The Cost of Contraband

The violation of my culinary rights began back at the start of last year with a stroke (and not the ‘stroke of luck’ type) - a blockage in a vessel in my brain, apparently courtesy of my ‘modifiable risk factors’, namely cholesterol, pack-a-day smokes and my penchant for a beer or four. You know, the kind of stuff that makes life worth living, when the hound you married takes off with most of your assets and the kids don’t wanna talk to you anymore. But I shouldn’t blame them, after all, those lifestyle factors were present from a while back, probably congealing in my arteries like little groups of rebels, just waiting to launch an uprising against my independence and dignity. The bastards. But again, not their fault.

So, this blockage up top wreaked havoc on my gob and throat, which both decided to pack it in, making all things oral a real pain in the ass (now don’t you go there…let me reassure you that if I wanted to, and the opportunity presented itself, I’d be just fine providing an oral service, if you know what I mean). I choked a couple of times early on in the hospital…on water, would you believe? Tap water! What sort of a man cannot swallow that down? Me apparently, along with food of any texture.

I don’t want for much, never have. Like to keep things simple – meat and three veg, a Scotch Finger with my cuppa, that’s me. But here I am, in a place of nit-wits, restricted to gloop. Each day I get presented with a plate of four steaming, smooth scoops – one brownish grey, one green, one orange and one white, or off-white. The staff use words like lamb, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower – but I think that’s just taking the piss. Those mounds of mush could just as well be under-seasoned playdough, drowning in a gelatinous gravy. Who the hell puts gravy on fish anyway, unless there are fat chips right beside it?

Merv, down the hall in room twenty-something, gets the real stuff, even though he’s completely lost his marbles – stuff like chicken breast, beans and roast potatoes. Oh, what I’d give for a roast spud, all golden and crispy on the outside and fluffy inside! Makes my mouth water. Even Doris with her shriveled gums gets something solid to chew on. So, I keep to my room for meals, or the impulse to hurl myself across the table and swipe their goodies would be too strong and I’d get reprimanded like a small child, reminded of my vulnerability and I’ve never liked that. Who does? Shame’s a nasty thing I reckon.

And choking’s not too great, either. When it happened, the nurses had such a fit (truth is, Roger’s dinner roll would’ve gone to waste…in fact, it had been condemned to the waste and, ashamedly, I reached into that bin to retrieve it)! Look, all I needed was a firm pat on the back, a fair few times admittedly, and the sticky bread ball shot right out, no harm caused. The paperwork nearly killed them though.

But lately I’ve been thinking more and more about stuff, like what is life without the pleasure of sinking your teeth into something of substance, really working it with your jaws and tasting it as it rolls around on your tongue? It’s no life, I can tell you that. When you can’t even so much as clean yourself up properly after using the loo or be trusted to duck down to the shops for the paper, there’s not much left. So, I laid out a plan, with Mary, a newer nurse, young, optimistic, trusting…naïve, cast as the supporting actress (only, she doesn’t know it). And today’s she’s on shift, so, on with the show!

I holler from across the dining room to her, waving my good arm, a look of well-rehearsed panic on my face. Startled, she drops the duo of biscuits from her hand, shuts the kitchenette drawer with her hip and, as predicted, she doesn’t waste time retrieving her keys and locking it up. That’s the girl!

I gesture to Norm, slumped forward in his chair beside me, and as soon as Mary’s making her way over, I limp as though in a one-legged race with no partner towards that unlocked drawer and all it promises. Eva, curled up under a hand-knitted blanket, winks at me as I pass – she doesn’t talk, but she knows exactly what goes on around here, and she knows this is all part of my plan. I’m yet to meet a better keeper of secrets than Eva. Come on, you old bugger! I urge my pathetic body. It’s now or never! It will only be a matter of thirty seconds or so before the young nurse works out that Norm is not dead, or even close to death - he is just sleeping – and she’ll head back to the kitchen. I’ve gotta hurry.

