Bless His Heart

I wrote this piece after I missed 15 words in the January 21, 2024, NYT Spelling Bee puzzle. All 15 words are included in bold type. The missed words, in alphabetical order, are as follows: Anionic, Caiman, Canid, Cocci, Codon, Commando, Indica, Ionic, Macadam, Macadamia, Maniac, Mimic, Monomaniac, Nomadic, and Noncom.

Imperial Republic: 1 (Elisa)

If you ask me, the Imperial Republic is a weird name for a “retirement community.” Imperial Manor, maybe. Or Shuffleboard Republic, even better. But I’m pretty sure Mr. Hanson, my tenth-grade World History teacher, would have called the Imperial Republic an oxymoron. No matter, it’s where I work part-time while I’m in college at Loyola in Chicago. People think a full scholarship covers everything, but it doesn’t.

I started college intent on being a veterinarian, but after my first year, I decided on nursing instead. It costs a lot of money to be a vet and it takes a long time. In four years, though, I can get my RN and become a travel nurse. I don’t know if I’ll like the nomadic lifestyle, of course, since I’ve never been anywhere outside of Illinois or Wisconsin. All I know is I just want to get out of here and see something different. My mom says, “Elisa, you’re like that guy in the black and white Christmas movie who’s sick of Bedford Falls. You’ll see, Bedford Falls isn’t all that bad.” Jeez, I hope she’s wrong. Anyway, some of the best-paying travel nurse jobs are in California and Hawaii. My plan is to get paid to visit Hollywood and San Francisco and Maui. And probably a bunch of places I’d want to see if only I knew they existed.

The Imperial Republic is a big place. It takes up a whole city block in Evanston, the first suburb north of Chicago, home to the Northwestern Wildcats. The spot where I’ve been since I started working here four months ago is called the Forum. It’s a little café for the old folks who can still get around, even if it is with a rollator – one of those walkers on wheels. The Forum is close to the main lobby, the mailboxes, the library, and the Colosseum, which is just a meeting hall. Since we’re in the middle of things, we see a lot of the residents every day. It’s super casual with counter service for lunch and dinner and ice cream all day long. In keeping with the Roman theme, I suppose, they have a pair of ionic columns on either side of the entry way to the café. At least we don’t have to dress up in togas – just the standard white shirt and black pants, or black jeans, but the jeans can’t have holes in them.

Here’s the thing about this job. And I get it, my dad says there’s always something. Well, here, it’s the residents. Not because they’re old or sick. I don’t even see most of those people, because they can’t make it down to the Forum for meals. But the ones I wait on are all white and they’re all rich. They’ve all been to college for about twenty years each and they walk around bragging to each other about how smart they are. They argue about everything. When I first started, they drove me crazy.

I’m a Latina from Pilsen. I never knew any rich people. My dad joined my grandpa’s upholstery business when he got out of the Navy. My mom works with my Tia Josefina cleaning houses for a living. That’s how I found out about this place, because Mom cleans for a couple of women in the neighborhood. In fact, one of those ladies was a judge and she just moved here about the time I started. To be honest, Mom said she’s really a good person. Okay, lots of the residents are friendly, but some of the ones I see every day are total jerks.

As I was just saying, today at lunch, at the large community table, a couple of old Northwestern professors were going at each other like elite commando units over, get this, how macadam roads in America in the 1800s and macadamia nuts from Australia got their names. Turns out both the roads and the nuts were named after somebody from Scotland, John McAdam. But it wasn’t the same John McAdam, since the nuts guy spelled his name Macadam. One of the professors – I call him Biology – was wearing baggy pleated khaki trousers that no one would buy, even at the thrift store. His light blue sweater was covered in fuzz balls and had a big soup stain on the front. The old geezer had some kind of AARP flip phone hanging around his neck from a lanyard that looked like the one I made for my grandpa in summer camp in Madison, Wisconsin, where my cousins live. Biology insisted the nuts and the roads were both named after the same John McAdam from Scotland. The other wrestler, the one Biology was arguing with, was a Sociology professor. You would never describe him as being a sharp dresser, but he did have a new Samsung S24 smartphone and he was kicking Biology’s teeth in with it. All Sociology did was Google it. Knock Out.

After his shaming defeat by a mere sociologist, Biology – I swear he thinks he’s smarter than Watson & Crick – began babbling to the old lady next to him about codon combinations in genetic research. She was busy trying to show him photos of her granddaughter, a baton twirler who was reading chapter books at the age of four.

It's always something like that with these rich folks. They can barely walk but they’re still trying to lord it over someone. Yesterday, the resident Chemistry professor motioned me over to ask for something at dinner. He was sitting with his wife at a two-top next to all the ears hanging on the wall. When I got there, he actually held up his finger for me to wait while he explained to his wife that Maalox contains hydrotalcite, an anionic substance. When he granted me permission to speak, I told him we don’t have tamarind chutney. As I turned to head back to the ice cream counter, I heard his wife say, “Thank you, Dear, as always, for explaining its chemical makeup, but I just want to know how Maalox works.” I dawdled then at table six, stacking up the dirty dishes. I wanted to hear Chemistry’s comeback. I admit it.

