I scan the room for a staff member, but don’t see any of my colleagues.
Sam starts laughing. It’s soft at first, but before too long it morphs into a hearty belly laugh, causing him to hunch over and scrunch up his face. A tear rolls down his cheek. Laughter spreads around the table, including to Mr Thompson, who has his arms in the air. He swings his hips in a circular motion as if he’s swirling an invisible hula hoop around.
“Oh, man, I am so glad I came out of my room for this,” Sam says and wheezes.
I glare at him and mouth“not helping”,and then swing my head in the direction of the undresser.
“Mr Thompson,” I bark out. “Please stop.”
I approach warily, holding my hand out in a stop sign before me. It’s more to block the view of his bits than anything. The ruckus seems to egg him on, as he starts wolf-whistling and tugging his singlet upwards.
“I still got it at ninety, sweetheart,” he says, and laughs manically.
My hand fumbles for the walkie-talkie on my hip. Once I have it unclipped, I jam down the button on the side, my hand shaking. “Kathleen. Paige. Anyone. We have a situation in the dining hall. Over.”
“What’s the problem, Jane?” Kathleen’s voice blares through the speaker. “Need someone to clean up? Over.”
“No, no spill. Mr Thompson has crashed scrapbooking and is doing a strip show. Over.”
“Da-na-na-nah,” Mr Thompson sings.
Mrs Cassidy, of all people, starts singing along, swinging a piece of ribbon around her head as she positions photos with her other hand.
“Well, that’s new,” the handheld unit screeches. “I’ll send someone right away. Over.”