Flash Fiction: Call...On...Him

Wrote this just now, on the spot. :) Love, C.A.

Call...On...Him

flash fiction

Pepper shifted in her hard seat. Her ass hurt. Her braids itched. She needed new extensions. The facility's meeting room chairs were always rough -- the metal, fold-up kind that didn't give, but they were perfect for stacking. Pepper looked across the room, staring at the wall. Startled, she saw a tall, dark shape. She squinted, trying to make out the face. She'd never seen the strange man before. Some kind of misfit cowboy, an urban camper. A misplaced mountain man. Seemed white, but he was so muddy, she wasn't sure about his true roots.

In the back corner of the room, the cowboy leaned against the pale, clean wall. Tall, dirty, bearded, and black-haired, the man grimaced in pain, occasionally looking down at his thickly bandaged left foot.

Pepper glanced around at her coworkers, but no one budged, and the staff work meeting continued as usual -- worksheets and bagels and such. She figured that the cowboy sneaked in the back door somehow; it happened sometimes, since the far end of the rehab center faced an alley. From time to time, in the early evenings, when Pepper opened the sticky back door to take the garbage out, Pepper saw multiple shadows scatter -- pushers, users, hustlers, and kids. Maybe the cowboy needed a place to rest. Maybe he was looking for a cookie, some coffee, a doctor. Maybe he bandaged that foot on his own. Maybe he needed medicine. Maybe he was on too much medicine. Maybe he was mixing medicines. Maybe he was just simply looking for people, for bodies.

The cowboy's face contorted. His lip moved sideways, jerking to the left. Then right. Sliding up and down against the wall, the cowboy half-screamed.

Pepper sat on the edge of her seat, watching his face, wondering if he were going to fall, or more than likely, crash.

No one in the meeting moved. They talked about schedules, patients. The usual kidders kidded each other. As was their custom, they raised their hands and took turns. For ten years, the meetings had been conducted the same way. Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.

Pepper watched the cowboy. Her throat hurt.

The cowboy grabbed his right arm with his left, forcing it up. Clearly, from across the room, this stranger wanted to talk, to put his two cents in.

Pepper stood up, quietly walking over to the CEO of the rehab center. She touched the president's arm and whispered, "That man over there. He wants to talk."

Turning pink, the president held up her hand and shook her head "No." She fixed a wrinkle in her navy skirt. She ran a hand along each button on her silk blouse. "Who's next?" she asked the crowded room.

Pepper whispered, "He has a right to talk. He's in the meeting too."

The president whispered back, "He's not a patient or staff. He shouldn't even be in here. Don't know how he got in."

Pepper remembered back fifteen years earlier. She thought about the time when the musician, J.J., stood on the front steps of the facility for weeks. Waiting for an open room, he even slept outside the door. She thought about the day when she went to tell J.J. there was finally an open bed, how he turned blue in front of her, dying right there on the bottom step.

Quickly, Pepper winced and walked across the room, making her way over to the cowboy. Face to face with him, her nose almost touched his.

He swayed, rocked, and struggled to stand.

Pepper looked at his arms. She saw multiple sores, and she'd seen abscesses before. She'd become a therapist for a reason -- to help those who knew what it was like to take a fucking blow. She'd been there, back in the day. Opiates. Detox. Any minute, he might have a seizure. All the time, it happens here. She'd been there and at any time, if she chose to, she could go back.

The cowboy was filthy, but blue, blue, blue, the eyes.

Pepper grabbed his arm, holding him up. In a voice loud enough for everyone in the meeting to hear, she asked, "You need detox? You in detox? You need me to call 911? We're not a detox center. We're more of a therapeutic place, but I can get you in there. I can pull strings, get you right in."

Behind Pepper, the work meeting continued on as usual.

The cowboy leaned in closer, nearly falling on her. "I'm in pain. Just my foot. Someone ran me over."

"I see that, but you need detox too," she said, staring at his marked-up arms.

"I'm okay. I'll just stand here a little while. I just want to talk."

Pepper studied his eyes. Glassy, but it was the "okay" kind of film. He was high as hell, sure, but she'd been around long enough to know he'd live that day. She returned to her seat.

Again, the cowboy raised his dirty hand, seemingly wanting to add words to the meeting's discussion.

Pepper looked over at the President and mouthed, "Call...on...him."

The president ignored her and announced to the crowd, "Okay, everyone, now on to the next topic in your packet -- 'How to best work with others.'"

Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.

C.A. MacConnell

Last Two Tickets

In August of 2009, I came across a sobering NPR article that read, "For two-and-a-half days, about 800 doctors, nurses, dentists, and optometrists treated 2,700 uninsured and underinsured people, most from Appalachia. No one was asked for an insurance card. There were no co-pays. And there were no bills." The effort was organized through a Tennessee-based group, Remote Area Medical (RAM), and the help was offered at the county fairgrounds in Wise, Virginia. The medical team treated approximately 1600 people on Friday alone.

This part really choked me up:

"'You got the last two tickets!' the guard said. 'For eyes.'

'The last two tickets?' the driver responded. She seemed stunned by the prospect, and she was speechless, at first.

'Ma’am,' the guard said, as the driver simply stared ahead. 'Ma’am,' she said again as another guard joined in. 'Ma’am, we’re trying to tell you what you got.'

Finally, the driver spoke. 'I want to give the two eye [tickets] back because somebody may need them more than me.'"

Amazing selflessness. Put a lump in my throat. In the spirit of giving. In the spirit of gratitude for available help. In the spirit of gratitude for all within us and all around us that is beautiful.

C.A. MacConnell