The warehouse administration strove to methodically whittle away a resident’s peripheral reality and impose a manageable illusion of reality for the purpose of nurturing dependence and therefore obedience. Though the administration cultivated a high profile, for all practical purposes the flying monkey CNA’s ran the show.
The majority of certified nursing assistants employed by the warehouse were mouth-breathing soap-free scuzzbuckets who didn’t know shit from apple butter (though they had memorized the protocols of visiting incarcerated boyfriends and relatives). Occasionally some chirpy twat determined to save the world managed to slip through. The owners of the warehouse manipulated Mr. Gold who undermined the benevolent intentions of idealistic CNA’s by controlling them as pawns to further his agenda. Most staff members were phenomenally dumb fuck-ups; they fed their emotional retardation by dominating the infirm. Confident that their conduct suited his needs, Mr. Gold left them to their own devices. The outnumbered do-gooders demonstrated an unwavering loyalty to Mr. Gold. They took for granted that he knew best regardless of his questionable policies, and roamed the halls smiling and zombie-eyed, scrambling to heal and soothe humankind, anxious to employ their recently acquired bed-making and bedpan-emptying skills.
CNA’s ultimately controlled a resident’s food, clothing, and personal belongings. Sometimes they promised to alert the charge nurse to new developments in an immobile resident’s condition and instead made a beeline for the break room. (Access to round-the-clock care is the reason people are checked into a warehouse in the first place.) CNA’s habitually stole money and clothes from residents. They also exercised their self-imagined authority by barging unannounced into residents’ bathrooms and asking arbitrary questions while the occupants sat with their pants around their ankles.
If a CNA changing the sheets on my bed asked me to wheel out of the way and I didn’t move fast enough, they marched over to the door and carefully shut it. Then they stormed back to me and, in menacing hushed tones angrily threatened to slap my face or kick my ass—the wording depended on their age. This regularly occurred during my first months as a resident when the manifestations of my stroke were still grave i.e. I wasn’t yet able to conspicuously park my wheelchair in their path, look them in the eye and invite them to kiss my ass.
The administration spared little regard for the residents’ best interest and regularly played musical room assignments. If finances or whims dictated, Mr. Gold had no qualms about uprooting a settled resident and ordering them moved into a different room. The displaced resident could depend on a disgruntled CNA carelessly tossing their belongings into a garbage bag, then dragging the full plastic sack to the resident’s new quarters (all warehouse rooms were decorated and furnished almost identically to one another as hotel rooms of the same chain in different states). After arriving, the CNA always chucked the possessions into drawers and the closet without even a vague regard for organization. If a resident made a trip to the hospital and stayed longer than overnight, a CNA grudgingly jettisoned the unfortunate resident’s personal property into a garbage bag and lugged it to the basement storage room. Some items were inevitably “lost.” The administration would immediately place a new patient in the empty bed and assign a different room to the ailing resident upon their return. (Patients en route to specialized facilities who needed a bed for only a few days made such juggling possible.) As Mr. Gold often blustered: “Business is business.”