Feet

When one of my toes came off with the sock I knew it was time I went to see a doctor.

            Sure it was quite a surprise, the toe coming off and all, but it didn’t come as a complete shock or anything ‘cause I knew well enough something had to be going on down there with my feet. Most of the time I couldn’t even feel them.

            Well enough to walk on mind you, I could tell when they hit the ground and such, especially the left one, I could always tell when it hit the ground. And not only from the scrapy noises they made, my feet. I could tell, you know, through the foot, feel it, when it came down on the ground. I could tell the ground, that there was hard sidewalk under it. But I couldn’t tell the foot itself. Couldn’t tell whether my toes wiggled when I asked them to. They may have, but if they did they wouldn’t let me in on it.

            No, couldn’t tell whether anything at all moved inside my as good as new blue and white shoes, tennis shoes they are, which I found in one of the Broadway and Third dumpsters a long week ago that fit well if a bit tight, but not that it bothered me since I can’t feel them, my feet, anyway. Yes, they were a bit tight, the shoes, but as long as you can get them on, as Larson would say. But I could tell the ground.

            But something was not right, not optimum as Larson would put it, not optimum. At all. So it wasn’t a shock exactly. But surprising nonetheless, to have ones toe come off like that, find it in the sock.

            They smelled too. My feet did. Not really rotting. It wasn’t a rotting smell. Not like that much, I know rotting, but it was darker than that, the smell of my feet. And not as sweet as rotting smells. Had a sort of a liquidy feel to it, the smell. But not sweet, not rotting. Darker than that, my feet.

            The sock didn’t want to come off in one piece, was kinda stuck to my foot in places. My left one. A bit like old paint in places the sock was. And the smell was stronger with the shoe off. Peeling. It was like peeling the sock off in places. Forget what color it was when I found it. Gray, I think, with a black sort of pattern on it. Blackish now, lighter than black in the stiff little creases that crackled as I plucked the sock off bit by sloshy bit in places, other places it came off fine, slipped off almost, in pieces. It was green, my foot. Black and green. Or greenish.

            They had begun to itch, that’s what woke me up. I had spent the night under the freeway bridge at Freemont ‘cause of the light drizzle all night. I still couldn’t feel them, but they sure knew how to itch. One hell of an itch. I tried to scratch through the shoe with my fingers. No sir. Tried to hit it with a three foot two inch measuring kinda stick I had in the cart. Couldn’t hit the right spot though and I think I was hitting too hard. My foot started twitching on its own like, like telling me to cut that out, the hitting it with a stick. Didn’t hurt though, but then again I couldn’t feel anything other than the itching.

            It kept itching, itching like hell inside that slippery swash and swash as I pushed my cart back to the station. Sometimes so badly I had to stop and stomp the ground as hard as I could to ask it to shut up with the itching. Sometimes that worked, kinda stunned ‘em I guess, but the itching came back soon enough. And sometimes it didn’t work at all, they just itched harder as if trying to get back to me for stomping them. Itching like hell.

            They call it the station, but it’s an old station, no trains run here anymore. Haven’t run here for years, twelve years was the last one. I remember that. Big to do then, the last train. Mayor and all. They have grass there now, around the station house, lawns. They let us stay there. Sort of live.

            My feet had got worse by the time I got there, to the station. Kinda grown. From itch to sort of pain, though not like pain, more like pain with an itchy echo. Not pain pain, the sharp and hurting kind, not screaming pain, but like a nasty voice that kept mumbling and mumbling but never quite got to the point.

            Got to my plot and sat down on it. Looked around. No one else here right now. Out discovering. I stood up again, and that was kind of hard with my feet itching so, and my feet so sloshy inside my shoes, but up I stood, and I found my three foot two inches measuring stick and began to trace my borders. It didn’t leave much of a mark in the dry grass, but enough for me to see, enough for me to hear them. This is my land, they said. These are my borders, my earth.

