and we can't go again

 

 

            We climb into office buildings; we climb into cars, busses and trucks.  We crawl around this life as would insects, keeping our secrets, playing with our food, ever mindful that once the ink stamp on the back of our hand fades - the ride is over.

 

 

The Plan Isn’t Working.

 

            It’s all busy work, designed to keep us occupied, keeping us from pestering each other.   Shuffle papers, file them, retrieve them, and flash their charts upon the wall and point at them. 

 

The cuffs on that suit, they are too large.  Are you a salesman?  Because if you are - you shouldn’t be wearing cuffs that draw such attention.  I find they distract.  My attention has been drawn from that chart you’re pointing at down to your cuffs.

 

            “What do you mean, I’m pestering you?”

 

 

A Fragile Balance

 

            During Tuesday night’s dinner the mechanic’s potatoes were touching up against the green beans.  This was all too much for him to deal with and harsh words pulled a blanket of quiet over the evening.

 

            A recollection of that event was written onto line twenty-four of the FAA report, following an investigation of what should have been a routine fuel line replacement.

 

 

 

Moments in Reflection

 

            I was across the street from the barbershop and the Sunlight was hitting the window at such a peculiar angle that I would have sworn there was a French Poodle sitting in the first chair.    I had to be sure of what I was seeing and without thinking, stepped out to cross the street. 

 

            Just as the wide chrome bumper of the bus caught my leg and sent me sprawling to the pavement, I noticed my cuffs.  They were too big.

 

 

 

Destined to be Neighbors

 

            There were contraptions with straps, springs and various sized handles here and there.  There were two clipboards at the end of the bed and a Morphine drip operated through a black box, which was flashing several small lights.

 

            What seemed like a constant blur of nurses poked, charted and measured throughout the night, until one of them said she had come into the room to check on me. 

 

            “I’m fine in comparison, I said, pointing to bed 28b.  I was only hit by a bus.” 

 

            During Thursday’s visitor hours, a lady entered and sat along side 28b holding an array of flowers.   Looking over at me she asked if he had woken up yet.

 

            “I don’t believe so, I replied.   Can I ask what happen?”

 

            She laid the flowers on the empty chair across from her and looked back at me.  “He’s my husband.  He survived the plane crash last week.  I knew he was due in from his trip on the afternoon flight so I was running all my errands in the morning.  I wanted everything to be perfect when he got home.  I even had the barber in town trim up Fi-fi’s hair.  He love’s his Poodle”.

 

A Change of Menu

 

            Removed from intensive care meant a new room, a new roommate and closer to being released.  The only fly in the ointment – it was a full house.   The only available bed was down in the Crackers Ward.  That’s what the nurses called the Psyche Ward whenever the Doctor’s weren’t around to hear them.

 

            Mental patients were not plentiful here but they did warrant their own area.

 

            “You’ll be fine in here for a few days.” The Orderly whispered, as they rolled me over to the bed by the far wall.  “You’re roommate has been sleeping all day, but I expect they’ll wake him for dinner”.

 

        It was like something you’d see on TV.  I awoke, kind of blurry-eyed to a circle of Doctors looking down at me.

 

            “What happened?” one of them asked.  “Do you remember?”

 

            “Only a little.” I said.  “I remember the Candy Stripers bringing in our dinner trays.  My roommate was sitting up and all seemed fine.   Then, as if someone had twisted the wrong two wires together, he started screaming that his applesauce was spreading out on his dinner plate and was about to touch his carrots.

 

            He began ripping plugs out of the wall, knocking over equipment and then something exploded, knocking me down here to the floor.

 

            That’s the last thing I remember.”

 

 

 

Guilty – with an explanation

 

 

            Welcome Mitch.  How was your transition?

 

            “Transition?”

 

            Yes Mitch.  You have left the life you once knew.  You are now here at the Pearly Gates.  I see by your chart that you were an aircraft mechanic.

 

            “Yes.”

 

            You can relax Mitch.  There are just a few things we have to cover and then you can go in.

 

            “OK.”

 

            It looks like you had a few issues you were dealing with down on Earth.  One in particular dealt with food.

 

            “Could I go back and try again?  I think I can get it right if…”

 

            Sorry Mitch, but your hand stamp is completely worn off.   That ride is over.

 

            “But I can explain.  The applesauce, it was moving on its own, heading straight for the carrots.”

 

This has been an experiment in story telling, showing only snapshots of events and letting the reader piece them together as they gather the facts.

 

I may try this again but may not put them down in sequence.  Let me know what you think.

 

 

 

 

Have a Great Week

 

 

Zobostic