Grandson for hire

I found out about the agency when I went to my school's employment office. I met with the Director, a woman in her early sixties. The agency was dedicated to helping independently living elderly, and it seemed ironic that the agency director seemed to need a little help, too.

The office was in an industrial area north of downtown. It was very disorganized, with a variety of cleaning supplies, papers, books and a collection of mostly useless stuff. On one wall, a slew of glass sheets rested, for example, and in another, were several shovels. A second room contained many file cabinets, and stacks of newspapers. The director had a desk in another room, the smallest in the office. She was the only person to work there, except for me from time to time.

Mostly, though, I worked in the field. I would call in every morning to a secretary, who worked in a separate office on the other side of town, and get my list of assignments for the day. I would usually visit three or four clients in a single day, and perform a variety of mundane chores that they were unable or unwilling to perform. The agency had a lawnmower, for example, and I would cart it around and mow lawns. Shoveling snow and raking leaves were also common seasonal chores. Another common chore was grocery shopping. Many of the clients talked amongst themselves, a fact I discovered when one of them decided to use the service to flip her mattress. Once I completed the chore for her, she called her friends … and I ended up flipping 14 or 15 mattresses that week.

It was the clients that made the job interesting. Each new client was a window into the lonely world of the elderly. I saw some clients frequently, others I saw once and never again. Everyone I served was a character, but a few stood out.

One man I worked for hated having me buy groceries. Before I joined the agency, it was common practice for the service worker to give the client a ride to the store, but an accident ended that policy. One time, he walked to the store by himself, bought a bunch of groceries and then called the agency to have me come pick him up 'like he did before.' The director of the agency was convinced that I was giving him rides despite my denials. It was sad to hear him explain his health woes, especially the untreatable condition that was going to eventually kill him.

One woman was in her nineties, and spent an hour talking about a trip she took to the Chicago World Fair of 1892. She was only 4 at the time. I used to cut her grass a lot, and she would complain of the snakes that would invade her house. It was sad to hear the lawnmower go "Rrrp" when it ran over a snake.

When assigned one client, I was advised to not eat there. After completing my chores, I was invited to a nice lunch by the somewhat blind client. I looked forward to a hearty meal of soul food … until I noticed the bread she gave me was moldy.

I was called to one house, but was warned beforehand that the client would most likely not let me inside. She was a longtime occasional client who was badly in need of services, but unwilling to take advantage of them. I used my social skills well, and easily gained her confidence. With that, she allowed me into her home.

It proved to be very difficult to enter, both because of the multitude of stuff she had accumulated and the stench of her home. The client was blind, and rarely moved from a chair in what must have been the front room. She also had an elderly poodle, which was also blind. The rest of the house was extremely disorganized, with furniture and random objects strewn about. Often, when going from room to room, I had to locate a clear path, or move furniture or items. Scattered throughout was various puddles and piles of dog waste. I never did much work for her--there was way too much to be done, and the house itself had structural issues.

The director was very similar to many of the clients. She was, as far as I could tell, a spinster. She hailed from the Boston area--in fact my New England roots helped me get the job--and had settled out west years before. She had a Boston accent, strong enough that some people thought she was English.

After working with clients for a while, the director had me come in and work in the office. Instead of having me clean up the general mess, she would then assign me simple typing or organizing tasks. She would go through several newspapers every day, and clip out items she though would be interesting or useful to the agency. She would then put them into a file folder and file them away. By the time I was there, she had been doing this for about 15 years.

She also had a thing about typewriters. There were several in the office, but they were old and needed repair. She had me repair them, and would give me typing assignments, and then complain when the machines wouldn't generate what she wanted. She also complained about the secretary's typing.

Once, I went to the office where the secretary worked. It was two rooms in a senior center. I found the secretary, a scratchy smoking old woman in one, in front of yet another dilapidated typewriter. A few minutes later, I went into the second office, which was used for storage. In there, on a desk, and under a carefully draped towel, was a new IBM Selectric 2. It was in fine shape, and ready to go.  I asked the secretary, but she told me she was forbidden to use it. I asked the director about it a couple of days later why it was there. She said "There's a really good reason why we don't use it. I'm not going to tell you that reason, but it's a good reason." I eventually brought it to the main office, but it remained unused.

Comments

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