Giant Dwarf vs Big Daddy

I don't often talk about my work.  One reason is that I'm a little worried about crossing the confidential line.  A better reason is that I see so many patients in a single day, I usually forget everything about them by the next day.  And better still....sometimes there is just no punchline, just a funny moment or two.

But I'm going to talk about one tonight because this patient made me laugh so hard that the two us sat in the lobby of the hospital having a good ol' time while I called a bar in the state of Louisiana.  A bar I fully intend to visit when I go to New Orleans. 

It didn't start well.  I work in a big fucking hospital with several patient care towers.  The emergency room is in one tower; the scene of this crime is in another.  So it starts with a call from a very earnest and caring transporter letting me know that a taxi brought a patient back from his discharge destination because "he doesn't live in Los Angeles and all the buildings look the same to him so he couldn't figure out which apartment was his." 

(I'm going to pause here and tell you that this is not an unusual call.  When I'm there after-hours, I get calls that defy logic.  I feel like this is further proof that I was murderer in my past life.)

I look up the patient's record and see that the discharge plan was for him to go to (and, yes, this is a fake address to protect the patient but why I should fake an address, I don't know, because you'll see that there is no real address I'm working with here) 411 S. Myrtle Street.  There is no apartment number in the note.  There is no contact telephone number in the note (despite the writer indicating that the address was given by the patient's brother).  That is all there is for the details.  The story goes that the gentleman (we'll call him Mr. Heureux) is visiting Los Angeles and is staying with his niece.  He was admitted to the hospital a few days ago after he fell walking around the neighborhood...after consuming an alcoholic beverage or four.  He was intoxicated and couldn't remember where he was staying, so they brought him in, admitted him, ostensibly detoxed him....but he still didn't know where he lived.  So, apparently, today he got in touch with his brother who gave him the address.

My colleague on the inpatient floor then left a taxi voucher for him to go back there.  Mr. Heureux went to the building, put his key in the door but was unable to gain entry.  Another tenant down the hall, an old lady, popped out of her front door and started yelling at him.  So our hero retreated.  Back to the taxi and back to the hospital.  I called his former nurse on the floor and asked her if she had any more information about this mysterious address.  She said she only got the address:  461 S. Myrtle Street.

Wait.  What?  There are two different house numbers here.  What's going on?

Also, Myrtle Street is not Myrtle Street.  It is only Myrtle Drive or Myrtle Avenue.  Which is it?, I ask the nurse.  She says it's the one only a two blocks from the hospital.  There is no Myrtle anything that close to the hospital. 

I tried calling the Mr. Heureux's brother several times, but no one answered the phone and it never went to voicemail.  Then I went to talk to Mr. Heureux himself.  And that's where the fun began.

Mr. Heureux was pleasant and jovial and a great sport.  He had a southern drawl and I could tell he liked to talk to people.  He told me the above story and I told him that we have two different addresses for him.  I showed him photos on Google maps of the two buildings, but he said he wasn't sure because he doesn't have his glasses and can't see all that well.

I told him I was already trying to contact his brother but there was no answer. 

H:  "Aw, he does that sometimes.  He just turns off his phone."

(Sure enough, I try calling the brother again and this time the phone is disconnected.)

H:  "You should try calling him at Big Daddy's Bar.  He's there every day.  He's 76 years old but he goes out late and parties till 4 am."

GD:  "And they know who he is there?"

H:  "Of course.  They'll give him the phone if you need to talk to him."

Mr. Heureux doesn't know the telephone number of Big Daddy's Bar and asks me to look it up. 

H:  "I think it's on Royal...or Franklin.  One of those."

I use my rapidly-dying-battery phone to look up the bar on the interweb.  Sure enough, there's Big Daddy's Bar on Royal.  The yelp review says it's a gay bar.  I call and there is no answer.

GD:  "This review says it's a gay bar.  Are you sure you're brother is there?"

H:  "Yep.  He goes there every day............and it's a lesbian bar."

Yep, that was it.  That's what got me laughing. 

I called again and got a very nice staff member (for lack of a better term) named Z. who told me that Mr. Heureux's brother wasn't there.  I asked him to give him a message if he comes in and, to my surprise, Z. took the message with my phone number and everything.

H:  "Who'd you talk to?"

GD:  "I talked to Z."

H:  "Aw, I know Z.  He's a big ol' queen!"

GD:  "Well, if nothing else, at least I have a bar to go to when I visit New Orleans."

H:  "And that's a good bar.  They don't serve those pre-mixed drinks there.  They pour them out real good.  They know how to get good tips!"

GD:  "Then I'll definitely go......and I'll bring my lesbian husband."

We both laughed.

Look, if someone is going to leave me a clusterfuck situation to deal with after-hours, it should at least be a little fun.  So I have to thank Mr. Heureux for making me smile and for laughing with me.

P.S.  Mr. Heureux told me his niece is out of town and that he is taking care of her cats.  I pointed out that he has been in the hospital for a couple of days and asked him if he thought the cats would be okay.  "Aw, yeah," he said.  "I left them a lot of food.  They should be fine."

P.P.S.  I asked him to wait for a bit while I sorted out his plan.  He said "I'm okay sitting here.  I'm patient...I'm a contractor, I have to be."