Before Nanny ended up at Whispering Oax Nursing Home, or as she quite often called it "the prison", she was not, in fact in the nursing home slash prison, but living in her son's house with his wife and two children. No doubt the wife, or whom Nanny would love to openly call "daughter-in-bitch" or simly "bitch", hated Nanny's presence. After all, Nanny was a very high maintenance individual, even though she only voiced support:
"Is there anything I can cook?"
"Can I help?"
"Let me fix those rolls for you."
"So... what are you thinking for supper?"
"This is delicious."
The catch was that Nanny wasn't really capable of carrying out all of these things she offered to do - and she knew this as much as the rest of the family. It seems that Nanny, therefore, only says this shit to seem "nice"; though lets not get carried away, her face is getting dead - she knows this, and these nice words have no real substance, but are only "brownie points" for God; she hopes that this will get her into "heaven". Nanny likes to believe in heaven; you might too if you had a dead face.
Nanny is sitting at the breakfast nook table with her grandson Fuckle, who has been ordered by his mother to oversee Nanny's cooking of a frozen entre. The boy is trying to send the signal to his grandmother that he doesn't enjoy being around her, but since Nanny has recently suffered from a stroke, she is not very perceptive of people's feelings. Nanny unconciously smiles at her grandson; he hates her old withered face. Fuckle knows that the traditional inquiry is about to commence...
"So, Fuckle, how was school."
"Fine."
"Did you have any tests today?" Her voice quivers and flunctuates and yips and yaws and does all this crazy shit that makes talking to her so much worse.
"No."
"Do you have any tomorrow?"
"No."
She purses her lips and nods her head in aknowledgement. A span of a minute or so goes by before her brain is able to work up the next query, "What do you suppose you'll have for lunch tomorrow?"
Fuckle doesn't know - who keeps track of that kind of shit? Who plans ahead that far in advance? Lunch for tomorrow? Jesus Christ lady, get a life!
"I - I don't know."
"Well tell me and I'll fix it for you tonight."
The irritating thing about old people is that they always seem to be thinking about what they're going to have to eat. Constantly. And when they aren't talking about that - they're speculating over the weather. And if they've already talked about weather and food, they will try to ask their children and grandchildren some of the most impossibly answerable questions which deal mainly with "plans for the future".
"So how long do you suppose you'll have this job?"
"What colleges are you thinking about going to?"
"What are you planning on majoring in?"
Usually, after one has tried to answer or not answer these obscene queries, enough time has lapsed to where they can then talk about food again...
"So, what do you want for supper?"
And after this tremendous production is complete, and the dishes are clean and the belly's full, they will settle down for the local evening news to catch tomorrow's weather, even though they've recieved the forecast twice or thrice that day. Then they go to sleep; Fuckle is glad that he doesn't know much about this process, because he stays away as far as he can from Nanny's bedroom before she goes to bed. He's heard the noises - the gargling of Listerine and other noises pulsating behind the closed door - and he's even glimpsed her in a nightie; all of this is enough to put the boy off enough that he looses all interest in imagining having sex with a women for the eveining.
"Fuckle... I can fix you something tonight. If you tell me what you want I can make it for you."
"Don't worry about it, I buy lunch at school."
"Oh." She nods. But Nanny doesn't like it when her plans to "be helpful" are foiled. Her thoughts try to process a rebuttal, but since part of her brain was deprived of oxygen for a short period of time a couple years back, Nanny's mind doesn't usually succeed in coercing young feeble minds - even though those young feeble minds might also be stupid in their own ways.
Suddenly, some shallow pop music blasts out of a tiny over-extruded cell phone speaker and scares Nanny to the point where she leaps about a half inch out of her chair. It is, of course, the boy's cell phone, and the phone is, of course, too high tech for a boy his age; but he flips it open like a mothafuckin' gangsta.
"Sup."
Caller: "Sup, Fuck."
"Whatchu callin' me fo?"
Caller: "Seeing if you wanna see a movie."
"Ah..." Fuckle enters the other room, out of Nanny's hearing radius. "I can't man. I gotta stay home with my effing grandma."
Caller: "Aw, that sucks, man."
"I know bro."
Caller: "You gonna sneek out tonight?"
"Sure - what time?"
Caller: "One o'clock - the fort?"
"Yeah."
Caller: "I'll text you if that changes."
"Holla calla."
Click.
Contact with his outside world - Fuckle's "real world" was rejuvinating; he faced his grandma with a kinder heart now because of it.
"Who was that?"
"Oh," Fuckle flips around his phone, "just a friend."
"What'd he want?"
"Nothing"
The timer in the kitchen beeps; of course, this arouses Nanny's supreme attention - this is her rejuvination. This is her time. But Fuckle reaches into the burning hot oven with his thirteen-year-old mitts, since Nanny's skin was so thin and loose, who knows how fast it would cook; more realistically, she has poor motor skills. She knows this, which is why it's so obscene that she offers to help out with cooking and cleaning so much.
