Super Bowl Sunday

Was that my brother Mel...was this Eastern Siberia? Let me back up a bit to begin this hair-raising story.
   What led up to Super Bowl Sunday began about one week earlier. A message had been placed with my line phone. I returned Angie's call that Saturday morning. "Mel go hopital lat night...He is at Foutin Valley..had trouble breding."
   Mel had lived at the low cost  Pacific Royal Assistant Living Center located in Midway City, between Westminster and Huntington Beach. The low life facility served up an endless supply of chicken and used the AC when absolutely necessary. During the cold spell, everyone shivered and some came down with an acute case of bronchial pneumonia. Mr Grim, the owner had refused to allow me to break bread with my brother. He was the master of his domain and drove a sleek brand Jag and his assistants the same. He could have made good bed-mates with Uncle Scrooge of Charles Dickens fame.
    But in no way did I have the grease to visit him that Saturday. The end of the month found my wallet in disrepair. I had borrowed my last dollar for gas money to take me to my Carlsbad P.O. Box. My budget had been scuttled do to family issues.  To somehow live on twenty dollars for the last week of January had been impossible. .But a few real friends came through: two donated fifteen and three two each. But God was my co-pilot on the following Tuesday. I made it to Carlsbad and found my State Teachers check inside my box. Now I could eat food and repay those who had helped me.         I returned to the Five Flag apartments off of Main Street and slept without getting up to pour beans down my gullet. When I visited Mel at hospital off of Warner and Euclid. I did not like the surroundings. It appeared that the predominately Vietnamese patients received most of the care, which left my brother all by his lonesome.
    Mel had been an over-eater all of his life, and if you ever met my parents Edith and Harry you would understand why. The morning of the Super Bowl I decided to visit him...Hospital Sundays are notorious for the lack of patient care.
    I made a right on Warner and Beach and waved to the  $2,43 a gallon gas station. I passed Lowe's hardware, Sam's Club and the Fountain Bowl. The hot sun beat down on me, but did keep my coffee warm. I made a right on Euclid and turned into the parking lot. The jig-saw one story motel made it easy to get lost. I entered the lobby at about one o'clock and a nice kid walked me down a corridor that had more turns than a chased rabbit.
   A potty sat in the entrance. It looked as if an elephant had deposited its left-over peanut shells.  I turned down the toilet seat bowl. Mel, looked up, or it resembled Mel.
   "Glad you are here George. Am hungry and thirsty."
    Mel wore a seven day beard.  Tubes ran several ways in and out of his nose. He sat up on a chair and the gown did not hide his large belly made bigger a month ago after eating over eighteen hot dogs inside one week. A worker brought in a tray of noodles, meat and string beans, cushioned with canned peaches. Mel's hands shook and since he is legally blind, I began to feed him, one spoon at a time.
   His mouth eagerly accepted the food but I could see that he could not swallow any of it. I felt scared. I placed a straw inside a orange juice carton to help and left to find his nurse to help him back to bed. A young tall young man entered. His Jockey shorts revealed he had good taste. He helped my brother back to bed and left.  His mind seemed elsewhere.
    Finally his nurse Amid entered pushing  a computer. He told me that Mel was being treated for Pneumonia and that the previous medicines did not work. He gave Mel a few shots, smiled and exchanged...asked him if he was eating anything. (Not finished or edited.)