Short Story, Fiction: Call...on...Him

Just worked on this piece. I really like how it turned out. Enjoy the journey. Now, off to work on Book Four. Love to you, C.A.

Call...on...Him

Pepper, the rehab center's longtime administrative assistant, 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 knew this since she was always the one on clean-up patrol.

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. Taking notes, Pepper figured that the cowboy sneaked in the back door somehow; it happened sometimes, since the far end of the rehab center faced an alley. Certain early evenings, when Pepper opened the sticky back door to take out the garbage, she saw multiple shadows scatter -- pushers, users, prostitutes, random hustlers, and kids. She thought, 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 simply looking for people, for bodies.

The cowboy's face contorted. His lips 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 would fall, or more than likely, crash.

No one in the meeting moved. They talked about schedules, insurance updates, past-due bills, appropriate visitor snacks, peer counseling, the therapy room plumbing, the janitor's disappearance, and patients who relapsed. 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.

But all the while, 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 rehab center's CEO, Miss Billie. Pepper touched Miss Billie's arm and whispered, "That man over there. He wants to talk."

Turning pink, Miss Billie held up her hand and shook her head "No." When she fixed a wrinkle in her navy skirt, her large breasts jiggled. Miss Billie ran a hand along each button of her silk blouse. "Who's next?" she asked the crowded room.

Pepper whispered, "That man back there...he has a right to talk. He's in the meeting too."

Miss Billie 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 the time five years earlier when the musician, J.J., stood on the front steps of the facility, waiting for an open room. He even slept on the steps, his head resting against the front door. After two weeks of camping out, Pepper hurried to find J.J., to tell him there was finally an open bed. His answer was this:  he turned blue, fell back, hit his head, and died 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 studied his arms. She saw multiple sores, and she'd seen abscesses before. She worked there 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 knew the life of sidewalks and veins, and if she chose to, at any moment, she could go back.

The cowboy was filthy, but how 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 withdrawin'? You need 911? We're not a detox. We're more of a therapeutic place, but 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 seems like you need detox too," Pepper said, staring at his marked-up arms.

The cowboy said, "I'm OK. Let me stand here a little while. I just want to talk."

Pepper studied his eyes. Glassy, but it was the "OK" 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 pointed at the cowboy, looked over at Miss Billie, and mouthed, "Call...on...him."

The president ignored her and announced to the staff, "Okay, everyone, now on to the next topic in your packet -- 'Working with Others.'"

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

C.A. MacConnell