One of the women who works here speaks five languages: three African, French and English, which is the most recently acquired. Instead of calling it Joy’s room, like everybody else, she calls it the Room of Joy. Now we all do.
The PSWs and I laugh a lot. Many of our conversations are X-rated. That’s not surprising because they help me take care of my bodily functions. These women get up close and personal with me regularly. Laughter Is the only sane response to some of the weird and intimate situations we find ourselves in. We have a saying. Just like Las Vegas, what happens in the Room of Joy, stays in the Room of Joy.
Earlier today I needed to go to the bathroom so I pushed my “care guard” to summon help. When the worker arrived, I had my back to her because I was poking around in the fridge for something.
PSW: “Is there something you need to tell us, Joy, something you want to get off your chest?”
Me, still searching: “No, I don’t think so.”
PSW: “Were you up on the third floor last night visiting someone? Maybe you had to leave in a hurry and left something behind.”
Me, thinking WTF is she going on about? I give up the search and turn to give her my full attention. She’s holding a pair of my underwear stretched out in front of her and grinning from ear to ear.
“These were found on the third floor this morning. Care to explain how they got there?”
I wear 100% cotton, Jockey hipsters. They have a distinctive Jockey label on the front. It’s safe to assume that I’m the only one who wears them in a building full of granny panties. The last time they did my laundry a pair must’ve gone astray. They were having a good laugh at my expense, which is usually how it goes.
Me, laughing: “Oops, I wondered where they went. They weren’t this clean when I left them last night. They must’ve washed them for me.”
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