WRITER'S CRAMP - Lost Parts of Speech

WRITER'S CRAMP

          What? You want me to write a story without adjectives or adverbs. You're crazy. You can't do it. It wouldn't have panache. Alright – alright. I'll try. But it doesn't make sense. It's like the blind learning to walk. I'm not sure where I'm going. It's a handicap – an amputation of a limb that's not diseased. O.K. - O.K. I'll try.

         The man stumbled and fell into the street, where a car ran over his legs.

          Stop it now! It's my story and I'll make up what I want. Just be quiet and read.

         He lay there mumbling. I smelled the liquor. His shirt and pants reeked of libation. Those at the scene wouldn't touch him. Crowds gathered to gawk. No one approached. It was as if he were infectious. Even the flies avoided him.

         When I arrived, he was quiet. I called the police and then parted the crowds and approached. I was cautious, but I wasn't going to let the man die before my eyes. When I kneeled, the stench gagged me, but I forced myself to stay. He was whispering, "Leave me here – leave me here. I need a drink."

         It was disgusting to think that this was human. What kind of specimen was this? What good did he bring to the world?

         I wanted to leave him, but my values differed. I decided to talk to him and see if I could help. The crowd, seeing that he was not dangerous, moved closer. "Give him room," I yelled. "He needs air."

         "That's for sure - and I'll give him that," someone responded.

          "He needs a bath too, but I'm not going to give him that," a voice said. Those who heard laughed.

         "Just rest," I said. "I called the police and an ambulance should be coming." He opened his eyes and stared at me. Sadness peaked out.

         "Just let me die. I don't want to live." He slurred his words, but I understood.

         "Do your legs hurt? I asked. "Are they painful?" A smile tried to form, but was extinguished before completion.

         "No. Now just let me die. Leave me alone. Go away do-gooder. I don't want your help."

         The words shocked me. They were whispered more than voiced. It dawned on me that this might not have been an accident. It may have been on purpose. I struggled against it. He was young - not more than twenty-five.

         I waited beside him, not knowing what to do. I wasn't trained for this kind of thing. I didn't even know why I stopped. I was late for work and there was nothing I could do. But I stayed.

         Am I doing O.K? Is this better? Alright – alright. I'll get on with it. Quit pushing.

         Someone tossed a sweater. I put it under his head. He kept his eyes closed and refused to talk to me. I could feel the defiance. Was he angry that I cared? Was he a drunk – or was he just a drinker? I remained by his side pondering. Life had no explanations. Things just happened. But I didn't believe that.

         By the time the police arrived, he was at rest. I was asked to step aside, but I remained where I could watch. They tried to wake him, but he wouldn't talk to them. They turned him on his side, retrieving his billfold. "Rodney Sanderson," one officer told the other.

         I knew that name. Where had I heard it? The paper. Yes - that was it. I'd read it in the paper a few days ago. He didn't look like the picture. In the picture he was wearing a uniform. I remember the headlines: "Paraplegic Arrives Home to Find Wife Dead".

         He had been a marine – wounded in Iraq. They had amputated both legs and the week he arrived home his wife had died of cancer. She had never told him of her disease, knowing that it would be a burden. She was afraid it would take his mind from his job.

         I watched as the medics lifted him onto the stretcher. One leg flopped over the side of the stretcher, pins and joints clear to see. The crowd gasped. I lifted my arm and saluted. I was ashamed of the treatment he had received from us. We had assumed the worst. He had experience it.

         There how's that? What. You want me to get rid of the nouns and verbs too. You can't do it. There's no way. You couldn't convey a thought. O.K. – O.K. – But I have to shorten the story.

         Fighting; screaming, hurting; recuperating; returning; losing; attempting dying; failing; living; breathing; recovering.

         How's that? No. I won't give up my gerunds. NO!