Masoninblue and I were seated at a back table at McDonald’s yesterday, sharing a computer that was plugged into the only outlet in the public seating area. His computer does not have a functioning battery so we must plug in to use it. We were at McDonald’s, drinking sodas and using their WiFi, because we are temporarily internet disconnected. Sort of. We initially purchased sodas, but now we use the same cup over and over for ice water, so it looks like we have a new soda, anyway.
Four members of a family arrived to have lunch while we were there: a woman and her son, and a woman and her mother.
Since I happened to be outside when they arrived, and since two of the women were toting portable oxygen tanks, I helped them with the door. When we got inside I offered them our table, because our table was marked with a blue ‘disability’ symbol, but the women declined, opting instead for a larger and more private booth across the aisle from us.
The women wore clean, modest house dresses and the man was clad in jeans and a t-shirt, and once they were situated in the booth with their oxygen tanks on the benches, one of the women produced a jar filled with coins and poured it onto the table.
There were quite a lot of pennies, and they were rolling around on the table, prompting the man to become excited. He started pointing at the coins and trying to capture them.
He uttered some loud but garbled words, and his mother leaned over and told him to be calm, that everything was okay.
I glanced over and noticed that the man was placing his hands close to, but not on, his coin targets.
Meanwhile, the grandmother on oxygen was quiet and grinning.
They were all able to get a meal, and the two women heading the group talked, mostly to each other with occasional instructions or explanations to the man and the grandmother.
At her last doctor’s appointment, for example, the mother’s blood pressure was 120/72.
I overheard this, translated “sebn-te-two,” and secretly noted that her blood pressure was better than mine was the last time it was checked, which was in prison.
Toward the end of their meal, the man slumped over slightly, and became unresponsive when his mother said his name and then repeated it louder, a second time.
The family finished the meal and then the two women set about patiently packing and explaining to the son and the grandmother that it was time to leave.
Once they all stood, I opened the door for them, first the mother and her son, who now held her arm, the arm without the oxygen tank.
Outside, the mother told me that her son gets seizures and that “when he gets quiet like this” she is afraid he might have one, so she wanted to get him home. I agreed, adding that it was awfully hot, and perhaps he could cool down a bit, and then get to feeling better.
Next, I helped the grandmother on oxygen and her daughter with the door. The daughter told me that it was not this heat that gets her, it is the cold, and then she re-explained to the grandmother where the door was, which way was out, and what they were doing there.
The grandmother was happy and grinning and she chimed in with, “Nice day!”
The two women said, “Thank you ma’am, thank you so much.”
I told them they were most welcome.
Then, sometime in the next day or two, I read something in a blog at FDL…may have been Larue’s (we do not get to read stuff thoroughly, because we are always in a hurry. Because our power will be cut off on Tuesday if we do not have the scrap to cover the bill by then)…that said something about President Obama turning fifty soon and having to scrimp and scrape just like the rest of the Looking-Forward-To-Austerity People. You know who I’m talking about. The people who have to sacrifice their social security, Medicare, and disability payments so that the filthy rich, which includes Obama by the way, can buy another yacht.
Last week, I was collecting junk behind a charity near their dumpster (not the one in our previous video) when two police cars blocked me in and lit me up.
Someone had called 911.
Before a very nice officer even asked, I explained that I had permission, both from the manager and the assistant manager, to remove scraps at the back of the lot, missed during the day by their regular scrapper.
One officer searched my truck for drugs while the other called the charity manager at home and woke her up.
It was 4:45 AM.
My story checked out, and as the officers were leaving one said something about the time, and I explained that, in this heat, I sometimes look for scrap very early.
Mr. Obama: Excuse me. You are in no position to say that you know personally what any kind of a daily struggle it is right now for poor people. If you made these statements, you need to know that they are offensive and you need to stop.
Why aren’t you satisfied with implementing policies to pay for your next yacht that will kill people like the ones I saw in McDonald’s? Why must you also insult their intelligence?