Today, the realization of the long anticipated "Stormy out on the Town". Which, if you've dealt with old age and decrepitude, you might correctly surmise was a bust.
He's gotten my postcard, is giving it back to me advising that it's from Queen Elizabeth, personal friend of his (this is the stamp, I was in a rush and didn't buy the more interesting ones...), and he's up and raring to go. Wheelchair to bus, bus downtown, wheelchair around.
First stop is the bank. While he's been laying around the hospital his OAP has been piling up.
The tellers are glad to see him, it's been a while, and he sits in the chair while they fetch him $200 - in $5, $10 & $20 denominations. From here to get cigarettes, he stops and gives a panhandler $5.00. He's rich for the day. Cigarettes bought it's now time to wheel him up to El Taco, and he sits across the street passed out in front of a window while I fetch his burrito. Returning I wake him, visit other of his street friends, acquaintances, rush him to the washroom (too late, by the looks of things), then to the candy store, the toy store, he buys some art off a friend - local "artist" whose art - like Stormy's - has a certain inimitable style.
An hour passes, I've wheeled him from one end of town to another, he's barking me directions, "Take me here" and "Do this" and "Take me there", I'm Ishmael to his Ahab, and he's now cold and wants to go home. But the bus doesn't come for another hour, and so we plot to fill the time, but he's done, done, done, I have to shake him to make sure he's not dead.
Return him to the hospital, he falls into bed. He's impressed by how far we've travelled, how many people we saw, how much he's done.
A couple of days later, visiting him again, he's recalling what a success the outing was, and we're going to have to do it again next week, he has money left to spend...