Back in the olden days, when access to a web-less internet was obtained through a company called CompuServe, the hottest status symbol of the day was a high tech device called a “pager”. People of importance would never think to leave their homes without the elite electronic device clipped to their waistband. In the egalitarian age of the early tech boom, having a pager didn’t symbolize importance by being wealthy. Having a pager meant that you were important because you were someone people needed to get in touch with. Doctors, deal-makers, and your pot supplier, anyone who kept the supply chain moving. My partner also had a ‘beeper’ because he was a union delegate. As someone who tended to shun excessive social interaction it was nice to vicariously experience the marvels of the modern age through him.
He had his newly upgraded alpha-numeric pager when we were called to a building on the Upper West Side that is renowned for its famous architecture. One of my favorite things about this job is the access it gives us to see the inside of amazing homes and places that most people only hear about or see on screen. Many of the pre-war building in Manhattan have subtle intricacies that are never given enough prestige when presented as part of a background to a movie or news story. Being inside these beautiful old places gives you an historic feeling of old New York and I like to try to imagine what the world looked like to people who lived there decades before.
The call was for an EDP or ’emotionally disturbed person’ who, the caller felt, was not taking care of herself. (When you’re wealthy the term for this is ‘eccentric’). The woman was obviously well off to be able to afford an apartment in this exclusive building that had famous artists and celebrities living it. We took the elevator up with several people dressed in expensive clothing as we wondered if, perhaps, our patient was someone we might have heard of in some way. We knocked on the door and it was opened by a little white-haired woman with the biggest, sweetest smile. She looked at us with awe, as if we were the celebrities and were here to fulfill a spectacular wish.
“What do you freakshow motherfuckers want with me now?” she said. She went on to elaborate that any requests for sexual favors were not going to be met. Her big smile never left her face. She was wearing a stained, purple printed house-dress that was over a set of thermal long-johns. She had uncoordinated socks on her feet and her long nails were dirty. Behind her, we could see what seemed to be a huge, mostly empty, apartment with bare walls and bedsheets haphazardly duct-taped to most of the windows.
“Do you know who called 911?” my partner asked.
Somewhere in the apartment a Jamaican accented voice yelled out “I called for her. I’ll be right there. Let these people in, Miss Jensen.”
Miss Jensen silently opened the door wider and moved to the side. She never took her eyes off us and for a while she fixated on me.
“You better get yourself to a good dermatologist, your face is disgusting,” she told me. “I’m just being nice, seriously, I don’t know if anyone can help you. You really need one of them, plastic doctors. And you should get yourself some cocaine. That would take care of those rolls. You’re a big cake and cookie eater, aren’t you?” She gave me some more advice that she felt might assist me in getting my reproductive organs noticed by the male population.
“Why, you’re just a lovely beam of sunshine, aren’t you?” I remarked.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she said calmly. “Just get the fuck outta my house.”
“Now, now, Miss Jensen,” said the lady with the accent. A tall, slim, well dressed woman emerged from a room taking off a pair of latex gloves. She reminded me of Iman, the fashion model. “Forgive her, sometimes she’s real mean,” she whispered to us.
“I ain’t mean. I’m honest.” said old lady Jensen. She turned around picked up a plate. “Cookie?” she offered.
The woman with the Jamaican accent gave us a wide eyed serious look and shook her head, as if warning us they were loaded with poison.
Miss Jensen, seeing her plate of cookies rejected, casually threw them in the garbage, along with the plate. She then wandered off into another room. The apartment had a peculiar foul smell, like rotting food, but when the woman went away the odor seemed to travel with her.
“Thank you for coming. I’m Tanya,” said the other woman. “I work for Miss. Jensen’s family.”
“Are you her home attendant or a visiting nurse?” said my partner with a tone indicating that he didn’t believe she was. She wasn’t dressed like a home attendant or visiting nurse.
“No,” said Tanya. “I… I just sort of bring Miss Jensen the things that she needs. You see, her family doesn’t really deal with her anymore. But Miss Jensen isn’t in control of her finances. They gave her a number to call, it’s a service, she is supposed to tell them what she needs, then they page me on this device and I go out and buy it for her.” She showed us her pager that looked just like my partner’s newly upgraded beeper. “But she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She calls the poor people at the service and talks to them about nonsense. So I come here from time to time and fill up her refrigerator and ask her if she wants me to bring her anything.”
