“Yes, what would Johnny Cash do?”
Ah of course, my first man in black. Martha was being silly, but I think she hoped the joke would remind me that there is something to be said about character and the old machine had a lot of it. “Okay, the monster stays.”
Track 8: Hopes and Dreams
Will and I kept missing each other at the apartment. I hadn’t seen him for over a week except asleep in his bed on the mornings I left for work. I would leave his mail on the counter for him and every day I would notice more and more envelopes addressed to Will from record labels. It seemed that he was getting his career off the ground. My mind would wander to him headlining big stadium shows before going back to his giant, fancy bus with a different set of groupies every night. I would think good for him, but it still bummed me out. None of that had happened yet, but I couldn’t help but feel it was imminent.
One gloomy morning in July while I was rearranging the back storage room at Kell’s, I dropped a one-hundred-ounce can of stewed tomatoes on my foot. “Fuuuuuuuuuck!”All of lower Manhattan must have heard my cries.
Jenny came running in. “Oh my god, your foot.” She looked both shocked and disgusted. “We have to take you to the hospital.”
My foot was mangled. Who knew a can of tomatoes could do so much damage? My ankle started to resemble a giant puffer fish. My big toenail was hanging off and blood was gushing everywhere. I sat there reeling in crushing pain. Jenny hailed a cab and Martha arrived just as I hobbled out to the curb. Tears were flowing and I was biting my lip, hoping it would relieve some of the pain in my foot.
“Thank you for coming,” I managed to mumble.
“Oh, Mia Pia, poor girl. That must have been some of can of tomatoes,” she said as she stared at my foot with a sickened look on her face. “Jenny, why don’t you take her and I’ll cover the café, and Mia, you should not wear sandals to work!”
She had to throw in the mother-hen shit, which was laughable considering that Martha wore Birkenstocks every day of her life, even when it was snowing out.
We got into the cab and both yelled, “Bellevue Hospital!”
Jenny held my foot over her lap with an ice pack and a bloodstained towel. “I guess Martha must be squeamish. Did you see how she looked at your foot?”
“Uh huh,” I said with my eyes squeezed as tight as possible. I could barely breathe it hurt so badly; every bump we hit made me cry out.
“I’m sorry, Mia, we’re almost there,” Jenny said.
Once I was admitted at the hospital, they gave me some pain meds and took X rays. I had a hairline fracture on the top of my foot and other than the missing toenail, that was it. It still hurt like hell. While I was waiting to get my crutches and temporary cast, I told Jenny she could go. I knew she had to go coach a tiny-tot soccer team and it was getting late. She argued with me for twenty minutes and then I said, “It’s not like you’re gonna drive the fucking cab, Jenny! I’m fine, they’re giving me Vicodin.” I convinced her to go, but not before she talked to two doctors and a nurse, verifying that I would be okay to ride home by myself.
On the way to my apartment, I asked the driver to stop at a market so I could get dinner, which consisted of wine and chocolate. When we pulled up to my building, the cabbie got out and helped me onto the curb. I stuffed my prescription, along with the wine and chocolate, into my purse and wrapped my bag around my wrist. I hobbled into the stairwell. Once inside, I looked up and saw Will sitting on the landing outside of our door. He had his legs out in from of him with his elbows resting on his propped-up knees. His head hung down with his hands tangled in his tousled hair. A fragment of light streamed over his winged forearm. He looked like a fallen angel waiting to be let back into heaven. I made my way to the bottom of the stairs. When I hoisted one of my crutches onto the first step, Will’s head jerked up. He got up and bolted down, arriving at my side in two seconds. Appraising me, he asked, “Why didn’t you call me?” He grabbed my crutches and purse and tossed them aside.
I didn’t answer him.
When he reached his arm behind my legs to scoop me up, I protested. “No, Will, just help me get up the stairs.”
“You’re a hundred fucking pounds, I can carry you,” he said and then bent down and put me over his shoulder. He smacked my ass gently as he climbed the stairs with relative ease. “You’re a stubborn woman.” Will was surprisingly strong for a thin guy and I figured it must have been from lugging the band stuff around for years. He set me down on the counter and went to retrieve my things.
When he returned, he stood between my legs at the counter with his eyes narrowed.
“How’d you know?” I said.
“Martha called me. You should have called me,” he said, looking discouraged.