Labinda’s Dick Move.
At the sound of the ambulance, Labinda tossed her latest copy of ‘Peace and Purpose’ magazine aside, heaved herself to her feet, located her large green crocs, and lumbered outside. It was a chilly 6 degrees, but her polar fleece shark onesie was toasty, actually a tad sweaty, if truth be told.
From about 30 meters she could see a woman huddled over a diminished figure who seemed to be lying on the ground outside her father-in-law’s house, swaddled in piles of blankets.
Labinda trudged sullenly towards the pair, because she was a self-described empathic person, and wanted to offer her assistance in any way possible. It was also a good opportunity to let the dog out for it’s daily defecation on Morris’s lawn, a tiny act of passive aggression that Labinda took enormous pleasure in, nevertheless.
The woman glanced up at her noisy approach, noted the huge crocs and the large rumpled shark costume, topped off with a face that resembled a dropped pie. She saw the squatting shitting dog, and was about to let out a shout of outrage when Labinda introduced herself as the fallen man’s beloved daughter-in-law. Morris was in no sound condition to contest this dubious claim as he was very cold, and quite insensible.
Despite having been a regular caregiver for Morris for a number of years, Agnes had never encountered Labinda, though she was familiar with the pattern of callous disregard and neglect Labinda and her husband Hercules had shown towards Morris since they realised they had already received the bulk of Hercules’ generous inheritance, and had mentioned her concerns in passing to her employer, which were noted, duly, alongside a chorus of complaints from other caregivers.
Agnes set her qualms aside, and asked if Labinda had a contact for Hercules brother Sisyphus, as she knew poor Sisyphus, who had spent months of his life pushing fecal matter uphill in the quest to make octogenarian Morris’s last years pleasant and nominally happy, in spite of Morris’s addle-patedness.
Labinda screwed up her face and made a little moue of distaste which brought to Agnes’s mind the bum of a sausage dog with gastroenteritis. “He’s a very nasssssty person” Labinda hissed, in her quest to be friendly and co-operative. “Do you have a phone number for him?” asked Agnes.
“No”, smirked Labinda helpfully, despite having a multitude of ways in which to supply the requested number. She was determined to dig her big sweaty crocs in hard, because she was too stupid to realise that being obstructive and obnoxious in a life-threatening situation wasn’t the flex she believed it to be.
“What about if Morris has a cardiac arrest on his way to the hospital? Does he get resuscitated?” rapped Agnes, losing patience with Labinda, the paragon of empathy.
“You’d have to ask Hercules; he has power of attorney” simpered Labinda cluelessly, for Hercules did not… yet. Realising her powers of empathy were being wasted, she waddled home for a well-earned rest. Being helpful and kind was so exhausting, she noted, and often unappreciated.
Morris was delivered safely to hospital, admitted, ensconced in a bed, and warmed up to a normal temperature. Agnes found a number for Sisyphus, and related the whole sorry tale to him, and her employer.
Labinda spent the rest of her day feeling virtuous, and rolling bandages for rabbit rescue, because she was so empathic.