“Shooooweeee, you sure you didn’t pee yourself, Mr. Johnson?” Dave asked loud enough for Mrs. Dinkle across the hall to hear. “You stink like a skunk in an onion patch.”This just the latest in a string indignities. “Don’t worry, Mr. Johnson, we’ll get that shirt on right-side out!” “It’s all right, Mr. Johnson, everybody poops their pants sometimes.” And “Well, well, Mr. Johnson, still at it, aye old-timer? You thinkin’ about Mrs. Dinkle last night?”
Johnson used to protest, but it only made the hell longer and louder. An argument would ensue with Dave shouting, “I was just trying to help,” or “I’m cleaning up yourmess,” or “Don’t blame meif youmessed yourself.”
Dave would shove Johnson into the shower and scrub him in uncomfortable places until his skin reached a ruddy hue.
Next Dave would help him into his clothes. He’d insist on buttoning and zipping everything, saying, “Don’t you worry, Mr. Johnson. I know how those joints ache. I’ve got you.”
Johnson would stand like a mannequin while Dave dressed him and adjusted his oxygen tubes. Dave would pretend to fiddle with the oxygen tank, pull a marker from his pocket, and draw the face of a dog, or cat, or monkey. Then he’d ask, “You bringing Oxy on our constitutional?” He’d pretend to pet “Oxy” and say, “You’re a good boy, Oxy. Such a good boy.”
The astronaut lived through the crash, flying from the rocket, and skittering to a halt in the dry sand. His entire body ached. He cracked a rib in the “landing” and labored to breathe. He turned himself over and stretched up to see the crash site. A fireball erupted from the wreckage, dashing any hope of supplies or calling for help.
Johnson choked on the hot, thick air as they walked through the urban canyon. Dave smacked his back and would say, “It’s okay, Mr. Johnson,” and “Phlegm gets everybody someday,” and with a hearty laugh, “You didn’t need that lung, did you?”
Dave ushered Johnson into a convenience store. “You want a hot dog, Mr. Johnson?” He asked as he took Johnson’s wallet from Johnson’s pocket.
Johnson didn’t reply, but stopped at the hot dog machine, staring at the spinning meat. He wondered if burning his face on it would make his life better or worse.
Dave walked over to the girl behind the counter. “What cigarettes would you recommend?”
“You don’t want the usual?” she asked.
“You’re the one who’s smokin’,” he said with a smile. “Smokin’ hot, I mean.”
The girl laughed as if this were hilarious. Johnson shook his head with rage. He looked at Dave and willed him to stumble. Willed him to say something inappropriate, to get slapped, or burst into flames. But the girl kept giggling.
With steadier steps than he’d had in years, Johnson walked toward the door.
To Be Continued…