I was gonna write something angry today, seeing as to how I’m still pissed at the Shenandoah Valley Teen Challenge people, whom I helped and worked with, before I got got sick two years ago, after which they stopped talking to me. Seems that I violated God’s rules of payment. So, instead, I thought I’d write something strangely nice.
Ana was a Five-foot-eleven beauty of an eventual Swedish fantasy queen. Her blonde locks were trimmed short, she always smelled sweet, a radical tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of her nurse’s uniform.
While other staff members attended to my nine-to-five, Ana went a step further. Late at night, she snuck me chocolate puddings and chocolate ice cream cups, she spoke of her dreams at the next level of nursing after her days at this place and working two jobs to pay for her schooling. She was a pleasure to look forward to speaking with.
She wasn’t regimented or boring, but quite the opposite. There were several nights that an old party boy like myself could see party in her eyes, the confessions of her bar hopping with a boy, and then later with a girl came as no surprise. She was as confident as she was tall, she knew where she was going and it made for an attractive package.
There were two shower nights at the facility in which I stayed. Tuesdays and Saturdays. I missed the first three shower attempts because I didn’t understand the rules. The first actual shower (after a week and a half) was so wonderful for the obvious reasons, irritating because no staff had noticed my absence, and strangely awkward, soapin-up or being soaped-up by a total stranger.
I was surprised early that Saturday evening as I strolled back to my room. It was Ana, with a smile and an announcement.
“Hey, I’m on shower duty tonight. If you can be ready in the next fifteen minutes, you’ll be finished before the Tech game!”
Now, one of the unwritten guidelines in monitoring the levels of recovery in a patient is by tracking flucuantions on their “Hornyness Meter”.
Thirty-seconds after Ana’s shower announcement, I was fluffing and buffing the old worn-out body, with a quick sink-shower before my actual shower.
But the shower was nothing like the Penthouse Story that I had in mind. My weak, worn-out body sat naked on the safety chair under a pitiful stream of luke-warm water while my Ana watched professionally from the far wall.
We spoke of my journey to Roanoke, my friend’s death, her goals in the nursing world, and her teenaged trip to Romania with her church.
She politely offered to dry my back as I struggled on a pair of jockeys, then I walked my walker back to the room, just in time for the football game.
It had the potential of a wonderful story, but I never want to go back there again.