WORK IN PROGRESS (man on a tightrope)

Like most writers (even amateurs like me) I hate to have someone see my stories till I feel they are done. I'm going to try something this time though and I may be sorry I did. Not all of the stories I start ever get finished. I'm going to start writing a story right before your eyes. It will be kind of like watching a clown dancing on a tightrope. You really hope he won't fall but it will be something to see if he does. You may find that if you read an episode and then go back later to reread it something (maybe almost eveything) will have changed. Even the title is a working title and subject to change. That being said, here we go. Cross your fingers. As most of you know I have always used Billy Whiskers as a pen name for my humorous stories. Numerous aliases help keep the sheriff at bay.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME - by Billy Whiskers

I have never seen anyone eat a head of cabbage before. Not like Old Annie. She sits there holding an intact head of cabbage in both hands and nibbling on it like a rabbit as she watches the soaps in the day room. If you want my personal opinion, I think she's just showing off because she still has her front teeth.
Come to think of it why do we call her Old Annie? I'm older than she is and no one calls me Old Maybell. They better not if they know what's good for them. Like any tribe (that's really what we've turned into) we have developed our own rituals here in The Home and descriptive names are one of them. She just LOOKS old.
Over in the corner is The Pole staring at the TV with that thousand yard stare of his. He never looks at something. He always looks beyond it. He isn't Polish (at least I don't think so). We call him The Pole because that's what he looks like. He stands well over six feet and even I could almost put my hands around his waist; not that I'd ever be caught dead doing such a thing. It's rare to see him sitting. Usually he is stalking the corridors night and day. The night staff long ago gave up on trying to keep him in bed after lights out. Have you ever seen one of those long legged birds wading? They don't walk along. They seem to think about every step, lifting one foot and standing there for a moment before they put it down. That's the way The Pole walks and it always amazes me to see how much ground he can cover in a short time with that deliberate slow gait. We all keep an eye on The Pole. He has a way of being there when something happens. Last week he stood there for almost an hour staring at the ceiling in the corner of the corridor. Then he kind of nodded and turned away just as an old water pipe burst. If he hadn't turned away just then he would have been soaked. We stopped wondering how he does it a long time ago. He's just The Pole and that's what he does.
The Pole seldom speaks and when he does he's like the Oracle. You never know what he means till it happens. Once he looked at me while we were eating Dinner and said, "Look under your pillow." As soon as I got back to my room I looked but there wasn't anything there. Three days later I misplaced my upper plate. I'd never be seen in public without my teeth in and I frantically searched every place in the room I could thing of. I was about to call someone to help me look when I remembered what he said. There they were, safe and sound under my pillow.
The Major, on the other hand, never stalks. He marches to wherever he is going. Whenever I see him I hear John Philip Sousa in my head. Usually the Washington Post March. He has a picture in his room of his old Marine days and he's only a lance corporal in it but he marches like a drum major so that's what we call him. Sometimes he turns around and marches backwards like he's watching other Marines marching behind. I think he may have been a drill sergeant once. He likes to take charge of things. He's a pain in the butt. (Excuse my unladylike language but that's the only way to say it)
We are the B Wing tribe. We don't associate with the other tribes. The A Wingers are a gang of ruffians and the C Wingers are effete snobs. The other wings are too distant to be worth our attention. I'm not even sure how many there are. The Home is a huge place.
Oh my! Here comes Mister Truman. Doesn't he look handsome in that blue suit with the polka dot bow tie? He fancies that he looks like that other Mister Truman but he doesn't. Much too chubby. The other B Wingers call him Mr. President but I always call him Mr. Truman. He is always after me to call him Robert or Bob but I wasn't brought up that way. I wouldn't call a man by his given name unless we were engaged.
Is my hair all right? Oh Dear! I do hope my lipstick isn't smudged again.

To be continued (I hope)
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