While channel surfing I paused to watch a story about a New York mafia (crime family) boss who went for walks in pajamas and displayed all sort of bizarre behaviors. Despite the feds belief that his craziness was an act, they had been unable to gather enough evidence to convict him. That was when the idea of faking a head injury, to guarantee a super size settlement, first dawned on me.
When I complained to my family doctor about the supposed nervousness, reoccurring headaches and feeling of motion that made me nauseous (sick to my stomach) she summoned an ambulance to her office. Within the hour I was in the hospital’s emergency department undergoing a cat scan then given an injection of phenergan that sent a warm rush throughout my entire body . . . a high like none I had ever felt before.
Loaded with a prescription for phenergan pills I was transported back home. While taking this drug is well suited for legitimate motion related symptoms’ for the faker like me it reacted like speed. Weather it were the phenergan alone or a combination it and the high-grade marijuana, I could not sleep or eat much and began to talk insistently (without stopping).
Due to the strained hip flexures, transferring from bed to wheelchair, wheelchair to toilet, toilet to wheelchair and back to bed again was more than I could handle. When sis offered to check in on me, to fix lunch, empty the port-a-potty next to the bed and urinal, seeing that she was an aid for an older lady, I naturally agreed. Besides, with a stranger I wouldn’t be able to smoke my skunk weed. Over bowls of pot, that first morning, we thought of ways to spend the half million dollar settlement a letter from my lawyer mentioned.
Within the second half hour it became clear that her moodiness was going to be a challenge to deal with. If you have ever witnessed a conversation between two inebriated men, you know how it starts out friendly but because of their inability to understand each other, their exchange turns nasty. That’s the way it was between sis and me. Every other thought I expressed, judging by the hostel look on her face and tone of her voice, required rewording to keep her calm.
Biting my tongue was not easy but I managed to do so for two days. Then out it came: “Man, you sure are hard to get along with. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m sure glad you don’t have to care for me all the time.” If eyes were bullets, with the look she shot me, I would have died then and there. Without a word just menacing stare she raised from the chair she had been sitting in, hurriedly stuffed her cigarettes in her purse and stormed out of the room. Before slamming the apartment door shut and stomping up the hall stairs she yelled: “We’ll see how you do with no one’s help. As*&#%*!”
Later that night, I phoned her to try and explain what lead to me saying what I had. After about ten minutes of explaining she reluctantly accepted my invitation to try again. The next morning she did seemed a little mellower, but what a space-cadet she was being. When she went to her car to retrieve something she locked herself out of the upstairs door. Linda had to leave work and let her back in. She misplaced my urinal. Then when she left for the morning shift, with a plan to return for dinner, fortunately she had removed the grilled cheese pan from the stove but left the burner on. Again, Linda had to leave work to rectify the problem.
Once again I telephoned sis at her home. Clearly, I was not as nice as should have been. I had had enough. In reaction to my unkind words I was blown away when she said: “Fine. Take care of your own self. You think you’re so much better than me. I hate you! I hope you die!” This was not the first time she had stated those two things. Twice she had in the past, but each time she was drunk. So I dismissed her words as mumblings. This time, however, it was clear that she meant what she had to say.
That night I eagerly waited for Linda’s return from work. By seven pm I was a bit concerned as to why she was later than usual. Understanding the service business, I figured that they had got swamped or someone from the next shift would be late. By eight o’clock I was a little more apprehensive. It was out of character for her not to at least phone. I phoned her job and was informed that she had left at her normal five-thirty. Now I was worried. I started calling people to find out if they knew anything of her whereabouts. No one knew anything. They all were as stunned as I was that she would just disappear.
At Nine-thirty a little car parked in front of our building to my relief it was her. Instead of going to the door she rapped on the apartment front window. Sis, it seemed, had her keys so she climbed through the window. Her face was beet red. When I questioned where she had been, with an expression I’d never seen, she stared at me. “What’s going on?” I inquired. “Where have you been?”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong Mr. Big shot?” she said. “I’ve been at Karin’s. She offered to let me stay there tonight. I just came to get some clothes.”
Why I didn’t push to find out where her words were coming from I don’t know. Was it because of the heartbreak I was feeling? Did I not want to know? Was it guilt for my past indiscretions? Callously I responded: “Fine, if that’s the way you want it. Go then. It’s been a nice twenty-four years.” She snagged some stuff from the bath and her dresser, pulled some clothes off of their hangers and left.
To Be Continued
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