            My plot begins at the southwest corner of the old station house. From there you count twelve of my outspread hands, thumb to little finger, twelve of them from this corner due north along the wall toward 3rd street. Stop there and turn ninety degrees to your left, that’d be toward Atlantic, then count ten more hands. Stop there and turn ninety degrees left again, toward 2nd street this time, count another twelve, and then ninety degrees left again, toward station wall, should be another ten hands back to the wall if you got your angles straight. So it’s a twelve by ten hands lot. I bought if from Larson the day before they took him in to die. He knew he was dying, he said, he knew. And he lay himself down right smack in the middle of traffic and refused to move until they came and took him in. They said he died in the police car, in the back seat of that white and black police car. I don’t know about that. But I’m sure he’s dead. I haven’t seen him since and for sure he wouldn’t have sold me his land if he had planned on living. One good boot and one bad one, both for the same foot, the left. He liked them a lot, he always asked me where I had found them and I always told him, in the Atlantic and 6th dumpster. That’s a hard dumpster to climb, he’d say. Not optimum.

            He knew he was dying he said and I said don’t be an idiot, you look well enough to marry. He said he wanted me to have his plot, so I knew he was serious. It’s a good plot. Some say the best at the station. Pretty good shelter from rain what with the overhanging roof, but not if the wind comes from the west which does happen but not often, or if it kinda drizzles, which goes this way and that and not straight down in which case you’d better get under a better roof, a bridge or something. It’s also good for a shadow on hot days, except in the late afternoon when the sun comes at you at less of an angle.

            He knew he was dying and wanted to sell me the plot for my two boots. One good one and one bad one. I thought he was joking. His plot would be worth a lot more than two boots. But no, he wasn’t joking. Not feeling well, he said, not at all optimum, he said. Give me the boots. I did and he gave me the deed to the land. I put it in my box. Put the box back in my pocket. Not a big box, but beautiful. Carved wood. For treasures.

            So it’s mine now. Larson’s plot. Mine now. Traced my borders. Couple a footprints on it, from working boots. I recognized them as the gardener’s. That doesn’t count as encroachment. He’s allowed access.

            At last I got all of the sock off. The four toe foot was very dark, almost black, streaked here and there with caked sweat and old skin and at first I wasn’t sure where the toe I found among the sock was missing from, though it looked odd to me, the foot, narrow like in the front and then something squashed in my hand as I crumpled the last piece of sock, and when I looked I saw that the squashing had a nail. Black and small but a nail all the same and I thought, strange I found a toe in the sock, for it was a toe, I could see that. Strange, I thought, I hadn’t noticed it in the sock when I put it on. Then I looked at my foot again and found it oddly narrow and I looked closer and found I only had four toes left. Not optimum. The squashy little toe in the sock was mine.

            And now the pain got like it had been let loose. Loud. Screaming. Yellow puss pushed out of the missing toe place and dripped onto the ground. Did not smell good at all. Not rotting though, not as sweet. Rotting smells sweet. Rotting fruit, rotting meat, rotting bread. Smells sweet. Tastes musty if it’s fruit, tastes gray and sort of stale if it’s meat and not too maggoty, tastes moldy if it’s bread. I know rotting. This did not smell rotting. It smelled darker than that but yellow also, from the puss. A yellow smell.

            I worked fast and hard to get the shoe and sock off my other foot and I counted the toes to make sure. Five. But that foot did not smell good either. Wished I had another couple a socks. Would go a long way to stop the smelling. But didn’t. Not in the cart, not in my pockets, not in my underwear. Not a single one. My four toe foot keep screaming at me to do something.

            Had to get to some kind of medical person, a doctor, a nurse. It would have to be barefoot though. Nine toes. Almost impossible to walk with nine toes, apart from the hurt, you don’t think about it but missing a tow plays havoc with your balance, I never could get me left foot to push off right, and I had to lean on the cart a lot. But mostly it hurt a lot.

            She had a very pretty face, the receptionist girl, or could have. She was scared now, that was obvious. Scared, annoyed, and not at all pretty. Blond she was, long hair blond pulled back into one of those hygienic pony tails. Looked like a young old maid she did. Hygienic, clinical. Pony tail. White frock, small breasts. Clean. But not pretty. Not now. She was afraid and looking at me disgusted. She was wide eyed and looked at me and then to her left and right, quick head, pony tail flapping. For help like. Freckles. Pretty nose. When she spoke she was very loud. “You can’t come in here,” she yelled. “Jesus, what are you doing here?” Then she looked around for help again.

