Hospital Story Part One
I was in the hospital twice just recently. On both occasions, it was for a one-night stay following unrelated surgical procedures. Although I was favourably impressed with the care I received, it was a relief to leave that environment of sickness and suffering. Back in Pearly Beach, I was able to reflect on the experience and compare it to the time when I was a hospital orderly more than 40 years ago. To refresh my memory, I turned to my autobiographical novel The Life of Henry Fuckit, in which I wrote about the three years I spent as an assistant nurse. Entertained by what I wrote some 15 years back I decided to share some of it in a short series of posts.
In this episode set at Groote Schuur Hospital in 1978 Henry applies for the job of a porter.
Was the uniform grey-blue, green-grey, or blue-green? Maybe it was grey-blue green. Or green-blue grey. Anyway, not a bad colour. Pushing an empty wheelchair, the man walked through the main entrance ahead of Henry. In the foyer he parked the chair alongside several others and when he turned Henry asked him 'Are you a porter?' His blunt features were arranged economically, so it was dead easy to read them, like a road sign, plain and simple. No multiplicity of confusing subtleties and nuances. No fine print.
‘I mean, you are a porter, aren’t you?’
'You looking for a porter?'
'Well, not really. I'm actually looking for a job as a porter.'
'A job?'
'Yes. I want to become a porter. You know, like what you do; that's what I want to do. A porter.'
'You must be bef#kt in your head. This is a kak job. F#ckall pay. Pushing sick old c#nts up and down all day. Every day just pushing sick old c#nts up, down, up, down. And dead old c#nts.'
Everything about this man seemed consistently brutish: his expression, his tone of voice and choice of words, his gestures and his bearing. His base nature was exposed for all to see, unadorned by even the skimpiest vestige of refinement. Methinks, mused Henry, this fellow would make a very fine Caliban.
'I'm sure there must be more to it than that. But anyway, could you tell me how I can apply for a job as a porter?'
'Huh.' And he folded his arms and looked out past Henry as if he had ceased to exist, as if he had never existed. Disappointed, Henry began to turn away. 'You got a smoke for me?'
Ah. He shook his head but found a twenty-cent piece and handed it over.
'F. You go up to F Floor.' He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of lifts and a stairwell. 'You not allowed to use the lift, hey? You go up to the F Floor and you speak to one of those f#ckin' b#tches. Jus' make sure you don't get Matron Sharp.'
'Matron Sharp?'
'Yah. No man, you get Matron Sharp, you f#cked. That woman, she can see right through you, like you was glass. She can check right inside your heart, right into your f#ckin' brain, my mate. You scheme you can chune that woman k@k, jus a little bit of k@k, and you're in jou m#er. No man, jus don't get Matron Sharp.'
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