It’s finally freakin fictional Friday!!!
Normally, I tell the writing prompt at the beginning. But today, I’m just not gonna do that. So without further ado, here is today’s short story:
When I told my friends that I’d accepted a job at a nursing home, I heard all the jokes. But little do they know, changing diapers and wiping bums are the least of my problems.
Today is just as busy as ever. Mr. Johnny’s bathrobe caught on fire during a heated round of bingo. Two of our oldest patrons claimed civil war over the last banana pudding cup. We caught them banging their wheel chairs against each other, while Mr. Rogers shouted “I could do this all day!”. Some of the others were even taking sides and began to fight each other. Although, a majority of them forgot that they didn’t have the weapons or suits they used too, so it was mostly pretend blasts and empty swings. Except for Ms. Natasha. That lady really knows how to use a cane. In the end, it was a problem that could only be solved with more banana pudding cups.
There was a lightning storm in Room 208, wreaking havoc on our machines. And for the life of me, I can’t find Mrs. Richards anywhere. She must be running around in the nude, again.
Just your average day in the life of a retired superhero caretaker.
In a way, I feel honored with the privilege of helping those who helped so many people. I mean, does it make me a hero then too, every time I have to untangle Mr. Fantastic’s arms from out of the vending machine? Or when I have to help Mr. Scott clean out his eye boogers? Yes, yes it does.
The person who always causes the most problems for me, and the 50 orderlies we have on call, would be that of Bruce Banner. The man gets a wing all to himself. See, we try to make sure he’s not awake for Jeopardy. One wrong answer, and the other side of him comes out.
When I get the call on my pager, I immediately know that the new guy must have left the TV on… again. I step around the corner, nodding to the desk and they open the sealed doors. I’ve been doing this job for so long now, I know exactly what needs to be done.
Red alarms blaze, which is probably not the most ideal for people prone to seizures. In fact, I’m sure we’ll have a few of our guests wake up with some sort of PTSD from their glory days.
I can hear the crunch of metal, the shrill screams of the fresh, incompetent slab of meat. When I reach the last door, the beige giant is hunched over, slowly pounding his fist into the television. He’s not as strong or as brightly colored as he once was, and it takes a good solid minute for him to raise his fist and another minute for him to bring it down.
“Mr. Hulk sir,” I call out as the rookie flees the scene. I can hear the march of the orderlies, what with their 1000cc dosage of a muscle relaxer. It takes him awhile to turn around, again not as spry. He looks like he’s about to raise a fist to “smash” me. But then I hold the best medicine this place has to offer. His favorite dinner of steak and potatoes, with apple crumble for dessert. “I’ve got your dinner.”
The calming down is immediate, and I set his dinner on his table while he turns back from decrepit monster to frail old man. I help the hungry Mr. Banner to his bed and he’s nearly finished with all of his potatoes before I’m out the door, shooing away the small army in Scooby Doo scrubs.
Just another hard day’s work at One Last Stand Retirement home. It sure does beat the losers that have to work at Diabolically Planned Community. Because if I’m a hero for helping the heroic, what do you call those who help super-villains?
As I walk to my car, I notice a floating saggy bra and matching panties jogging around the parking lot.
I press my pager, pulling off my leather jacket. “Mrs. Richards! You’ll catch a cold!” I run after her.
A hero’s work is never done.
***The writing prompt, obviously: You work at a retirement home for superheroes. Describe a day at work.
***Also, notice that no DC characters were used in the making of this story. I wonder why that is?! (Because DC is the grandfather taking 20 years to tell you about that one time it did that one thing…. come to think of it. I guess it would make for a great retirement home story. Dang it.)