Midway City

I've, no God has taken care of Mel,  my brother, ever since his eyes failed and he needed help to get around. Over eight years ago, I was able to get him SSI which gave him the opportunity to live in an inexpensive Assistant Living Center.  Ever since my car Dolly vanished from the Five Points Senior Center, I have been chasing buses, hot women and visiting my brother regularly. Hell, what else could I do without wheels?

  A 29 bus lumbered up Beach to Mel's hideaway in Midway City, California, a town of a few thousand between Westminster and Huntington Beach.  My heavy set ruddy completion brother is my last link to the Goldberg's, my roots. I descend Bolsa and head across the street. A tailor and suit store is up ahead and across the street is a large park-like Vietnamese cemetery. Unlike on Sundays, the large cemetery is empty. Sundays the park resembles a picnic area where families huddle next to their kins dressed in marble and speak to their love ones.
     It is going on four and I sign in and enter the Spartan Royal Assistant Living Center. I buy a five dollar ticket for dinner.  I then cross over to the   T.V. room and see an empty apace next to Birdie. The little Filipino is eighty four years old and sits at Mel's table. Let's mosey on in to get the feeling of the center.
     "Can I get you some coffee George? Mel is probably upstairs listening to the radio." 
      'Don't need it today, remember that I gave up caffeine, sugar and salt a while back?"
      "So you did. It is almost four so I will go to the dining room."
     The T.V. describes the killing of five police in Louisiana. What else is knew? Somebody did not like the men in blue, and I don't mean Dodger Blue. Several patrons are half asleep. Half use wheel chairs to pull themselves around. The lucky one have a caregiver who pushes them. I then walk down the hall to the dining area and take a seat.  
      No longer am I alone. Pamela sits across from me and told me that a black senator had been stopped seven times in about a year in a different state. Their anger is being spilled onto the boys in blue. They are too quick on the trigger.
  Mel enters and does not see me at first. He sits next to me and seems depressed. "How are things going Mel?
    "Seagar had three double but the Dodgers lost anyway."
     The food is ushered in now, just after are glasses are filled with tea and another with juice.
There are two choices this Sunday: either a roast or chicken fingers I don't say it but am mad that none of the three hospitals Mel had gone to treated him for his degenerated right eye. He had been getting shots in it regularly but the assistant living center never sent a list with his medication.
      "George do you know that there is a waiting list to get on in here."
       "Yes, Pamela, they are sitting on the street corners with signs or lying on benches."
        Pam looks over at Mel and her quizzical eyes movements ask me what is wrong with him. I don't answer but let my hands speak.
         "Let me cut the meat for you...There and don't forget the asparagus?" Mel begins to eat. I know that his blindness has made him depressed -- more so since my car had vanished and no longer can I drive him to the beach and Norms'.  
         Birdie gives her chicken fingers plate and I devour it also. Mel and I then go to the T.V. room. Mel knows now that he is blind and the only glue that gives him hope is if the Dodgers will advance to the World Series.
"Mel. I love you and see you next week. I hope to get a car somehow. Also my birthday is next month, the sixteenth of August.

   For those who wish a copy of my Trojan story almost published send nickels and dimes to my apartment at 18561 Florida Street, Huntington Beach Ca. 92648. Thanks you. Oh yes, my name is George Garrett.