            “I need to see a doctor, a nurse perhaps,” I said.

            “Not here you’re not.” Still yelling.

            “I’ve lost a toe,” I told her.

            “You can’t come in here.”

            “I need to see a doctor, or a nurse.”

            “You can’t come in here.”

            “I’ve lost a toe.”

            “You must leave. Leave.” She was almost crying now. “Leave,” she said again.

            “I need to see a doctor,” I said. “Or perhaps a nurse.”

            “If you don’t leave immediately, I will call the police.”

            Fine, I thought. According to plan, is how we get picked up. How we make appointments, which is what Larson called them pickups. Appointments. Larson was the best there was at ‘em, the appointments. He could get picked up in minutes. Minutes I tell ya. He was an optimum appointer.

            An older woman came out of some office down the corridor and a man, looked like a doctor, but too young, probably an intern, came out from behind the counter in the back and they tried to push me out but I can be very hard to move when I don’t want to move and no one really wants to touch me all that badly so they usually try to push with words. And that never works. I just say the same thing over and over. This time it was, I have lost a toe, I need to see a doctor or perhaps a nurse, and in the end they gave up trying to push me out and called the police.

            The police took sixteen minutes to arrive by the wall clock. Not quick pickup. Larson would a done it in five. At the most. It was Sergeant Black and Tommy. Black is blacker than me.

            “What is it this time, Rodney?” he asked.

            “I’ve lost a toe,” I said.

            He looked down, then sat down on his haunches to take a closer look.

            “Which foot?” he asked. Then he said, “Shit, You smell like shit, Rodney.”

            “The left one,” I said.

            He saw it. “Yup,” he said, and stood up. “You’ve lost a toe. Only four. But man, you smell bad.” He grimaced.

            I looked over at the Blonde and the old woman. They didn’t quite cling to each other but that was the impression I got. Huddled. Scared.

            “We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” said Sergeant Black.

            “That’s why I’m here,” I said.

            “This is a private clinic,” said the Sergeant.

            As if I didn’t know. “Ah,” I said.

            Tommy took a hold of my right elbow, to lead me out I guess, to show the freckled blond he’s a good cop, strong cop, no bullshit cop. So his hand grasped my elbow, firmly like, show me who’s the boss like, at first, but it slipped on the greasy cloth, then let go altogether. Cop Tommy’s a Mexican and very clean. Don’t remember him touching me before, and I doubt he ever will again. Either the smell or the dirt. Or the grease. Tommy’s a clean sort of a fellow. You can tall. Shirt’s always magazine white. Clean hands. Smells good. Instead he kind of motioned me toward the doors and waited for me to leave. Sergeant Black was already outside and I followed him through the swivel doors and onto the sidewalk. Tommy followed me. A little distance off.

            Their police car was parked right outside with lights flashing blue and white and blue and white and blue and white. No siren though. Just flashing.

            “Do we bring him?” Tommy walked up to the Sergeant. He looked back at me as he asked.

            “Yes,” said Sergeant Black.

            “We have to?”

            “He’s lost a toe. Gangrene. We’ve got to get him to the hospital.”

            “County?”

            “Yes.”

            “Man. That’s half an hour from here.”

            “I know.” The Sergeant looked back at me. “In the back seat, Rodney.”

            “Aye,” I said.

            I had forgotten my foot for a spell, what with all the excitement and timing the pickup and all, but as I sat down on the cold vinyl in the back of Sergeant Black’s car it woke up again. And hard. It really hurt now. And the missing toe was still dripping the yellow. Onto the car floor now. Tommy began to turn his head in my direction but stopped. Looked at the Sergeant and then quickly back out the wind shield. He didn’t say anything. Sergeant Black pulled away from the curb.

            I looked back and saw freckles blond look out through the window. To make sure I was leaving, I think. Relieved. Still not pretty. Could a been though.

