How 'Bout That

It’s the oxygen mask falling from the overhead. It’s signing for a letter from the IRS. It’s your doctor with test-results taking a deep breath before beginning. It’s a Dorsal fin twenty feet away, fifteen feet, ten feet, five…

You knock on your daughter’s front door, thinking. "I'm probably going to regret this," And with your heart thumping you wait three more seconds, then knock again.

A new boyfriend with greasy hair opens the door and stands there.

“She don’t want to talk, Pops…Okay?”

“Look, I know--”

“Okay?”

“I want ten minutes alone with her!”

The shit-head seems to find you sadly amusing as he shakes his head.

“Pam!” you call out. “Honey, please! I just want to--”

Shit-head gives you a mighty two-armed shove and off you go, head-over-heels. You end up on your back.

Your eyes are closed.

You hear the shit-head’s distant voice telling you to cut the crap, and get the hell off his property.

You don’t move. Even after you’re nudged by a leather sandal. Even after a bucket of water is poured over your head John Wayne style.

“Stop it, Danny! He’s bleeding!”

“He’s not bleeding!”

“What do you call that?”

“Ya told me you didn’t want to see him ever again, Pam!”

“I didn’t tell you to hurt him, you ass-hole!”

A distant siren grows loud. There are professional voices and sharp lights. Your eyelids are peeled back and let go and peeled back again. You’re being lifted. You’re lifted and tilted and laid flat on something soft and dry. Then there’s the thump-thump of unmistakable ambulance doors and someone little and soft is squeezing your hand, not letting go. And you think, maybe, just maybe, things will work out.

--299 words--