Miss Jensen emerged from one of the many rooms of her apartment and went up to my partner just to inform him that he should expect to die alone. Then she turned around and went back. The apartment was mostly empty. There was nothing on the walls and only a few scattered chairs for furniture. There was a path, however, that had been created with two rows of Lladro figurines leading to another room. There was no TV, no books and I wondered what Miss Jensen did all day.
Tanya continued, “I think I am the only one who comes here. I was originally told she had more people, a nurse, a housekeeper, but I think if she did once have them that they no longer come here. Miss Jensen needs help, much more than I can give her. But when I talk to the family they say she is fine. She is not fine. She hasn’t taken any medicine in a long time from what I can see. She’s not taking care of herself and I can’t do it for her. I’m not qualified and they don’t pay me for that. I do all kinds of other things around here because I feel sorry, but I’m not giving her a bath or combing her hair. She sometimes scratches with those long nails of hers. You can’t tell her anything. She won’t listen.”
“Do you know what she’s supposed to take?”‘ I asked.
I heard Miss Jensen yell from wherever she was, “COCAINE! I use cocaine, that’s why I can get a man and you can’t, girly!” She cackled like the evil villain in a Disney movie.
Tanya looked at me, slightly embarrassed and slightly smiling. “She’s supposed to take psychiatric drugs. I do not know what kind”
I went over to find Miss Jensen to see if she would let me take some vital signs. She was actually very pleasant to me and allowed it, rolling up the sleeves of her dirty clothing and revealing a dry, frail arm. Her vitals were pretty good. I asked her if she would go to the hospital with us.
“I’d love to get out of this place for an afternoon,” she told me. “Let me change my dress.” She walked over to a large closet and when she opened it, it appeared that many of the contents of a normal home were stored inside. There were unopened appliances, a large television, boxes of clothing, dishes, and random objects. They were all piled in, seemingly arranged in an intricate balancing act. I feared that when she dug out an identical purple house-dress from a box everything would come tumbling out of alignment but thankfully they didn’t.
Her new going-outside house-dress was also stained and unwashed. She turned her back out of modesty as she took off the old dress and put the new one on over her long johns. Tanya came into the room and asked Miss Jensen if she might want to take a shower or bath before leaving. “It’s my only chance,” she looked at me, pleading. I was very much in favor of the idea.
“What for?” Miss Jensen scowled. “I’m quite lovely just the way I am.” Then she gave us all a big smile. As she walked around her barren apartment she stopped near one room, pointed and said with another big smile “That’s where the… accident happened.”
Tanya looked at me seriously and whispered, “Her family thinks she killed her husband. A big wall unit fell down on top of him. That’s why they want nothing to do with her. I don’t think she was ever strong enough to crush him like that. But I think she wants everyone thinking she could. Then again, she is very resourceful.” She also added, “I don’t think it was a happy marriage.”
Maybe we were in the home of a noteworthy individual. If Google had existed I would have checked her out. Scanning through miles of microfiche at the local library didn’t hold the same instant gratification.
Tanya said she had to go, she had some errands, but promised to meet Miss Jensen in the hospital. Miss Jensen was ready to go shortly after. She seemed to be happy to go outside and said she hoped she’d see the same MD she saw the last time Tanya made her go.
When got into the elevator to go down there were four other people already inside. As the doors closed, their faces indicated that they had gotten a whiff of the malodorous cloud that surrounded our patient. We slowly went down another few floors before stopping to let another person in. I could see the people in the back considering whether to get out or not but they didn’t decide quickly enough and were stuck with us for the duration. The person who got in clearly regretted it. Suddenly my partners beeper started beeping loudly.
“What’s that?” Miss Jensen asked angrily, looking around.
Without missing a beat, my quick witted partner whipped out his pager and checked the message. He looked at Miss Jensen and said, “Why, it’s my smell-o-meter. According to this, you are exceeding acceptable clean air standards by 65%. It might be time to do something about that.” I burst out laughing. The others in the elevator didn’t seem to know what to do. They looked scared but also seemed to smile a little.
Miss Jensen considered this, for the first time thinking about taking advice instead of giving it. She demonstratively sniffed the air, and herself. “You might be right,” she said quietly. “It might be time.”
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