            Land is the most valuable thing on earth. It is the one thing they can’t make more of, those makers of millions of things, they can’t make more land. That’s why it is priceless. One day there will be so many people on Earth that we’ll each only have a twelve by ten hands plot of land to stand on. Birds will have to be domesticated and taught to bring us food. There will be no room for cars or buses or trucks or walking. Well, I’m all set for that, I already have my plot and I own it. My twelve by ten. Bought it from Larson for two boots. It’s good to know I have that land. To stand on when the time comes.

            I leaned back against the cold back rest and tried to not feel the thump, thump, thump of hurt in my left foot. My land, bought it from Larson fair and square. No one touches it. No one encroaches. They know it’s mine. It’s choice. I’m quite rich. If it weren’t for this damn foot.

            I closed my eyes for a bit and then opened them to find Tommy looking straight at me. Why is it your eyes find other eyes so quickly? It’s almost as if pairs of eyes attract pairs of eyes. I opened mine and directly they found Tommy’s. Brown eyes. Tommy’s Mexican. Black’s a Negro, but you don’t say that anymore. Black’s a black, or better still, Black’s an African American. I’m a Derelict American. Not black. Not Mexican. Not a vet. I’m from Minnesota. Used to be white. White underneath.

            I’m from lakes and a summer cottage by a small one with lots of fish in it. We’d swim in the morning sometimes and then get the boat out in the afternoon to fish. Just a pole, a line, a cork, a hook, and a sinker. And some bait of course. Earthworms were the best for that. Me and dad and Brett. I was very good at fishing, if you can be good at something that doesn’t take any much skill. Takes patience though, and a lot of shut uping. I was good at it. Very patient. No talking. Just waiting, waiting for the cork to dive, for that struggle that rippled through the line and pole into your hands, that life caught. That stupid life that never learned that the worm was on a hook which would hurt you if you tried to eat it. That living weight at the other end of the line trying to wiggle loose, trying to live, swearing in fish language around mouthfuls of bait and hook.

            I know some fish for the sport of it they call it. Unhook the fish and throw him back in. I think that’s cruel. You’ve hurt him badly. I tried once. I pushed a hook through my upper lip and it hurt something awful. I wished there would have been someone around to snap my neck too it hurt so bad. Mom just yelled. Pop called me an idiot. But it hurt like hell and I knew I was right. I wouldn’t want to be thrown back into the water, not if I could have my neck snapped. An act of kindness. I never threw fish back. I bent their heads back so far the neck crunches and their eyes stop moving. Pop had to pull the hook all the way through, there was no way backing it out because of the barbs. It hurt really bad. I would not have minded him snapping my neck. He looked as if he wanted to.

            I’m a good fisher though. Always caught some idiots. Then we’d always fry them in a pan with butter and salt. Mom boiled potatoes if we had some, or corn sometimes. I loved the fish, more salt the better, to a point.

            Tommy said something to the Sergeant about the smell and the Sergeant nodded. Tommy looked back at me again, but turned away when I saw me looking back. We weren’t going very fast. Not really. Not for a police car which can go any speed they damn well please. I wasn’t an emergency.

            Pa drowned in that very lake. They say he was drunk and I can believe that. Some say Boford hit him in the head with an anchor and I can believe that too for they used to yell at each other a lot, even when fishing which was really dumb and kept the fish away. Brett told me that they had found a crack in pa’s head where the anchor had hit and they came and took Boford away and no one heard of him since. Mom and Brett and I moved to Colorado for a while, where mom had a sister. Then to California when we outlived our welcome. I asked Brett how they got pa out of the lake. With divers he said. And if that isn’t the worst nightmare you can think of. Diving to the bottom of muddy lakes looking for dead people.

            The thump, thump hurting from my foot was getting very hard to bear. I tried scratching again but that hurt even worse. Tore the hole. Got the puss on my hand. Tasted salty and not all that bad.

            I wish I was a dog. For the smell. I mean I wish I could smell as well as a dog. Brett told me once that a dog could follow a scent with only one molecule of smell per cubic foot. Is that lot, I asked. He spent some time explaining about it which I didn’t get and I told him so. Then he said that it’s as much of a scent as is left two months after you’ve walked across a field. That I understood but I didn’t quite believe it. Two months? I asked. Yes, he said. No foolin’, I said. No foolin’, he said. How far away can they smell things? I asked. For miles, he said. Miles, I said, No foolin’. No foolin’, he said. You wouldn’t need eyes with a nose like that. With a nose like that I could have smelled my feet going bad a lot earlier and I wouldn’t be sitting now in the cold back of a police car with my toe missing.

