The Tuesday

As I expected, it wasn't even a little bit fun.

After I parked in front of the house, I took out my Polaroid to figure out what the focal length was. After all, I needed to get a close up of this thing, and I didn't want it to be blurry.

The Polaroid instruction book is pretty thick, but it turns out that's because there are 2 pages of instructions in every language. None of these instructions seem to involve focal length, so I went with what I felt was a pretty standard 2-3 feet.

After summoning all my available courage, I walked up the house, Polaroid in hand, and knocked on the door, through which I heard a friendly, "just a minute." This was followed by, "that's right little dog, you're going to get muzzled. I know you don't like it, but you are an ill-mannered little dog, and that's what happens to ill-mannered dogs; they get muzzled."

And sure enough they do, because when the elderly woman let me into the house the dog ran right up to me and tried to nip my hand through her muzzle. The woman explained that she doesn't really bite, just nips. But that a nip can still break the skin. "What an ill-mannered little dog," I thought. And then, "doesn't a nip which breaks the skin constitute a bite?"

Unfortunately there was no time for such rumination. There were pictures of bedsores to take.

The woman led me into the living room where her husband was sitting on the edge of his bed wearing boxers. Maybe, I hoped, I could take the picture without exposing myself to any nudity. Alas, my hopes were dashed when he asked if I was ready, and when I said that I was, he walked over to a chair, turned his back to me, explained (inexplicably) that "this is a popular spot," and dropped trou.

So here I am faced with a very old and naked ass, as well as the dangly bits I can see between his legs, and I can't see a sore. The whole reason I came out there was to photograph the sore for Medicare, and I can't find it. "I don't see a sore," I say.

"It's right there," the man says, pointing haphazardly at various locals on his exposed behind.

"I still don't see it," I say, terrified that I'm going to need to go out to my van and get gloves.

"You have to spread the cheeks," his wife explains, as she (and thankfully not me) spreads said cheeks to reveal a slight redness and tiny bump.

"Great," I say, "could you hold that for a minute?"

So I snap two pictures and frantically wave them around willing them to develop so this man can put his boxer shorts back on. When they finally resolve into pictures of naked man parts, I decided they were about as good as I was going to get, thanked everyone involved, and left.

Today I got a call from corporate complaining that my pictures were out of focus and quizzing me on whether or not there were any breaks in the skin. I told them that I did my best, and there were no breaks in the skin. They explained that just redness didn't constitute a sore, and pronounced him healed.

The really terrible part of this whole thing - taking two pictures, seeing old naked man parts, seeing those parts spread out, looking at the pictures to see if they came out well, and then sending them next day air to Headquarters - was that I didn't have to do any of it. He was healed, and if they had just said that on the phone we could have made arrangements to pick up the mattress. Instead I'm going to be needlessly haunted by memories of smutty Polaroids of the geriatric.