My Redacted Life: Chapter 26

Like the good friend she was, Brenda came down to check on me Saturday morning. I had sprained my ankle day before at tennis. In reality, it was what was supposed to be tennis but had been more comedy relief than anything. The year 1972 was turning out to be one of many lessons and adventures.

I failed to hear her coming, so she caught me as I had hobbled over to get myself a cup of coffee. Using a broom handle as a crutch, I made it over to answer her knock. No more playing helpless invalid.

She took one look at me standing there in tennis shorts, my “Join the Navy and Ride the Waves” T-shirt, and flip flops. She shook her head.

“So, you didn’t ‘pass’ last night?” She said it with that soft little mocking smile I had learned to expect whenever I fell short of her expectations.

“You can’t imagine the excruciating pain, but I ‘sailored through it’ like the hero I am.”

She gave me her “Cut the bullshit” look, sniffed, and said, “Got any more coffee?”

“Just made a fresh pot.”

“Then bring me a cup.” She sashayed over to the couch and sat. She was wearing her Micky Mouse shirt and loose-fitting jeans. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and she carried a cigarette pack and lighter in one hand. Sitting, she searched for the ashtray, found it, and prepared to smoke.

“Do you notice anything unusual?” I said, standing in what passed for a kitchen in the small apartment.

“No. What?”

“I’m at a slight physical handicap.”

“So?”

“Might you get your own coffee?”

“I might but I’m not.”

“Oh?” 

“I told you yesterday, the best thing for a bad sprain is to walk on it. Dr. Holmes said so and I believe it.”

“Dr. Holmes said so?”

She lit her cigarette, took a puff, exhaled, and said, “Yep. He also said that a bad sprain was harder to heal than a fractured bone. I would take you to him but he would just tell you to get off your butt and walk on the ankle.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, he would probably tell you that you need to walk more, period.”

I was beginning to hate this mysterious Dr. Holmes. Actually, I would discover later that he was one of life’s treasures, but this morning my ankle hurt and my girlfriend was turning into her evil sister Brendhilda. All she needed was the gray wig and some whore-makeup. I was thinking that, but not uttering it aloud. They were bad thoughts. It was all my ankle’s fault, or the Devil's. I never knew which.

“Well just hang on while I get my crutch and serve you. It may take a few moments due to the challenges involved.”

Were we having our first fight?

She took another puff. “Just pretend the pirates are torturing you.”  I would come to learn that this was her usual prescription for dilemmas involving pain or discomfort. It obviated any need for chemical relief. “Don’t you have another shirt?” she said. “That one is offensive.”

Ignoring her, I poured a cup of coffee, took my broom handle, and crossed the room with a highly exaggerated show of effort. She took the cup in her free hand and motioned for me to sit, not beside her on the couch, but in a chair across from us, with a table between us.

Hobbling backwards around the table, I had the sudden feeling that I was losing control of my destiny. I flopped onto the chair. She held the cigarette high and sipped her coffee. “There,” she said. “You look stronger already. Daddy would be proud. His unit fought its way across France, Belgium, and Germany you know. They marched and fought, even when they were wounded like he was.”

I barely heard her through the pain and resentment. In the dark recess of my mind I was thinking. At some point, and at a young age, they must send them to “Woman’s School.” While there, they must have a required course called, “Keeping Idiots Off-Balance.”

It was sure working on me.

A man never knows who will show up.
Is it part of a complex plan?