            The car stopped outside the emergency doors to County Hospital. I had been there twice before. Once after the beating. Once after the car hit me. I didn’t much care for it. No one’s very friendly and everyone’s very busy. The big doors stood open and we walked right in. Sergeant Black walked up to another colored fellow and talked to him. A nurse I think. He looked at me as the Sergeant talked. Sergeant Black came back to me and said, “William’s gonna take care of you.” Guess his name was William then.

            “Thanks, Sergeant,” I said.

            I looked back out the open doors and saw Tommy was airing out the car. Both back doors open. Fanning with his jacket. Maybe he’s got a nose like a dog.

            The Sergeant left and William brought me a wheelchair. I sat down in it and he rolled me away.

            It was a very large bath room. With a big tub and I had to get into it. I don’t much care for water. Not since pa drowned in it. William had left and in his place was another man who didn’t tell me his name.

            “I’m Anders,” I said.

            “Hi Anders,” he said.

            He acted too busy getting me undressed to tell me his name, which I thought was rude and not friendly. He was mister all business and got me bare naked quicker than anything and into the tub. Turned on the water and I told me to sit down. I did. Normally I wouldn’t, normally I would go all stiff and stubborn for I didn’t much care for water, but my foot hurt and I was beginning to feel scared about it. Too scared to care much about the water.

            I hugged my knees all naked and felt the water rise, warm and wet over my feet, left one thumping more in the heat, up my shins, up my bottom and back and all round my thingy and slowly up my stomach to almost my shoulders, the tub was so deep. The man who wouldn’t tell me his name turned the faucets off and the water stopped noising and I just sat there in the warm which felt quite nice although I don’t much care for water since pa drowned in it. My left foot thumped more and more and I remembered Larson saying you have to cut off green feet and I was getting more scared than I’ve ever been and didn’t feel the water nice anymore, just water, which dad drowned in.

            The water had arrived clean. Clean falling into the tub from the tap. Now it was getting darker by the minute as I was getting lighter. Dirt off of me and into the water. The man had a sponge and soap and began at my shoulders. Scrubbing. My four toe foot grew warmer and worse, thumping, thumping. “It hurts,” I said.

            “Sorry,” he said.

            “No,” I said. “The foot.”

            “Oh.” He kept scrubbing my back. “We’ll have it looked at soon.”

            “Good,” I said.

            He washed me all over and pulled the tub plug. The water headed for the drain. I could feel the movement round my butt, but not round my feet. Just the thumping in my left foot.

            He took a shower thing from above the taps and turned it on. It sprayed. He told me to close my eyes. I didn’t. I don’t much care for water, but he didn’t care about that. He told me to close my eyes again, and this time I did. He sprayed my hair and face with it and washed my all of my head with soap. He kept spraying the water. Warm and sometimes nice but water still, and I don’t much care for it. Then he stopped.

            I opened my eyes and looked at my thumping foot. Didn’t look much cleaner than before. Neither did my legs, not much anyway. But my foot was more green than before I was more scared than before. I could see Larson very clearly, saying they cut off green legs.

            Larson was from Minnesota too. Came to California by way of the other forty-nine states he used to say, excepting Alaska and Hawaii. By way of, he’d say, and then he would reel them off, one by one until somebody, usually me, stopped him, and he’d laugh and said that I probably thought they were cities instead of states, and I said I knew they were states. I’m not an idiot. Just ‘culiar as grandma would say.

            Larson knew my home town, even knew our lake. I’d tell him about fishing and he’d talk about the other forty-nine states.

            “Can you get out by yourself?” he asked.

            I tried, and slipped, and tried again. Stopped trying. “No,” I said.

            “Wait here,” he said. Then he was back with a black girl with short hair and friendly eyes. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Evelyn.”

            “Anders,” I said. She had manners. I liked her.

