The wheelchair came through the big revolving door. Morver thought the hospital staff member pushing the chair looked like a young Dolly Parton if Dolly had been born African American.
He didn’t want to look at Craisman’s foot.
Craisman’s missing foot.
Morver limped around the car, opening his car door so he could help Craisman in.
Craisman said “Why ya limpin’, Denny?”
The Dolly-looking woman, big hair, big boobs, said “Shush. People are gonna ask you that and you won’t like it.”
Morver wanted to hug her. She tackled the elephant in the room.
Morver had a lie made up but told the truth.
“Kicked the fridge as hard as I could when Michigan lost.”
Craisman wasn’t paying attention to Morver. He was looking at the woman.
“What makes you think I’m ever getting out of this chair?”
“Chair belongs to the hospital. You have to get crutches from the pharmacy. Your friend can park, temporarily in the handicapped zone in the blue wing, run in and get your crutches for you.”
She pointed. The pharmacy and lot were visible from the patient discharge circle.
Morver was staring at his friend’s white-socked stump.
He felt partially responsible, though he knew that was stupid.
Craisman had been his boss once, before Sister Bogota tied his head up for ransom and he stuck a Colt 45 in his mouth every morning.
Morver reached his arm out to help Craisman into the car.
Craisman was down two wives and a right foot since they met.
When Morver used his ample weight to swing Craisman into his Charger in one motion, the woman handed Morver Craisman’s paperwork.
Fluttering in the breeze he could see the form St. John’s gave to all the drunks and junkies.
HELP FOR SUBSTANCE USE DISORDER.
Morver thanked the woman. She smelled like Hostess Lemon Pie if you microwaved it.
He wanted to ask her to come to karaoke at Casey’s Spotlight, but when his lip started to move he saw the glass on her left hand.
“Um, a lot,” he finished awkwardly.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and waved at Craisman. “Good luck Steven.”
As Morver started to turn into the pharmacy lot, Craisman blurted “fuck the crutches.”
Morver laughed and pulled into the lot.
“Nobody’s wheeling your ass around because you lost your foot. Yer getting crutches.”
Morver took the paperwork inside, returned with adjustable crutches, threw them in the back seat.
“You hungry?” Morver asked.
“Nah,” Craisman said, almost as if it was a dumb question.
Craisman looked like a Halloween decoration that someone dressed in a Lions hoodie.
Zombie Scarecrow.
They turned down Wickshire, passed 94, Morver stealing looks at where Craisman’s foot used to be.
“Take me to Chizzy’s loft.”
Morver pulled over in front of a brick bungalow with a rusted white gaslight in the yard.
“Dope cost you your foot, Craisman. I was ten seconds away from offering to drive you to NA, or–”
“Fuck that,” Craisman said. “Foot’s gone. Ain’t coming back. I’m-”
“They must have given you something for pain, Craisman. I know they did. It’s in this bag with the paperwork. You don’t need Chizzy.”
“Shit sucks. And it’s gonna wear off. It’s like the weakest shit because…”
“Because you’re a fucking junkie, Craisman. Me, Botch, Kelly, Laurie, we’ll do anything to help you. Even Chizzy. Chizzy might not sell to you, even if I did take you there, which I won’t.”
“Gimmie the crutches, I’ll hobble.”
Morver left rubber in front of the little bungalow. Craisman’s head slammed the seat, below the headrest. It was like he was shrinking from the top and from the extremities.
Morver started crying.
Craisman noticed it before Morver even did.
“You ain’t a martyr or whatever Morver. Quit crying. I’m gonna live my life because…like…it’s my life, okay? Get it? Crying bullshit won’t help.”
“I was thinking about a dog.”
Craisman was silent. After about three blocks he said “Holy shit, Morver! Goomie died? I didn’t-”
Morver shook his head, wiped a tear with his left sleeve.
“Goomie’s still alive, he’s fine. He’s only six.”
Morver’s face was turning purple from trying to stop crying. His lip trembled, his own gin blossoms quivered.
He exhaled across his lower lip, tickling himself where his tooth was missing.
“I told you about that doberman when I was a kid, right? That’s what I’m thinking about.”
Craisman stared off out the passenger window.
“Rolle will take me to Chizzy’s.”
Minor Threat popped into Morver’s head.
Think again think again think again think again
“Saw a dog,” Morver said , “a Dobe, get hit by a car on Ryan.”
Craisman shrugged. “I seen that shit too.”
Morver accelerated, the car and his mouth.
“I was like 14, I was with my Uncle Bert, he was teaching me to drive a stick.Guy took off. Blue K-Car for god’s sake. I started to take off, but I was havin’ trouble getting the car in gear.”
“You were 14,” Craisman said.
Morver slowed down and pulled over in front of a Mr. Krisspee.
He grabbed Craisman’s arm.
“My Uncle opened the door, then grabbed my arm like I’m doin’ to you.”
Craisman was staring at Morver now.
Morver’s eyes were pooling again.
“My Uncle, he says ‘We can help the dog, or we can chase the car that hit it. We can’t do both’.”
Morver sniffled.
“I put my coat over the dog, rubbed it. I ended up lying next to him on the cold ground. Guy from the paint store called animal control, I thought they were just gonna kill it, you know, put it to sleep. I screamed “you can’t kill him, you can’t kill him.
This guy, this animal control guy, big Mexican dude, he promised me. And they no shit saved the dog. Someone on a farm in Dexter adopted him. I got to go see him once, and they sent me a picture on Christmas. For weeks after that though, I wanted to find the motherfucker that hit him. Every K Car I saw I thought it was the one. But I’m grateful to my uncle for talking sense into me.”
Craisman scratched at the adhesive on his hand where one of his IVs had been.
He looked at Morver.
“Denny, why’d you tell me that story?”
Morver shook.
He leaned closer to Craisman, looking down at his missing foot, then back up into his face.
“Because, Craisman,” he said, squeezing Craisman’s bony arm, “you’re the dog, and you’re the car.”
Morver took a shuddering breath and wiped the tears from his face. There were snot streaks on his sleeve. Morver opened the door and rubbed his sleeve on the weather stripping.
“I’m getting you some chicken and biscuits, Craisman. You can eat them later.”
Morver stood and pushed the car door.
As the door slammed shut, Denny Morver didn’t hear Steven Craisman say: “Rolle will take me to Chizzy’s.”
***
you’re the dog, AND you’re the car
Damn!!!
The effed up part is I know there probably aint enough fiction in this story.