"Uh. No way." Stony shielded himself from the dope. "I almost jumped out the window yesterday."

Reynard lit a joint, took three long wet sucks, ground out the burning end and put the roach back in the Baggie. "You on you own today, baby." Reynard struggled out of his street clothes. "But you need some help, give me a yell."

They punched their time cards under the gridded wall clock and walked through the beige, glazed-tile corridor past a vast stainless steel kitchen and scattered stainless steel food carts toward the elevator. Reynard slapped five to every other guy they passed, shouting and laughing, taking his ease. Stony knew Reynard would never become a hairdresser.

"Mr. Plotkin?" Stony braced himself as he walked into the pale green room.

A small, hairless, toothless, blind man sat on the bed, smiled beatifically as if touched by the voice of God. "Yas?"

Stony could see his eyeballs moving under his shut lids, his wide gum-grin stretched from ear to ear. His white gown was too big for him and hung off one skeletal shoulder in a parody of a 1945 movie goddess. Stony clenched his teeth. "Enjoy your breakfast?"

"Yas I did. Who iss dis I yam talkink to?" As if he was on the phone. He kept smiling nervously, jerking his head in the direction of Stony's voice.

"I'm the new lifter."

"Vere is Reynard?"

"He's around, I'm helpin' him out." Stony moved the wheelchair into position, locking it with his foot. "I'm gonna take you to the john now."

"O.K." In a singsong.

Stony cringed for a moment before slipping his arms under Mr. Plotkin's armpits. He was surprisingly light. When Stony lifted him high enough and the blanket slipped away, he saw why. Plotkin was legless. Stony gasped. Plotkin laughed. Stony held him at arm's length, afraid of the smooth stumps. He deposited him in the wheelchair, replaced the blanket, unlocked the catch and wheeled him down to the huge white tile and stainless steel bathroom. He dumped him on the pot and stood there while Plotkin grunted, plopped and farted for ten minutes, smiling all the while. Stony unwound a wad of toilet paper consuming half the roll, lifted Plotkin with one hand across his chest and wiped his ass, his head behind Plotkin's back, almost in the bowl. Stony held his breath the whole time. His eyes were screwed shut. But somehow he still managed to get a lungful and an eyeful in the scant ten seconds the whole operation took.

"Misteh leefteh, you ah colid boy?"

"Nope. I'm Italian." Stony wiped the cold sweat from his face. He was chilled with disgust.

"You are vhite boy? Vhat you do dis for?" Then he whispered, "Dis a chob for der niggers."

***

"Come in here, please." The black nurse beckoned to Stony in the hallway. Stony's heart sank. It was ten-thirty. Hour and a half until lunch. Ten ass-wipes to go. "Meestah Beckahmon vomited all over heself," she said, ushering him into the room. "Please clean him op. I have to go get sheets and a gown. I be back in five minutes."