"Excuse me, but if I gave you a quarter, would you run down to the market and buy me a watermelon?" The nurse peered down at the frail old woman, "After supper, mam." Her warm Jamaican accent ricocheted of the linoleum tile walls of the Bayside Rest Home on South Eliseo Road, then were muffled by the soft grey carpeting, splotched with dinners long, long past their prime. The nurse turned about on her heels and plodded off to the dining room, and the retiree croaked out a sigh. "Thank you, it will be gratefully appreciated." Down the hall a man was in his room, asleep again. He was short in stature, and a tad overweight. No one would be heard calling him fat, though. His head was bare, except for small white tufts along his head. His teeth were gone, and in their place were some ceramic replicas which he ignored to his dentist's chagrin. The result of this was his lower lip curled in above his gum, and caused a wrinkle in his chin that showed when he napped, head rolled back, and mouth agape. In his prime he had been a pilot for the Air Force in World War Two. A hotshot they'd called him, and he'd almost flown the Enola Gay. Phil had been a little reckless, wild with the drink. He'd stomped away from the base now and then to woo locals. "Hey GI, you wan Japanese gir fren?," the women would croon to him. And that was the highlight of his life, that island, that time. But Phil had begun to forget all that. The nights spent with exotic women, and the days he had spent with his wife, Edith, dead ten years now, and six feet under. He'd also forgotten how to play cards, and his children's names. A few hours ago he forgot he needed to go to the bathroom. "It can wait," he snorted, "It can dang well hold on." Phil's bladder had forgotten how to do that. As odor piled upon odor, and a musty stench arose through the building it merged with all the other smells that lived there. The food, the urine, the blood, the tears, the body odor, the foot stench. All of the aromas slept in the home like a fog in England, and lived in the walls, the grout between the tile, the linoleum, which were mopped twice daily. Pedro was in charge of mopping those very floors. Seven dollars an hour he raked in. Good money, damn good money. He was going down to Fresno next weekend, and get hammered with his friends from the barrato, from Mexico City. Pedro didn't mind the stench of the home any more then he could tolerate the stench of alcohol. Made you step back, brave it like a man and let you know you were still alive. . . Georgia didn't like the stench at all. Clashed with her perfume it did. This southern belle knew when a smell was ripe and this one stood out like a... Well she wasn't quite sure what it stood out like, but it sure did. "Nurse!" she shouted. No one came. The humming of a fan was grating on her nerves. "Nurse!" she padded on her rouge, and applied her lipstick. Georgia carefully placed her slippers on her feet, and took a look at herself in the mirror. "Hehe. I was good lookin' then... Still am, I think. Well, it's Saturday, and I must get ready. My hair appointment is today." She powdered herself. "An orange highlight would be good. It would go well with my robe." She put on the lime bathrobe and strolled out. The nurse appeared in the hall. "Georgia, aren't you a little cold?" "Why, it's a fine summer day! Why should I feel a draft, hon?" "Well, it's March, its raining and... Well, you might want to wear something under your robe. Or maybe button up?" Georgia went pale. "Oh dear. I've off and done it again, haven't I?" Georgia went to her room, struggled in to a nightgown, and walked out again. She passed by Phil. "Looks like you forgot something too! Your zipper is down!" She cackled. "Humph. Never done me any good before." Phil tipped his hat and then put it on a chair. Pedro, on his rounds took the paper hat which the nurse had made for Phil in arts and crafts. He put it in a black plastic bag to be sent to the fire that burned in the east wing. A woman rolled up to Phil. "G'day mam." He tipped his nonexistent hat, and put it on the chair. "Hello, Phil. If I gave you a quarter would you go and buy me a watermelon? It'd be greatly appreciated," said a frail old woman, who really, really didn't want to wait until dinner. * * * About a month after this, Phil died. He was one hundred and something. It was in the Marin IJ, in the Obits. Also, I think the place changed names, because when I went, they were all wearing tags that said "Sunrise Nursing Home" or something. SAUCE00"Buy me a Watermelon" Atom Dark Illustrated 19980526š