These Are the People in Our Neighborhood
The twins’ hospital is in a rough part of town. There may be some sort of law requiring all hospitals to be located in a rough part of town. Here in Des Moines, all four of our hospitals are concentrated within a few miles of each other near the center of town in neighborhoods ranging in tone from seedy to grimy. I know my hometown of Sioux City has two hospitals, both of which are in less desirable neighborhoods. Driving there through the Iowa back roads, the only hospital we pass on the way is found in a tiny farm town, and that hospital is found next to the town’s dirtier gas station, the one where all the boys who don’t play high school football hang out on Friday night. Even television hospitals are in scary neighborhoods. The “ER” hospital is the epicenter for a minor apocalypse two to three times a year. The “Grey’s Anatomy” hospital is the only exception to the rule I can find; no place where the inhabitants can be that promiscuous and enjoy such a low rate of transferring disease can be in a bad neighborhood.
Usually my interaction with the locals of this neighborhood is limited to cursing them under my breath from my car as they jaywalk across the street in front of the hospital against a red light. Last night though, we stayed in the NICU through suppertime, requiring us to venture into the locality for food. We visited the McDonald’s across the street, which was a bit unnecessary since the hospital’s basement also has a McDonald’s. Somehow it just felt wrong though to visit a hospital, a place where people generally stay to get healthier, and wind up packing my arteries at McDonald’s. Plus the hospital’s McDonald’s didn’t have McRibs like the one across the street.
I live right next to one of the town’s hospitals, so I know what life in a rough neighborhood can be like. Just in case I needed a clue about what kind of neighborhood I’m in, I learned all I needed in about two minutes.
I was standing in line dreaming about a McRib dancing its saucy way down my esophagus and otherwise tuning out my surroundings. I was listening to a basketball game on the radio with an indiscrete pair of headphones, the kind with buds that plunge into the ears while the crossbar runs around the back of the neck in a way that says “my ears are too good to require support from the top of my head to keep these headphones in position.”
Suddenly I awoke from my fantasies of fastbreaks to hear someone yell “Don’t tell me to shut the @#$% up!” It was the cashier yelling at a group of teenage girls, one of which apparently told her something about shutting the @#$% up. The cashier, who looked like someone of authority like maybe the assistant weekend night manager, wanted the girls out of the store, and was being very adamant about it. If you watch “South Park,” picture the school bus driver Mrs. Crabtree yelling at the kids in a way that was more alarming than amusing and you’ll have an idea of the situation. The girls left after a minute and I quickly retreated to my headphones. A middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes interrupted me as soon as I inserted the ear buds.
“What’s that?” he asked with bewilderment.
“These?” I asked holding out my unorthodox headphones. “They’re just headphones. I’m listening to the radio.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’ve been locked up for the past 18 years and just got out. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I thought it might be a cell phone.”
I nodded with a smile, mumbled something about all sorts of crazy things existing now, and withdrew back to my game. Before I had the ear buds in place I heard him mention something about being in for petty stuff. Ellie had a good laugh at that later, figuring the only pettiest thing you could do for an 18-year sentence is stealing a car with a trunk full of heroin.
On our way out of the restaurant to see the twins* again, we passed the group of exiled teenage girls standing outside the door. Ellie wondered if they were waiting for the cashier to get off work. I told her that for their sakes I hope not because I wouldn’t want to mess with that assistant weekend night manager.
* The twins are doing fine by the way. Tory may be off all oxygen in another day or two, and both could be off the bile lights for good in another day or two.
Usually my interaction with the locals of this neighborhood is limited to cursing them under my breath from my car as they jaywalk across the street in front of the hospital against a red light. Last night though, we stayed in the NICU through suppertime, requiring us to venture into the locality for food. We visited the McDonald’s across the street, which was a bit unnecessary since the hospital’s basement also has a McDonald’s. Somehow it just felt wrong though to visit a hospital, a place where people generally stay to get healthier, and wind up packing my arteries at McDonald’s. Plus the hospital’s McDonald’s didn’t have McRibs like the one across the street.
I live right next to one of the town’s hospitals, so I know what life in a rough neighborhood can be like. Just in case I needed a clue about what kind of neighborhood I’m in, I learned all I needed in about two minutes.
I was standing in line dreaming about a McRib dancing its saucy way down my esophagus and otherwise tuning out my surroundings. I was listening to a basketball game on the radio with an indiscrete pair of headphones, the kind with buds that plunge into the ears while the crossbar runs around the back of the neck in a way that says “my ears are too good to require support from the top of my head to keep these headphones in position.”
Suddenly I awoke from my fantasies of fastbreaks to hear someone yell “Don’t tell me to shut the @#$% up!” It was the cashier yelling at a group of teenage girls, one of which apparently told her something about shutting the @#$% up. The cashier, who looked like someone of authority like maybe the assistant weekend night manager, wanted the girls out of the store, and was being very adamant about it. If you watch “South Park,” picture the school bus driver Mrs. Crabtree yelling at the kids in a way that was more alarming than amusing and you’ll have an idea of the situation. The girls left after a minute and I quickly retreated to my headphones. A middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes interrupted me as soon as I inserted the ear buds.
“What’s that?” he asked with bewilderment.
“These?” I asked holding out my unorthodox headphones. “They’re just headphones. I’m listening to the radio.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’ve been locked up for the past 18 years and just got out. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I thought it might be a cell phone.”
I nodded with a smile, mumbled something about all sorts of crazy things existing now, and withdrew back to my game. Before I had the ear buds in place I heard him mention something about being in for petty stuff. Ellie had a good laugh at that later, figuring the only pettiest thing you could do for an 18-year sentence is stealing a car with a trunk full of heroin.
On our way out of the restaurant to see the twins* again, we passed the group of exiled teenage girls standing outside the door. Ellie wondered if they were waiting for the cashier to get off work. I told her that for their sakes I hope not because I wouldn’t want to mess with that assistant weekend night manager.
* The twins are doing fine by the way. Tory may be off all oxygen in another day or two, and both could be off the bile lights for good in another day or two.
posted by Matt at
10:03 PM
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