hickey

It wasn't my fault. I didn't "want it". I did nothing to provoke it. I wasn't dressed provocatively, and I wasn't giving off any "vibes". But it happened anyway.

I was relatively new to home visits. I was open and friendly, wanting to make the clients feel at ease. I didn't want to come across as some insensitive bureaucrat. I was all smiles and reassurances. My clients loved me. Some more than others.

The first time I went to visit Mr. Mouth, I was unsure of what to expect. I knew that he had alcohol-induced dementia and he was unable to speak. Although he had several children, none wanted anything to do with him. At the time, I remember thinking how awful his children must be, to abandon him when he needed them the most. I would learn, over time, that lack of family involvement was a sure sign of a problem client.

In his late 70's, Mr. Mouth looked more like 100. His toothless mouth gaped open. His frail frame was paper thin. His eyes looked wild and hungry. He looked at me like I was a juicy sirloin sizzling on the grill. He eerily shifted his weight from one foot to another, side to side. I found myself mimicking this self-soothing behavior. The apartment was populated with roaches, so I conducted the entire interview on foot. A neighbor was present and helped to answer my questions. The interview went smoothly enough, but I was unsettled by the way Mr. Mouth fixated on me with x-ray eyes. Once my business was concluded, I assured Mr. Mouth and his neighbor that he would now have all the necessary home care services, and I promised to return in three months.

Mr. Mouth, however, was not anxious to see me go. He motioned to his neighbor that he wanted to follow me. When I become nervous, I tend to smile so wide that my cheeks burn from the effort. I smiled brilliantly at Mr. Mouth the whole way down in the elevator. He shuffled closer to me, leering and salivating. I smiled bigger and backed up against the wall.

The elevator door finally opened and I rushed out into the lobby of the senior building. I turned to again say good-bye to the neighbor and Mr. Mouth, but they followed me outside. It was a beautiful bright spring day. The courtyard of Ocean Towers was littered with residents, mostly men, on benches and in wheelchairs. Mr. Mouth waved around at his neighbors, and they saluted back. I turned for the final time to say good-bye. I extended my hand, but Mr. Mouth opened his arms wide for a hug. Despite the shudder of disgust that shot up my spine, I walked in for a quick embrace so as not to be rude.

It was sudden and unexpected. For a moment, I couldn't fathom what was happening to me. I felt tremendous pressure on my neck and tried in vain to pull away from Mr. Mouth. His gummy lips were sucking on my neck like a wet/dry vac. I tried to force him off of me, but he was much stronger than he looked. Finally, I had to knee him in his swollen groin to get him to release his death-like grip on my neck. When I faced him, he was as proud as a toddler who has taken his first poop in the toilet, pointing and grinnning ear to ear. The surrounding neighbors sent out congratulations, whooping and whistling their approval.

I stumbled back to the car, revulsed and dazed. I drove away quickly without buckling my seatbelt . Once I was several stop signs away, I pulled over to recuperate. I fumbled for the wet ones I keep in the car for just such an occasion, and I scrubbed my neck vigorously. Looking in the mirror, I saw something I hadn't seen on my body since I was 14. A hickey! It was purple and angry-looking, in the shape of South America. It was the largest, brightest hickey I had ever seen. Mr. Mouth put 16-year-old boys to shame. I drove back to the office, wondering how I would explain this aberration to my coworkers, and my husband.

For months, nay years, I was known as the slut of Ocean Towers senior building. I was propositioned and groped in hallways. Although I could not repair my greatly soiled virtue, I did bring an escort to subsequent visits with Mr. Mouth to protect myself. Several months later, Mr. Mouth was admitted to a nursing home. He could no longer handle his affairs. His children refurfaced long enough to have him committed.

My manner has changed somewhat since those early days. I am a bit more professional. I am not as quick to accept the embrace of a male client (although I have found that the female clients can be just as grabby with their hands). Instead, I plant my feet firmly on the ground and offer a steady handshake. If this does not placate the clients, I gladly offer them my mace.