Greetings from D.C. Village, the nursing home that refuses to die.
Cover Story
"Don't be a fool," the old man says. "Anybody can be a fool."
We're sitting on a bench inside the entrance of D.C. Village, the city-run nursing home stranded on Washington's southernmost tip. Like nearly everything here, the morning goes by extremely, even painfully, slowly. For sheer inertia, the place's wheelchair pace is rivaled only by the sluggish gait of its employees, who amble ankle-deep in their own ennui. Outside, the sole movement on the frozen, gray horizon comes from the occasional planes floating into National Airport across the nearby Potomaceven their landing arcs seem lazy.
Once in a while, the automatic glass doors slide open to let in a teeth-chattering gust of river wind, which, despite the weather, carries the signature of the neighboring sewage treatment plant. The old man is bundled in a heavy coat, but he isn't going anywhere, and he isn't expecting anyone. Thomas Bowles rarely leaves D.C. Village, and he hasn't had any visitors for years.
We pay no mind to the sporadic arrivals and departures of employees; Bowles has no use for time clocks or even calendarshe's on Village Time, a zone where seconds drift into years without anyone much noticing. Some residents woke up here not long ago, others have been here since the Eisenhower era.... Continued
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