Grumpy Old Men

I’ve been a people watcher for many years, long before I got MS and became disabled. Since I don’t do any activities with the old folks here – I’m thinking of things like bingo, cards, shuffleboard – most of my observing happens in the dining room. Because of Covid, we all sit at our own tables spaced at least 6 feet apart. There are six single men in my sitting. They are not all grumpy. In fact, a couple of them are sweethearts, but for some reason it’s the grouchy ones I’m drawn to. All names are changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

Monty

He’s my 95-year-old neighbour a few doors down the hall from me so I’m very aware of his inherent grumpiness and less-than-endearing personal habits. He blows his nose excessively and obsessively. Always the same pattern – honk-honk-honk-honk – building to a crescendo at the end. When I’m out in the hall waiting for the elevator, I can hear him honking away in his room. Once he arrives at the elevator he honks again, several times, depending on how long he has to wait. He sniffs rapidly in and out, like a dog testing the air for delicacies such as fresh manure, a squirrel or someone’s crotch. Unlike a healthy dog, though, Monty’s nose is always dry but the honking is disgusting nonetheless. I’m surprised he doesn’t blow his brains out, or at the very least his sinuses, or give himself nosebleeds. I often wonder what happened when he was younger to make him so paranoid about snot.

Our floor is one level above the dining room, but there are four other floors above us. Just before a meal when the elevator is busy, by the time it stops on our floor, it’s already full and we have to wait. It happens a lot. I don’t have much patience for this kind of thing. When it happens twice in a row, I usually press the up button and get on when it’s empty. Sometimes you have to go up, in order to get down.

He guards the elevator buttons by parking his walker right in front of them. He does the same thing downstairs in the lobby on the ground floor.

“Monty, would you please push the up button for me?” I’m already irritable from his nasal gymnastics.

“It’s lunchtime. Why would you possibly want to go upstairs right now?”

“Because sometimes when…” I don’t bother explaining because he just wants to be difficult, so I reach across in front of him and push it myself. Ever the gentleman, when the door opens, he allows me to get on first.

“See, sometimes you have to be a little more patient,” he admonishes me. I roll my eyes and say nothing. Then he realizes that we are going up, all the way to the fifth floor. He’s pissed and mutters under his breath continually about people who go in the wrong direction. Someone gets on and then we stop for more passengers on the fourth floor, the second, and then ours again where one of our neighbours is waiting. Walkers and wheelchairs take up a lot of space. There’s no room for her but at least I’m almost to the dining room. And so it goes.

He talks to himself all the time and me being cursed with good hearing, I’m well aware of his constant complaining, even when we sit 30 feet apart in the dining room. He belly aches about not having any juice until it arrives, then he natters on until the server puts his plate on the table. When all his needs have been met, he grumbles on behalf of the diners near him who haven’t been served yet. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself so he whines.

Thomas

He has a thing about potatoes. Doesn’t like ‘em in any form. Not baked, roasted, boiled, mashed, whipped, fried or in a salad or soup. Ditto corn and squash. He’s not big on rice either. He doesn’t even want them on his plate. He makes the server take the plate away and scrape off the offensive item. I don’t get it. I don’t like frozen peas, but I don’t mind if they appear on my plate anyways. Is it the sight or smell of them he objects to? Is he afraid they will contaminate the flavours of the other food? Maybe he just doesn’t want them to touch each other. Is he 85 or five?

One horrifying meal in particular, I notice he’s swishing something in his goblet of ice water. OMG is he really … I sure hope he’s not … Oh God he really is. Rinsing his teeth. Best not to observe too closely.

Ham sandwiches are the only thing he eats for lunch. Yup, that’s right, every day. There was a kerfuffle when he first arrived as the kitchen staff tried to establish the definition of a ham sandwich. Every version they brought out to him was rejected. Turns out a ham sandwich is two slices of buttered white bread with a thin smear of French’s classic yellow mustard on one of them, and a single slice of deli ham. It’s NOT whole-wheat or – God forbid – multigrain bread or a bun, any kind of interesting mustard, or a choice piece of ham left over from Sunday dinner.

Dessert is always maple walnut ice cream. Occasionally apple pie and lemon meringue pie are acceptable.

I can imagine what probably happened to Monty and Thomas’ wives. After raising their children, they burned themselves out trying to cater to an Archie Bunker of a husband.

This is only two of the four grumpy old men I observe in the dining room. I haven’t even mentioned Archie yet, who’s one of the most high-maintenance men I’ve ever known. Stay tuned ….