They were given rooms with peeling paint and windows that rattled with every gust of wind.
Tammy found a cockroach in her bathroom and screamed so loud that a weary-looking nurse just sighed and told her to get used to it.
At dinnertime, they were served the same lumpy mashed potatoes and grey, mystery meat I’d been eating for months.
Randy tried to complain, to pull rank, but the staff just looked at him with indifference. He was just another resident now.
They sat at a small table, their designer clothes looking ridiculous in the drab cafeteria.
The other residents stared, whispering. They all knew the story. I had made sure of it.
The next morning, I began my own work. I called a full staff meeting in that same cafeteria.
The employees shuffled in, looking nervous and resentful. They were used to being ignored.
I stood before them, not as Doris from Room 7, but as Mrs. Jenkins, the new owner.
“My name is Doris Jenkins,” I began. “For the past three months, I have been a resident here. I have eaten your food, slept in your beds, and listened to the cries at night.”
A hush fell over the room.
“I know who works hard, and I know who cuts corners,” I continued, my eyes scanning the crowd.
“The manager, Mr. Henderson, who I saw exactly once, is fired. Effective immediately.”
A few gasps went through the room.
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