            Evelyn took me under one arm and the nameless one under the other. They got me out of the tub and into a bath robe and into the wheel chair and into the corridor.

            Land is very important. You’re nothing if you don’t hold title to land. Pa held title to land. Seven acres of prime Minnesota soil, as he used to say. Specially when he was drunk. Over and over. Man’s no damn good unless he’s got some land to his name, he would say. Pa had a will that left it to Brett, which we discovered after he drowned. Grandma said the will was all wrong and it should go to mom, or at least to me. Said mom should have the land, or at least the oldest son. Brett didn’t much care. Not sure who got the seven acres in the end after we left for Colorado. Mom probably.

            They were wheeling me pretty fast down the corridor. I could feel the air on my face as if the wind was blowing. We turned into a very cold room with a very big light fixture. I knew what this was. It was an operating room. There were people in there and I suddenly felt very cold and very empty. And afraid. Freezing scared. They helped me up and onto my back and the doctor touched my foot, it hurt badly, but only round the toe, the missing one. I couldn’t feel anywhere else. I strained to see and lifted my head. It was hard. But I could see. The doctor had a large white face with very still eyes. They looked at my other foot, and he prodded it with a metal thing. I couldn’t feel it and I felt very alone.

            Another nurse, there was so many of them now, came with a syringe. She took my arm and slapped it with her fingers a couple a times. As if to wake it up. I felt a sting and a burning. Then I felt warm all over and suddenly happy. As if I didn’t care sort of happy. Then they put a needed in my hand and hooked a bottle up to it and then someone changed something with it and that’s the last I knew before I passed out completely.

            I heard voices. It was pa talking to Boford about salmon. Or about school. Or anchors. Mom was there too and she was defending me. Pa said, he’s not going to make it. Mom said, it’s too early to tell. No, said pa, look at him. There’s not enough of him left to heal. And then it wasn’t mom and pa at all for when I opened my eyes there were two doctors talking to each other and they grew all quiet when they saw me looking.

            “How are you feeling?” said the tall one. The one without a white coat. The one with black hair and shiny skin and bald on top.

            I just looked at him. So he said it again. Suddenly I was very thirsty.

            “Thirsty,” I said.

            Then I saw that he didn’t really care. Just polite, the way you ask just to say something. But I was thirsty, so I said, “thirsty,” again.

            “I’m sorry,” said the tall one. “You can’t drink just yet.” He turned to the shorter one. “He’d get very sick,” he said as if I wasn’t there.

            “I know,” said the short one. I could tell they were not friends.

            I closed my eyes again. I was very thirsty. And my feet were itching. Badly. So badly I stopped feeling the thirst. I felt the itch instead as if it was thirst. It was a good itch. But had to be scratched itch. Badly. The doctors who were not friends kept talking, about me I think and I tried to sit up but couldn’t. I fell back on my pillow and tried again. Couldn’t. Plain couldn’t sit up. I gave up and pulled the sheet away to see why I couldn’t sit up to scratch my feet.

            I had none.

            No feet, no shins, no knees. My legs ended halfway down my thighs and even from my awkward angle I could see they were blue and red and green around the edges. And I heard the tall one say, we can’t cut back further, it would kill him. But the gangrene, said the short one. I know, said the tall one.

            It was strange at first, just plain strange. You get so used to having feet that not having any makes absolutely no sense at all.

            Then the short one saw what I was doing and said Oh My God, and suddenly there were several people in white around me and all of a sudden I was mid-air and falling. Softly.

            I woke up in a dark, strange room. A high ceiling, heavy curtains. Large shadows on the wall. I turned my head for the light that cast them. It was a small lamp on a bedside table. By the table was a chair, and in the chair a person I did not know. She was reading something and my feet were itching.

            My feet are itching, I said, but nothing came out. As if I couldn’t find my throat or my tongue. I tried again. “My feet itch,” I said, successfully this time.

            The woman put her paperback book down and looked at me. Then she looked at her watch. “How you feeling,” she said. She had a southern kinda accent. Wasn’t black though. Not Evelyn.

            “My feet itch,” I said.

