You Might Call It a Routine

Today I saw my brother for the first time since Thanksgiving. I don't like for it to be that long, but I got very busy in December and didn't make it out to the nursing home where he lives, in another part of Brooklyn.

We did exactly what we usually do, walk to the video store to get movies, well, me walking and pushing him in his wheelchair (my brother had a stroke four years ago and can neither walk nor talk now), and then to the diner across the street from the nursing home. It was cold out and I was tired from being out late at a party last night so I was glad not to go farther afield. It felt hard even pushing the wheelchair the quarter mile or so each way, to the video store and back. But I also felt happy to be with my brother and I know he felt the same.

My brother can say a few words, among them "yeah" and "oooh" or "oh." Usually, within a few minutes of our starting off, he will say, "Yeah, . . . yeah, . . . yeah," in a kind of sighing, wordly-wise way. And then I'll say, from behind him, "Yup, here we are." Or, "Nice to get out, huh?"

I can maneuver him through the door of the video store by myself if I wheel him in backwards, but it's much easier if I can get someone to hold the door. Today, as we approached the door, I saw a young father and his son leaving. The son, who was wearing a woolen hat that said "FDNY," looked happy and excited, pleased about whatever movie or game that they had just rented. The dad had already unlocked their car and they were starting to get into it, but I asked him anyway if he would hold the door to the video store open for us. He said, "Of course," and came to help us. After we were inside, I said to my brother, "I knew that guy would help. His son was wearing an FDNY hat, so I figured he was a firefighter, and you know, firefighters, they'll always help."

My brother said, appreciatively, "Oooh."

After we picked out several movies and paid for them, we made our way back towards the diner. We go there a lot, and the owner and all the waiters and busboys know my brother, and my whole family, and are always considerate and kind to us. In fact, more than that, they enthusiastically greet my brother, find us a table where we can be comfortable, bring my brother a beer as soon as we get settled. The clientele of this diner is mostly elderly Jewish people, the owners are Greek, and all the waiters and busboys are Hispanic, so it is a funny melded world.

The diner has a ramp for wheelchair access, but it is very steep, so I always go in first and ask one of the waiters to come out and help me bring my brother in, and I did that today, as usual.

Oddly, there were hardly any customers--perhaps because it was 3:00, after lunch but not quite the dinner hour, or perhaps because it was so cold out. At any rate, it was quiet and peaceful. At the table next to us, one of the waiters sat folding green napkins. The football game was on, on a small TV set near the doorway, and because it was so quiet in the restaurant most of the staff were clustered there, watching it. I said to my brother, "That would make a good picture, huh?" He nodded.

My brother pointed to what he wanted, on the menu. (It is one of the oddities of his condition that he can read perfectly well but cannot make letters into words when he tries to write something.) "Hmm," I said. "That sounds good--I think I'll join you."

When the waiter came to take our order, I told him we both wanted the triple decker sandwich with chicken salad, bacon, lettuce, and tomato.

"Numero dos?" he asked.

"Si, numero dos," I answered.

I thought it was funny how he was just talking to me in Spanish so casually, as if he knew I would understand. He doesn't usually do that. It all seemed part of the strangely relaxed mood in the place. Or perhaps it was because the people at the table on the other side of us were Spanish speakers, and he had been talking to them in Spanish.

Then he asked, in English, if we wanted white toast. My brother made a dismissive face. "Rye?" I asked him. That got a better response, and I told the waiter we both wanted rye, and that I wanted fries, but my brother wanted potato salad.

When the waiter brought the sandwiches, I asked him for some ketchup for the fries, and he nodded. Then he got sidetracked with another order, and was busy for a few minutes, but when he passed by our table, he reassured me that he hadn't forgotten, saying, "Traigo ketchup."

After we had finished and paid the check, the waiter came and got my brother, and wheeled him down the steep ramp. I thanked him and told him I'd see him next time. Then I brought my brother back across the street to the nursing home, sat with him for a little while, and then took the subway home.