“You cannot very well understand how a thing functions before you know what it’s made of, Doris,” Chemistry said. That’s how I learned she’s Doris. Before that I only knew her by her 82-year-old flaming red hair.

“What I understand is that it would be easier for me to shove Fluffy in her cat carrier to see the vet than to persuade my brilliant husband to explain how Maalox works. Forget it, Dear. I’ll Google it.” She never calls Chemistry by his first name. Only Dear, or, if she’s really pissed off and there are other people around, I’ve heard her call him Dearest. “I found it myself. The magnesium and aluminum in Maalox are oxides that neutralize the hydrochloric acid in your stomach,” Doris read from Wikipedia. Chemistry hates Google, I bet.

If you’re paying attention, and that’s a big if, you’re probably wondering about the ears hanging on the wall next to their table. That’s over on the Forum community wall, by the two-tops. They use that space to show art made by residents. Right now, they’re having this dumb display of a bunch of different drawings or paintings of ears. Above all the ears is a big sign that says, ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’ The ears are on 8 x 10 cardstock with a hole punched at the top so they can hang from little hooks on the wall. At the bottom, they all say, “On loan. Please return to the Forum when finished.” People are always “borrowing” the old ears and “lending” new ones. They think it’s hilarious. I hope I don’t think stuff like that is funny when I get old.

Speaking of Chemistry, when the lunch shift was over, I went outside for a couple of hours and sat down at a picnic table to do my Chemistry homework. The weather was warm for a spring day and lots of the residents were out in their wheelchairs with their families or their aides. People would stop to look at the buds on the trees and any flowers that were in bloom. They all waved to each other and stopped to chat. Being outside seems to make old people happy. The Forum should set up an outdoor community table. I guess it’s hard to be grouchy when you’re looking at flowers and birds. Well, you know, unless some bird poops on your head but that hardly ever happens.

At five o’clock, it was time for me to get back to the ice cream counter for the dinner shift. After just a few minutes, the one resident at table nine who could still walk halfway-decent rushed over like a maniac. We’d been out of Rum Raisin for three days. Everyone was dying for it, like it was tickets to Dua Lipa or something. I knew him – Dr. Mike, the maniac – and I could have trusted him to carry four bowls of ice cream on a tray but I wasn’t that busy, so I sent him back to the table to deliver the happy news about Rum Raisin. I could see them all smiling and waving at me over there while I scooped the ice cream. They seemed nice.

While I was setting their ice cream bowls on the table, Mr. Johnson walked by with Doofus.  That mutt is the ugliest cute dog you’ve ever seen, maybe half Pomeranian and half Basset. One of the women at the table leaned over to scratch Doofus behind the ears. “What kind of canid can you be?” she asked the pooch. “A true case of who’s your daddy if ever I’ve seen one!” Dogs technically are not allowed in the dining room, but is it my fault if one of the residents interrupts her ice cream to pet Mr. Johnson’s dog?

On my way back to my post, I walked past the community table. More conflict, as usual. The old lady judge my mom cleaned for was fussing with an old coot lawyer about which kind of weed is better, cannabis indica or cannabis sativa. The judge said indica is better because it helps her arthritis. The lawyer was really ripping into her about sativa being a better high. I thought he could use some sativa about then to chill out.

Biology was there again too, this time sitting next to the General. Back when I first started working here, the General was waiting at the counter for ice cream and this old guy with him warned me, “Better not make the General wait too long for his ice cream. He’ll give you a reduction in rank.” My dad was ex-military and he used to threaten me with the same thing. Without thinking, I said what I always told Dad, “You mean, I could go lower than this?” The General laughed out loud and he’s been friendly with me ever since. Which is lucky because my smart mouth might have gotten me in trouble my first week on the job.

Anyway, tonight, Biology was lecturing the General on the difference between a caiman and an alligator. “Look for pictures on your phone and you’ll understand what I’m saying.” The General shook his head and said, “I don’t really need a picture to understand that a caiman is smaller than an alligator. Size is not a difficult concept, Arnie.” When I reached over to take their empty plates, the General rolled his eyes at me. “Elisa, rescue me from this monomaniac noncom. All the Sarge can talk about is crocodiles!” “General, Sir, you are on your own with the Professor. I’m only here to inform you that Rum Raisin is back, Sir.” I bowed slightly, just joking around. “Two, please, one for Arnie and one for me,” the General smiled. “You busy? Should I walk over to the counter to pick it up?” “No, sir,” I said, “I’ll be back in a flash.” I walked off thinking, “Sarge? Why did the General call him Sarge? Was Biology in the Army or something before college?”  

