Update on my friendly neighborhood racist homophobe senior citizen, Vicki. (Biting My Tongue)
Yes, it happened. She’d fallen and couldn’t get up.
I visited at the hospital where they had no one there by that name. I went home, confirmed and called, insisting, I know she’s there. Nope. Not there. Of course, I thought she’d died, but this old pain-in-the-ass will live forever no doubt.
Recuperating in a not-too-bad-smelling nursing home, I went and upon arriving, the receptionist said, ‘No Vicki here.’ I told her find all (last name) and I’ll visit those women. I found her. Under Mary. Never ever heard mention of that name after years of listening to story after story, so quite frustrated, I asked, ‘Who exactly is Mary?’
She said to stop yelling at her, she’s blind, not deaf, lower my voice and she’d tell me.
Vicki was born on Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, and while her mother was giving birth in the bedroom, her dad waiting patiently in the living room. Bells ringing, people cheering and town criers crying through the streets, “The war is over!”
The doctor emerged from the bedroom and said to her dad, “Do you hear that? The War has ended and you have a baby girl! It’s a double victory!”
And her dad said, “Then that’s her name – Victory!” And named her Victory Mary in celebration.
Except when they sent in her paperwork, ‘those people’ in the offices said nobody in their right mind would name a baby that crazy name, and reversed it to Mary Victory.
Vicki never found out until her husband applied for passports. Vicki was 25 before she knew her legal name was Mary Victory, and her husband came home announcing, ‘Looks like I’ve been sleeping with two women all this time!’
After not so graciously throwing Vicki under the bus a few blogs back, I thought I’d share a little piece of her story. It’s why I like old people. They always have the best stories.