(no subject)
Again, today I talked to the man who had his legs ripped out from under him by a drunk driver. This is the man who tips me a dollar, wants his english toffee extra hot and extra sweet. His stories are tip enough; like how he brought a girl to orgasm while rubbing her stump, sneaking the sock she couldn't get on, up to the hilt. The patches all over his body, the highest level of pain killer available he tells me, sneak out from his shorts and sleeves.
He used to ride harleys, he has tatoos. The flames on his car indicate how with it he used to be. And then he tells me he wants tickets to UA games; get them for me, get them for me. Okay I always say, I'll work on it.
He slurs, the pain killers are to blame I'm sure. Slurs and then looks far off- through the desert lot across the street- into the suburban housing community- and into Oro Valley. He's going to own lots of land he says, enough for all his kids to live on. Just in case, you never know he says. He's getting lots of money still from the settlement; investment is one thing he's learned, money is one thing he can afford to spend.
Sometimes he's there for over an hour refusing to sit down. He stands, leans on the little metal ledge and grinds his teeth, tells me about the pain. I have no idea, he says. I have no idea, I think. It's worse when the nerves are ripped, especially when it's far enough up the legs to significantly affect the spinal nerves.
At some point, no matter how interested I am, I zone out. When he talks about giving money to his nephew for home runs, when the ex-wife stories begin. And then he has to go. Always, everyday, I work in the yard. I get my wheelchair out and get my gatorades (we buy the powder) and water, and I work for hours, hard work.
He used to ride harleys, he has tatoos. The flames on his car indicate how with it he used to be. And then he tells me he wants tickets to UA games; get them for me, get them for me. Okay I always say, I'll work on it.
He slurs, the pain killers are to blame I'm sure. Slurs and then looks far off- through the desert lot across the street- into the suburban housing community- and into Oro Valley. He's going to own lots of land he says, enough for all his kids to live on. Just in case, you never know he says. He's getting lots of money still from the settlement; investment is one thing he's learned, money is one thing he can afford to spend.
Sometimes he's there for over an hour refusing to sit down. He stands, leans on the little metal ledge and grinds his teeth, tells me about the pain. I have no idea, he says. I have no idea, I think. It's worse when the nerves are ripped, especially when it's far enough up the legs to significantly affect the spinal nerves.
At some point, no matter how interested I am, I zone out. When he talks about giving money to his nephew for home runs, when the ex-wife stories begin. And then he has to go. Always, everyday, I work in the yard. I get my wheelchair out and get my gatorades (we buy the powder) and water, and I work for hours, hard work.