Nanny was a housewife, and that time passed long ago. When her children left - when her husband died - her purpose of living, or so it had seemed her purpose for the past five decades, was now reduced to caring only for herself. Soon, she found ways around this - like babysitting her grandchildren while her children went out to get piss ass drunk and have wild and crazy sex in a hotel room which they would only use for less than an hour at the most. Now Nanny's grandchild was monitoring and helping her - she was most definitley on the downward-slope-portion of life. Some might say that the old become more and more like children, but her appearance and conservative values say otherwise - she is more like a spoiled special-needs child who costs more money the longer she lives.
Fuckle and Nanny sit at the table, eating their frozen entree, which Nanny praises as if it were a home cooked meal that she slaved over for hours. Actually, she didn't even buy the entree, and all she did was slit the plastic covering open - Fuckle had to do the rest. He had to preheat the oven, whose controlls were not analog knobs but digital buttons that really threw Nanny for a loop - she couldn't even press the buttons correctly. And he had to put the entree in the oven and remove it from the oven. But Nanny still seemed like she thought that it was all her doing. Like she was the master chef behind it all.
"Mmm."
Nanny likes the way it tastes. She couldn't even wait a proper amount of time for the food cool down; she shoveled it in her mouth even though Fuckle warned her otherwise. Thus, she gasped at the heat, and made an assortment of obscene sounds and faces which all siad, "Ooh - this is hot!" Fuckle looked at Nanny with a face that said, "Maby you should have listened to what I had to say you effing idiot."
After she was done gasping, "Hot." With an emphasis on the "t" which spewed a little entree out of her mouth.
"I told you. It said wait five minutes."
"I did."
"No. We just pulled it out of the oven."
"Well - we shouldn't have to wait any longer. It took over an hour to make anyway."
"It's not like we had to do anything. It cooked itself. Maybe if you would have just sat down in frot of the TV and not worried about the food, you would notice that you had to do nothing."
"It needed to be watched."
"For what?"
"To make sure it was cooking properly."
"You couldn't even see it. The light was off."
"Well I didn't know how to turn it on."
"It's the button that says 'light'."
"Well - I don't know these things."
"Yes - you do. I think it's impossible for you to not figure that out. If you know how to turn on lightswitches around the house, I don't see why you can't master an oven light."
"Well I couldn't, Fuckle. Now please, let's just eat. I would like to eat my food."
"That's all you ever want to do."
Nanny gasps, "We didn't say grace."
"Yeah - that and grace. Eat pray sleep that's all you do. You're a nutcase. No wonder you can't turn on an oven light."
"Dear lord thank us for the food we are about to recieve, amen."
"Feel better? What if you forgot to say grace? Would you go to hell?"
"Fuckle! Don't say that word! Your mother would me mortified."
"No she wouldn't, she named me Fuckle!"
"I don't know why she did that - your mother - you have too much of your mother in you, boy."
"You and your damn prayers and your saying grace and blessing food. It's effing food! It's like - wheat and dead animal meat!"
"That's why we bless the food."
"No you don't. You don't give a shit about the animals. You say the blessing for yourself - so that you can get into heaven. And you don't even know if there's a heaven!"
Nanny blows on her entree.
"That's like saying to my parents, 'well - I'm thinking about getting a degree in Boobology. But Fuckle, that isn't even an area of study. Oh, but I'm planning that by the time I get to college, it will be. Because that would be great'."
"Please pass the margerine."
Fuckle passes the margerine. "It must be nice to just kind of - you know - bullshit. I mean, believe in bullshit and not get questioned about it."
Nanny struggles to open the lid to the margerine container, and lifts it - gesturing to Fuckle, to please open this for her.
"I don't believe you." Fuckle rips open the lid to the container, "I've seen you move. Oh yeah, I've seen you walk fast. You do it for food. The other day when we were all in the family room and Amy had a jar of peanut butter that she was eating with a spoon. All of the sudden you kind of left at your normal slow ass walking speed, but then you returned to the room like a split second later, walking just as fast as anybody else - spoon in hand - out in front of you - right on target to dive into the jar of that ooie gooie peanut butter. It was like 'wham bam' and you had that spoon full of it and in your mouth - savoring, no, I'm sorry, what do the commercials in the Oprah time slot say? Indulge. You indulge in that smooth, creamy taste that melts in your mouth."
Nanny's fork rattles against her plate, she is craving some sweetness. Her mind dozes off, and Fuckle's talking just kind of disappears - she is now in a land of cupcakes and chocolates and doughnuts and Cinnabon and Sarah Lee snacks - all floating around. Nanny plucks a chocolate dildo from the vaccum of space and starts to eat it.
"Mmm..." Nanny moans, "cream filling."
"Yes - yes. Secret passageways leading to chocolate storage facilities - this is your heaven, isn't it, Nanny. Allow me - allow me to fufill your dreams, dead face. I am your God."