And…BINGO! The moment of The Great Deception and Liberation has arrived. A month or so back I’d asked Janine, the only one of my daughters who’d visited in the past three years, to buy me two new items of clothing – cargo pants (elastic waisted and with as many pockets as possible) and a zip up jumper (the latter was not part of the grand scheme, but rather a convenience item – it’s bloody hard to put a jumper on when one arm hangs limp. Think about it.). I slide open the drawer, reach in and grab a fistful of plastic packets. Like a man possessed, I shove them into the first pocket. Then straight back in for more and into the next pocket. And then again. And again. And…hang on, what was that? No time, Neville, just…

‘Neville?’

I freeze, rigid. It’s the In-Charge. Mrs Eagle-Eye and Iron Fist. Shit. Heat snakes it way up my neck and along my lop-sided cheeks. She’s fixing me with those predatory eyes, hands on her hips.

‘Neville, what have I said to you about being in the kitchen? Out you get now.’ She shoos me away with a few flaps of her hands. Shoos me! Like I am a filthy pigeon pecking at biscuit crumbs under her table at a fancy restaurant. It’s all I can do to stop myself spitting at her. You know, once upon a time I sat much higher up in the pecking order of this life. People looked to me for answers, knocked on my door before entering, respected (or at least didn’t interfere) with my choices. I’m no less than her, or anyone. My head hanging in mock regret, I shuffle out with a wider gait than usual to avoid the suspicion of rustling cargo pants.

I make a beeline for my room, cursing its location furthermost from the living area (usually a blessing, given the noises and smells coming from the rotting bodies out there). If I pull this off I could be one step closer to dignity than yesterday. Or the grave, depending on how the crackers go down.

I won’t lie, I feel a bit bad for the young nurse who will be held responsible for my misadventure and possible death. She’ll be feeling like shit real soon, and then, to boot, she’ll be slugged with an incident report, maybe disciplinary action too. And that’ll be on me. But life’s short, real short, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to barely survive on slop until I die of natural causes. No bloody way!

Except, it seems, that the damn electronic doors have a different idea! The clever people who designed this prison must be sitting in a control room somewhere in the dungeons, having a right old cackle at us folk who forget to bring the damn swipey card with us when we tug the heavy doors shut behind us. Why don’t we just leave the doors open, you might ask? Because folk around here have a terrible case of the wanders and before you know it, Beryl would be chewing on David’s dentures and Peter would be parading in Joan’s panties…on his head! No, we keep our doors closed in this place.

So when I try the handle and get met with a stubborn lack of swing, I curse my fickle memory. I need thinking time…and what could be better than a Scotch Finger for revving the thought engine? It takes me until the third pocket of my cargos to find one, nestled in its plastic cocoon. My mouth, usually dry as bird feed, waters as I squint at the packaging, searching desperately for that little black triangle that points to the opening, and I’m practically drooling as I fumble with arthritic fingers to tear the little bugger open. Ooh, a little puff of buttery goodness hits my nostrils as the plastic gives way and I can just about feel it melting on my tongue when…

‘Neville, are you alright?’

It’s the damn nurse again, playing meerkat on sentry! I whip the stolen good behind me and mumble something incoherent (because at that moment, all I have to offer is ‘shit, shit, shit’, and that’s not going to help matters, is it?). I jerk my good thumb at the door and she breaks into a knowing smile as she marches towards my room, her master swipey card thrust out front, ready to release the lock.

‘Oh, we’ve all done it, haven’t we Neville?’ she offers. ‘Do you know how many times my husband has left his keys hanging on the hook right beside the front door? I think, this month alone we’d be clocking…’

Beep. The light turns green and we’re in! I don’t hear the rest of her tale, nodding thank you and disappearing into my room with a bit of fancy footwork. It is sweet relief to my ears to hear the click of the door securing itself behind me. I let my breath go, unaware I was even holding it. I pause a minute, straining for the sound of retreating footsteps, which, with my ears as clogged as they are with wax, and with carpet tiles dampening the acoustics, is not easy to detect. But I think I’m safe.

