The Story Of Peeples

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Peeples clicked his pen and consulted his clipboard. He looked to the clock on the wall, a dusty black & white unit that had been there since he took the job. He reminded himself to buy a new one, as he had every day for the last eleven years. His eyes went back to his clipboard, briefly.

“This is never easy,” he said, contemplating a sip of coffee, “but it is my job as Administrator.”

Pemmy, sitting across from him, glanced at the placard on his desk:


She wanted to ask if his first name was Mister… it had to be.

“I think you know what this is leading up to,” said Peeples with a grimace, “We’re going to have to ask your Father to leave.”

“For a few hours?” Pemmy asked hopefully, shifting in her chair.

“Longer than that,” said Peeples, “Forever.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pemmy. She was still wondering if his name was Mister, and whether or not she still had two fingers of Kit-Kat in her pocketbook. He had to be named Mister, she reasoned, or else why would his parents have named him that? Coincidence was a possibility.

“Your Father is a rabble-rouser,” he continued, “An instigator. He’s a bad influence on all of the other residents. Every week we find him in the Ladies Room.”

“I think he is just curious,” Pemmy said, “curious about what goes on in there.”

“The bathroom is only the tip of the mammary, Ms. Styfers,” Peeples dropped his pen on his desk for the sheer shock value, “he also subscribes to magazines without authorization. He switches the residents’ medication as a practical joke and he ruined the lobby carpet with his homemade wine. He comes to lunch without pants. Or underpants.”

“Free spirit?” offered Pemmy.

“It’s more than that…” said Peeples, “We have a list of complaints so long it would take all day to go through them. Seniors come to this facility to live their lives in quiet and solace, and your Father treats the place like his personal playground.” He had been waiting to use “personal playground” for a very long time.

Pemmy noticed the strap of her tank-top had slipped down her arm and she pulled it back over her shoulder. “He is anxious,” she said, without conviction, “and befuddled by the problems of society.”

“It’s not my place to psycho-analyze,” said Peeples, “but your Father is a stunted adolescent with advanced Dissociative Disorder and borderline Sociopathic tendencies. He should be put down, and by that I mean euthanized.”

“There is no argument here,” said Pemmy, un-crossing her legs only to re-cross them, “but the procedure is too costly. Can’t you let him stay here instead?”

“He cannot stay here,” said Peeples.

“Please?” asked Pemmy.

“Never,” said Peeples.

“I will give you pie,” Pemmy offered, uncrossing her legs and spreading them.

“Six months,” said Peeples, rising to lower the blinds, “and then he’s out on the street.”

Pemmy pulled off her tank top, and bent to slip out of her skirt.

“You have a deal, Peeples,” Pemmy said, extending her hand.

“Please,” he said, shaking it, “Call me Mister.”



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