At one point, I got a NICE letter from the home, saying they still had some of dad’s things and I should come pick them up. I schlepped all the way down there and had to wait 30 tedious minutes for them to find someone to get the stuff—mostly useless T shirts—out of storage. The emerging pain in my ass—uncovered by insurance—was getting more pronounced than ever. Months later, I got a whole other note saying there were yet more of dad’s belongings to pick up! After confirming this unlikely scenario with a phone call, I once again trekked all the way to south Brooklyn, only to sit there whimpering for almost an hour as the inept employees engaged in a comic scramble to find the haul. They weren’t even sure what it was! They couldn’t even find the woman who’d sent the notice! And she never responded to my messages, nor did the home’s director!
Alas, there was no trace of the stolen money either, but a letter came about that too. Not surprisingly, it said they’d looked around and couldn’t seem to find it. “The investigation involved a search of Mr. Musto’s room, closet, and surrounding areas,” said the notice. Yeah, that’s how they stole it in the first place!
Note to self: Get hit by a truck on 70th birthday. Make sure it’s a clean hit.