Promises, Promises
“What time is it?!” I know I said the words but I barely hear them. The Oxycontin and whiskey left me blank. I’m rested but agitated. I didn’t see Guy anywhere and I call out for him. I feel a tear of air being released from damaged eardrums. I can hear myself better but this new existence is painful.
Bobby was at the end of the sectional with a sheet of plastic and a black towel over his lap. Dewy asks me to “stop hollerin’.” He’ll be right with me. He pulls what looks like a hound’s fang or the root of a molar from Bobby’s fist. They laugh at how long it is and Dewy disinfects the hand with alcohol. He stitches and bandages between the bruise-darkened bloody knuckles. Dewy advises him to use an antibacterial ointment and gives him a thin rectangular Neosporin packet. Bobby wants to add duct tape.
“If you want to be ‘the one-armed man’ go right ahead. I wasn’t a medic because I like the darn sirens. I worked for emergency services for 20 years before I caught a charge. What do I know?!” Dewy laments. “This scrap yard was passed down to me. It hasn’t been my whole life.”
Bobby apologizes and thanks him. Dewy turns his attention to me. He sits next to my feet on the couch. “Hey, Sugarplum. I didn’t think y’all would remember me. It’s been a long time.”