            She smiled a small smile but didn’t answer. Instead she left the room and me alone. She left her book on the little table, open to where she was reading. I can read. Couldn’t get the right angle to make out the title though.

            She returned. She and a tall man I recognized but could not place. Seemed like a doctor. He wore a white coat.

            “Anders,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

            “Yes,” I said.

            “Good,” he said.

            “You’ve had an operation,” he said.

            “My feet itch,” he said.

            “We had to take them off,” he said.

            “My feet?” I figured he was kidding.

            “We had to amputate,” he said.

            “My feet?” I said.

            “Yes.”

            And that of course made no sense whatsoever to me, for they were itching down there, I could feel them both of them, clear as day.

            “But they itch,” I said. And I tried to make one of those little noises that isn’t really a laugh but like a laugh to show you got the joke. Didn’t come out at all though. Not a small laugh, just a hoarse noise.

            “I know,” he said.

            Which made even less sense to me.

            “But they itch,” I said.

            “I know,” he said again. “It feels like they’re still there.”

            And then I saw myself a long time ago lifting up my sheet to look. And I saw again what I saw then. It wasn’t really remembering, it was me seeing what I saw again. My short thighs. Blue and red and green. I couldn’t say anything though. Could only look at me looking. At my stumps.

            The doctor began saying something I didn’t hear, but I looked up at him. He started over.

            “We didn’t get it all,” he said.

            “All what?” I asked.

            “All the gangrene,” he said.

            I was not sure how this was bad, but I knew it was.

            “It will have to be up to you,” he said. “If we amputate further, you my not make it. If we don’t check the gangrene, you will not make it.”

            I don’t know how decide things like that. If I understood him rightly there was nowhere to go from here. This I could kinda think out. But I couldn’t me make it matter. See how it really had to do with me. Although I knew it did. And I knew I had to say something to the man.

            I looked at him and tried to begin. I couldn’t.

            “I know it’s not pleasant news,” he said. “You want to think it over.” The last wasn’t so much a question as an order.

            “No,” I said. “No, I don’t need to think on it. I don’t want you to cut anymore off.”

            “No further amputation,” said the doctor. He looked at the nurse when he said this, and she was writing something on her clipboard.

            “Yes,” I said. “That’s what I want. No more cutting.”

            “But you realize,” said the doctor.

            “Yes,” I said, although really I didn’t.

            “I wish you the best,” said the tall man in white and left the room. The nurse smiled her small smile again and left too.

            I thought about land. About my twelve hands by ten lot by the station. How was I to stand on it I wondered when the world get so full there’s only room to stand. Then the nurse came back and then I was mid-air again and falling. Softly.

            I hurt badly when I woke up. Probably what woke me. There were two people in my room. None that I recognized. I tried to remember a conversation I had with a tall man in a white coat. Then I did, and I wanted to see my stumps. Just wanted to see them.

            I tried to sit up but couldn’t.

            “I wanna see,” I said. I sounded like a small child that couldn’t reach the table.

            “No, honey,” said a plump woman with red hair.

            “Yes, I wanna see,” I said and struggled to sit up.

            “Let him,” said the man.

            She came over and helped me sit up. Propped the pillow behind me for support, then folded the sheets back as if she was revealing something valuable.

            They were more green than black. They were very short, just a couple of hands each. Green was eating them away. I looked and looked but could not make them belong to me. I closed my eyes and leaned back. The nurse came and re-arranged the pillow to let me lie down.

            “So you don’t want us to amputate further?” said the man, the doctor.

            “No,” I said.

            “Give him another twenty cc,” said the man to the nurse.

            “No,” said I. “I don’t want to fall again.”

            “But it will hurt,” said the doctor.

            “I don’t want to fall again,” I said.

            “Make a note of that,” said the doctor to the nurse. Then he left the room.

            I closed my eyes and thought about land. About seven acres in Minnesota that my dad used to own. I wondered who owned it now, who could cut it up into little twelve hands by ten lots and sell them at the end of the world for people to stand on. Probably Brett, or mom. I tried to remember when I had seen them last. Brett a few years ago. Mom not for many. Crazy mom pacing the kitchen all night, worried sick I knew. About bills, about me. Brett was fine, he’d moved out and away to school in Connecticut. I wasn’t moving out anytime soon, mom said. Over and over. Whenever she got a chance.