When I was new, back in the break room (which is a broom closet off the kitchen), I would mimic the old windbags to the other staff. Like tonight, who says “canid” when they mean “dog” and why do they always lecture each other and argue about every single thing, even alligators? Anyway, one day I was lasered in on Biology, who truly is off the charts on the ridiculability scale, as my Grandpa calls it when he’s swearing at the television during the news.

I was talking about this time when I was clearing dishes from the community table. Biology was arguing about bacteria, yes, bacteria, with this man who was there, just trying to visit his mother. Biology goes, “Don’t lecture me about cocci, young man, I literally wrote the book on the subject.” Then the mother says, “It’s Dr. Levine, actually.” So Biology says, “Apologies, Doctor Levine,” saying “Doctor” real slow and sarcastic. “I assume you studied Microbiology at university?” Levine, who’s really old himself, maybe like 50 or more, nods, “Of course.” Biology tosses down his napkin, total drama, and says, “Well, then, you’ve no doubt read my book on the subject.” At that point in my story, in walks the boss, Shelly, and says she wants a word. My two coworkers, Laquitia and Lincoln, scattered. Now I’m sitting in a broom closet alone with my boss. She shuts the door. You can smell the Lysol.

Shelly’s black. She moved to Chicago from Atlanta and, according to Laquitia, she’s got two kids in high school. I know she’s worked here for eight years because she told me herself. I was scared she was going to fire me or at least tell me off good. Here’s what she said though: “Professor Wallace is a bitter pill to swallow, I know that’s right.” 

I’d never gotten a talking-to from a boss starting like that. I didn’t know what to say, so I went with what popped into my head, “He’s not the only one. The place is filled with know-it-alls.”

“Sure enough.” She waited a long time to say anything more. “Why do you think that is, Elisa?”

I shrugged. “I just figured it’s the way a bunch of old, rich, white people act.”

Shelly studied the cushiony soles of her shoes for a minute and smiled, “Well, I don’t reckon we could scrape together a big enough group of old, rich, black folks here in Evanston to fill this place up and run a comparison to see who’s worse.” Then she looked right at me. “Know what I think it is?”

“No, ma’am,” was all I could say.

“Elisa, most of these folks used to be somebody. Now look at them. They’re old and they’re busted. They need walkers to get around and half of them wear Depends. No one cares who anyone else used to be and everyone’s pissed off about who they’re not anymore.”

I waited until I was sure that was all she was going to say. “Are you telling me to feel sorry for them?”

“Nope. I’m telling you to stop mocking the residents while you’re at work. That’s the rule.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because I don’t think a rule’s enough for you, Elisa. I’ve seen you work. You got a nice way with the ones you like. You plan to keep this job until you graduate college? Then, girl, you’d best find a way inside of you – not just a rule – so you can stomach a couple of old farts like Biology and Chemistry. I told you how I keep doing it. Besides, those two are lightweights. You’ll see.”

Then she stood up and opened the door, “You ready to scoop some ice cream?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” I bolted out of there and never was so happy to chisel rock-solid ice cream from a frozen five-gallon drum.

That was three months ago and I’ve thought a lot about what Shelly told me that night. Goes without saying that I do not make fun of the residents. While I’m at work. Out loud. But I can’t turn it off in my head. My smart mouth. You just know Biology was a giant blowhard way before he got the walker. He never was a kind person is what I’m betting. My boss Shelly’s got a big heart, way bigger than mine.

I had to find my own way to stop myself from spilling hot soup on some of these people. Then one day, I remembered what my Tia Juanita says people do down in Texas all the time. She says so-called God-fearing Christians will talk all kinds of trash on someone in their church behind their back and then say, “Bless their heart.” And that makes it okay, like a get-out-of-hell-free card for nasty gossips. So, now, when one of the blowhards is really getting to me, I think to myself whatever I want, like, “Look around the table, Professor Bonehead, can’t you see nobody cares about New World subfamilies of army ants?” But then right after that, I say to myself, “Bless his heart.” It makes me smile every time. 

And that’s how it worked tonight while I scooped ice cream for the General and Biology. I just kept thinking, “Bless his little Biology heart filled with alligators and caimans, whatever they are.” I started to smile. I was still smiling when I walked back to the community table with two bowls of Rum Raisin. I set the first bowl in front of Biology, but he didn’t even notice, he was so busy arguing with the proctologist from Tampa, Florida. (I call him Florida man.) They were fighting about whether the caiman or the Nile crocodile is more of a threat to local alligators down near Miami. The General was watching some sort of video on his phone with the sound down. He’s the one I feel sorry for, having to eat dinner with those two clowns. He looked up and smiled. I set down his ice cream and he winked as he sunk a spoon into the Rum Raisin. It wasn’t until I turned to leave that I noticed he was wearing Sony earbuds, not hearing aids. The sneak! “We all find a way to get by,” that’s what my grandmother says.