where I live, what I eat, keeping my possessions, reproducing, and none of those will ever happen here. So, I start to think maybe suicide might be the best route. Think about it logically: spending the rest of my life in a cage here or with the state, or being free in God’s kingdom. “Give me liberty or give me death, right?” But, I gotta make sure I don’t screw it up or else I’ll wind up in a nursing home, which is even worse than an ALF. I can’t go to the Library to do research since I don’t have a car. Damn it. God, take me home. Take me back home, God, please, take me home.