As I retrieve the goods from my many pockets, I’m taken way back to days of my youth, spreading my easter egg hunt bounty out on my bed, surveying the haul in absolute wonder, not knowing where on earth to begin the feast. My fingertips tingle in anticipation (or that could be the Raynaud’s disease). Not bad for an old bugger!

I take in a deep breath and set about choosing the first packet, turning them over, examining the labels. It doesn’t take me long to realize that variety will not be the spice of this new life, but that’s okay. A choice from three is three times better than no choice…that right? It’s better, anyhow. I settle on the buttery sweetness of the duo and this time, I rip into the plastic with my dentures, and before too long...ahh…! God almighty, I am in heaven! The biscuit disintegrates on my tongue and my jaws have little work to do to condemn it to paste before I nudge it backward toward my throat, which, it turns out, isn’t the easiest of tasks, and now half the biscuit is stuck on my hard palate! I reach in with an oversized finger, trying to dampen my gag as I scrape and flick the lump of soggy biscuit back onto my tongue. It sits there, stagnant, its other half having begun its slow migration over the abyss of my tongue base.

Panic sets in. Why aren’t I swallowing? What’s happening? I’m going to choke! My eyes dart around the room, failing to locate a plastic cup or jug – even yesterday’s jug has been removed, and that sometimes lingers for days before they think of replacing it! My eyes land on the cartoon picture of a loo on the bathroom door. Of course! I cross the room, push the door open and lean heavily on the basin. But, hang on! Where are the taps? There are no bloody taps! The biscuity gloop in my mouth seems to be solidifying, fear having dried up all remnants of saliva, leaving the flour to bind with my oral surfaces. Oh Christ! What bathroom doesn’t have tapwear! And then it registers, I have to wave at the darn thing. And so I swat and swipe like a madman and eventually water begins to fall. It’s not pretty, but I manage to get my gob under the stream and like a creek lifting a loose clump of moss from a rock, the biscuit gets swept from my tongue…only to take a detour into my airway!

My breath catches. I clutch at my throat, eyes wide. Oh God, it’s happening. Maybe I should’ve started with the chocolate biscuit? Or the savory crackers? This isn’t the first time, but it may just be the last. I stagger back to the bed, heaving, pressure building behind my eyes. Despite the haze descending over my vision, I can still see the vastness of my greed laid out before me. Fool!

And then I spot it, glinting under the downlights amidst the savory crackers and sweet duos - the absolute jewel in the crown. The promise of more to come. I can’t die now, not with the key to the biscuit drawer laying there, mocking me. With consciousness fading I launch myself over the back of the lone chair in the corner of my room. My lower ribs crunch as I slam them down hard in a solo basic life support move. I wince, but still can’t breathe. Is this really how it ends? A lonely man in a room full of biscuits that he can’t eat? No, I won’t have it! With one last effort I reel back and throw my diaphragm onto the chair back and…I can’t believe it…it worked! It damn-well worked!

I flop forward, gasping, my head spinning and whirling. I am alive. Still here, despite that murderous buttery biscuit.

When the revolving room finally slows and the ground levels out, I stand upright. Blinding pain shoots through my ribs, causing me to double over again. How am I going to explain broken ribs to that lot out there? S’pose it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that I’d have a fall in my room, what with my dragging leg. Yep, that’ll do. But my God, do I need a bit of feet-up time first – I tell you, near-death is exhausting.

But before I can lie down, there’s the matter of the contraband, spread like disease over my bed. I lean over, pushing at the packets, making room for my aching, regretful body. Some drop to the floor and I promise myself I’ll pick them up later. I simply can’t find the energy or will to hide them away right now. I crawl onto the bed, hauling my lazy leg up and over, a dead weight. My head sinks into the pillow and it’s not long before I feel myself drifting off, until…

A crinkling noise makes it way, muted, into my right ear. Did I imagine it? I reach under the pillow and would you believe there’s a sneaky packet hidden away under there? I yank it out and it’s like the Scotch Finger biscuit sings to me - a siren, sweet and so very alluring. What’s a man to do? I bring the packet to my nose and inhale, wetness gathering in the deep lines beside my mouth. I don’t suppose one would hurt?