We?re here at the Jewish Rehabilitation Center for the Aged to visit with Grammy Rose. She?s somewhere on Level Two and we have to go visit her. With me are: my wife, my wife’s father, my wife’s mother, and my wife?s sister. Basically, all the wife family that exists, is with me, right now. Keep that in mind.
We pass to the elevator as a roomful of wheelchair-bound folks nod and burble to a piano rendition of “Bye Bye Blackbird.” A pair of double doors is secured with an electronic keypad. We’ve arrived at Level Two. Level Two is for those folks who present some sort of danger to themselves, or to others. Each person in Level Two is fitted with an ankle bracelet that locks the doors tight anytime a Level Two comes within ten feet of the door.
The wife’s mother punches an access code, and the double doors swing open.
Behind the doors is a teeny little old woman in a white shawl and sweater, bowl-cut white hair, eyes wide, grinning placidly. She has a bracelet on her ankle, but it’s not Grammy.
“Who’s that?” I ask Amanda.
“Don’t know,” she says.
The wife’s father, the wife’s mother, the wife’s sister and the wife all walk through the double doors, and pass by the teeny little old woman. The teeny little old woman ignores them. I enter last. As I do so, the teeny little woman smiles deeply at me.
I freeze.
The teeny little old woman reaches way way up and places her hand on my face. She beams.
The wife, the wife’s father, the wife’s mother, and the wife?s sister all turn and stare at us.
The teeny little old woman says brightly, “I want you to get in bed with me!”
At this point, comedy breaks out.