            So I did one night. That was I don’t know how long ago. I don’t remember. And I have not seen her since.

            I saw Brett though. He must have been looking for me. Or looking for me for mom. He found me at the downtown shelter one night a few years back. Old Brett. Suit and tie Brett. Want to take you with me Brett. Home to mom.

            I’m his older brother. Bigger than him. Stronger than him. I will never go back, I said. But listen, he said. No, I said. I won’t listen. I will never go back. You can’t make me.

            What I think is that he never told mom that he’d found me. She would have come if he had. She didn’t come and I was happy about that. She didn’t have to see me.

            I wondered who owned those seven acres now.

            I felt very tired and I tried to sleep. I almost could. But there was something green down below and it was getting louder. Chomping. And beginning to hurt. Badly.

            I looked around but there was no one in the room with me. Only the green chomping.

            I thought about my own twelve by ten plot by the station. What would happen to it when I was all chomped up? It would have to be Lenny, I thought. Lenny with his friendly stutter. He was a good man.

            I looked around again for the nurse, but there was none. Nothing to do for me but to listen to the chomping and standing the hurt.

            I must fallen asleep and then what they gave me for the hurt must have worn all off for I woke up to the green burning worse than fire. My legs were burning up and it hurt so badly I had to do something. I struggled to sit up and must have made a lot of noise for a plump woman with red hair that I recognized came to help me. I tore the sheets off and looked at my stumps. All green, and smelling bad now. I fell back and the nurse covered them up.

            “I want to speak to Evelyn,” I said.

            “Evelyn, who?” she asked.

            “She’s a nurse. Nice. Black,” I said.

            “Ah, Evelyn,” she said.

            “Please,” I said.

            The nurse left the room and my legs were burning up.

            It was Evelyn that came in.

            “Hi,” she said. “Howya doin’?”

            “Hi,” I said. “Not well.”

            “I know,” she said.

            “Evelyn,” said I.

            “Yes.”

            “Where are my clothes?”

            “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

            “No, no,” I said. “I need something.”

            “I don’t think we kept them. They were, uh, kinda dirty.”

            “I know,” I said. “So you don’t have my clothes.”

            “No,” she said.

            “How about my things?”

            “We have your pocket knife and your box,” she said.

            Which I all I needed to hear. The deed was in the box. To my land.

            “Evelyn,” I said. “Can I ask you a favor.”

            “Sure,” she said.

            “I think the green is going to kill me,” I said. “I must make a will.”

            “I can’t do that,” she said. “You’d need a lawyer, or something.”

            “Not really a will,” I said. “I just want to make sure Lenny gets my land.”

            “Your land?”

            “I have the deed in my box,” I said. “Can you cross out my name and write Lenny instead?”

            She didn’t say anything. But she stood up and pulled open the bedside table drawer. I turned to see what she was doing, and I saw my box and my knife. She opened the box and took out the deed. That was the only thing in it.

            She unfolded the deed and read it. She took her time reading it and when I looked at her again she looked like she was about to cry, all sad.

            “Cross out Anders and write in Lenny?” she said.

            “Yes.”

            I heard her find a pen and do that.

            “Then,” I said, “can you give it to Lenny?”

            She didn’t answer at once. She was folding the deed up and putting it back in the box. “Can you?” I said.

            “Sure,” she said. “Where is he?”

            “Usually around the old station at Atlantic and Third,” I said. “Do know where that is?”

            “Yes,” she said.

            “So you’ll give the box to Lenny?” I asked.

            “Yes,” she said. Then she said, “What about your knife, Anders.”

            “I want you to have that,” I said.

            She said, “Thank you.”

            The green was rising and I knew the final burning had begun. “I wouldn’t mind some more of them ccs now,” I said.

            She knew what I meant and the burning went away. Softly.

            And I dreamed about Lenny. Standing on a plot of land all his own with the world full of people and looking up at the birds coming to feed him.

::

Copyright © 2005 by Wolfstuff

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf 

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