Back to the bathroom again. The shoulder is not quite as terrifying as the head. The edges are neat and tidy; that helps when looking at it. It looks maybe like a horse that sliced itself on a broken metal gate. I keep that mental image in mind. I’ve done so much horse first aid in my life, this is no big deal. This is just a slice, a simple accident. Not even one with long-term repercussions. This horse’ll be just fine, once it heals up.
The toughest part is getting my right hand over there to work on it. I use the counter again as a platform to put my elbow on, so my hand can get to my left shoulder. The hardest thing is pouring the hydrogen peroxide onto it without wasting too much.
When I’m done with my shoulder, I’m feeling pretty exhausted. My fingers still tremble. The game of make-believe hides the pain on the surface, but this whole thing must be getting to me, because why else would my hands be shaking like this?
My feet are next. I should check on Wolfman, but I’m getting an idea of making myself shoes out of gauze and tape. Yes, I’ll clean and bandage my feet first, then check on Wolfman. It’s a relief to make this decision, and I sit down, leaning up against the still--running toilet. It’s time for some deep breathing before checking out the soles of my feet.
They don’t look too bad at first. But this is because they’re black with dirt. I get up, soak a washcloth, and sit back down. With precision I soak and scrub and lift up flaps of skin and put them back down again. It’s much harder to keep the game of make-believe going, looking at these feet. After a while, my jaw starts to hurt I’m grinding my teeth so hard. Soak, scrub, delicately lift, scrub, soak, and set back down again. This is what I do over and over again on all the holes in my feet. I’m sweating bullets, and my heart is beating way too hard. Even though my feet aren’t really as clean as I’d like, I don’t want to pass out and so I call it a day.
I empty the hydrogen peroxide onto my feet, pat them dry with a clean towel, and use every drop of the antibacterial cream. The gauze is light and clean, and actually feels good. It keeps all the flaps where they’re supposed to be. Then I take the tape and get to work. I can wrap a horse’s leg with the best of them, and my game of make-believe springs back to life. I use all the tape in the kit, and by the time I’m finished, I’m pleased with the job I’ve done.
Standing up is painful, but it’s definitely better. I go to the walk-in closet. There are no women’s clothes, but I put a giant white T-shirt on under my camo jacket. It fits like a dress. It’s nice to be clothed, but it’d be even nicer to have shoes. But that’s just not going to happen. Time to get creative.
I find some knee-high athletic socks, and I put on several pairs. They’re ridiculously too big for me, so I take the laces off some hiking boots and tie them around my feet and ankles, almost like Roman sandals. With luck, the laces will keep the socks in place.
Getting to my feet is a revelation. They’re painful, to be sure, but this is doable. This is going to allow me to function. A surge of hope rings through me. With my wounds taken care of and the Tylenol spreading through my body, I’m almost ready. There’s one last thing I want to do before Operation Bring Jerry T. Balls to -Justice begins.
Fourteen Months Ago
HE HAS NEVER BEEN MUCH of a drinker, but today he bought a case of Busch and he’s going through it. The TV is on, but he doesn’t see it. The only thing playing is a cut of video on repeat in his brain. His last day of work. Being pulled aside. Knowing right then it isn’t good, feeling the lead weights drop into his belly, getting heavier and heavier the farther away they walk.
Once they were completely out of earshot, the boss man stopped.
“I’m going to have to let you go, Ted.”
Those words still don’t feel real. The boss man went on to say what superior work he had done, how he appreciated his effort and energy, how he would give him a recommendation.
He had already known at that point—he’d really known as soon as he was pulled aside—but he decided to ask why.
“Well, I’m sorry to say this,” the boss man said, “but my daughter just doesn’t feel comfortable around you.”
Of course, he’d wanted to tell the boss man that only a coward, only a pathetic, henpecked man would let his teenage daughter dictate his business decisions. But there were two things to consider. Firstly, he knew from experience that a pathetic man was never going to change. Secondly, evidence came in many forms.
His mind wasn’t made up, but sometimes things have to be done. It was easy, too, the way the mind could slip back into old habits of thought. It was nice. Like slipping into a hot tub. There was no denying he was good at this work. It was unsavory work, to be sure, but he was good at it. For the last two weeks, he’d let himself slip into the warm, frothy waters of fantasy more and more often.
The thing was, there was Susan and the baby.
So he would keep himself to fantasy only. He would stay sober. But there was nothing wrong with thinking about it.