Part one of three
Three Wednesdays, Part 1: The Worst Alley In The Universe
Right here, up on my right cheek, the flush, red shape of a hand is probably still visible…
The alley is completely deserted, except for my dumb ass. Here I am, flat on my back, jaw most likely broken, the metallic taste of warm blood slowly filling my mouth.
It’s a Wednesday.
I’m wondering how I got here. Not immediately how — I know that — just, how the hell has my life gotten so derailed that I’ve gone from being a kid with a dog and a smile and a thousand stories in his head, to this washed-up 42-year-old man lying in a puddle of mysterious, black, smelly dumpster goo, in the middle of the worst alley in the universe.
I ponder this as my tongue plays with a piece of broken tooth in my mouth.
There are at least four pieces of broken tooth rolling around in there (and what feels like sand, which is probably more dental collateral). Judging by how bad my mouth hurts, it’s fair to assume my jaw is fractured. All of that’s from the boot that kicked my face earlier.
I’m also fairly confident I’m sporting a broken rib, maybe two, most likely why I’m having trouble breathing. I have to take short, quick breaths and hope they’re enough. That injury isn’t from the boot to the face, though, it’s from an impressively massive fist which, slightly earlier, repeatedly met my torso with a force and momentum only terrifically angry people possess.
My left index finger is missing; it’s been shot off, earlier still. It’s missing and I miss it. It’s probably still somewhere on the floor of the hotel room where I was just shot at multiple times. The point is it’s gone. I’m pretty sure I saw one or two goons stepping on it in all the commotion. A weird thing to see, that. Anyway, there’s no going back to get it. I am, for all intents and purposes, a nine-fingered man.
I wrap a handkerchief around my hand to stop it from bleeding. The pain from that injury is surprisingly bearable. Come to think of it I ain’t feeling much more than a slow pulsating ache, like my hand is expanding and retracting a couple of times per minute, beating, like a heart.
I’ve also torn a ligament in my right foot, scraped my right knee and both elbows something fierce, and I have a gash on my forehead which is clearly still bleeding, warm blood trickling down my left cheek, but all that was my own doing. When you jump through a third-story window without a plan or any notion as to where you’ll land, even with a generous kind of luck you’re going to break, tear, or rupture something. My luck’s taken the day off. The way my fall ended, my right foot hit the asphalt first, followed immediately by every other part of me — not in the order you’d expect — and now all of it hurts. Walking, breathing, talking and generally just being alive for the next few weeks is going to be painful like hammers on bones.
It’s an asshole of a day.
What stings the most, however, what I feel, above all the other pains and injuries vying for my attention, is a burning sensation that lingers on my face, from earlier still. Right here, up on my right cheek, the flush, red shape of a hand is probably still visible. That one’s from being slapped.
By the princess.
No time to dwell on that now. Soon there’ll be hurried footsteps. That means people. Angry people, with feet. Feet equipped with boots. Ready and decked out for kicking.
If I can help it, there’ll be no more of that today.
I push myself up on my knees and that hurts like hell. Too much. I almost black out, the edge of my vision blurred by darkness, sounds fading from the world, my brain temporarily on the fence about which way is up. All I can hear is my breathing. Everything in my digestive tract comes shooting out of my mouth in one long, thick stream of vomit and blood. My throat throbs like it’s on fire, but I’m better now that all the sick is out of me.
My five-digit hand finds its way into my inner coat pocket and comes out with a pack of cigarettes. I extract one from it with my lips. I return the pack to its place and fish a damp and smelly matchbook from the breast pocket of my torn shirt. It takes three tries, but I get a match to cooperate and two heavenly inhales later my cigarette is lit.
Okay. I’ve gotten on my knees. It’s a start.
I stick the cigarette between two fingers and, with my other hand, grab hold of the dumpster to steady myself. I slowly rise to my feet, careful to keep my right foot off the ground, my left leg doing all the work. My back cracks and my chest hurts like a motherfucker, but I rise.
Okay, okay.
Easy does it.
I take a quick drag of my cigarette and attempt a step forward.
The moment my right foot touches the alley’s oily grimy asphalt, one thousand bombs detonate inside my leg. So, okay, that’s broken, too. The world turns black and topples over and the ground hits my face and breaks my nose.
When I regain consciousness, there’s a rat on me.
“How long have I been out?” I ask the rat.
It’s a big one, like half a cat. I’m lying on my back, in the puddle where I started, the rat sitting on my stomach and staring at me. It doesn’t answer my question. In its defence, the words coming out of my mouth, hampered by a broken jaw and a swollen nose clogged up with blood, are on the unintelligible side of the enunciation spectrum. The cigarette, stuck between the fingers of my bandaged hand where I left it, is still lit but on its last leg, a thin delicate arm of ashes moments from breaking off. I pull one final bit of smoke out of it and into my lungs, and blow it back out at the blue sky above me.
The rat says something but it’s in rat language so I don’t understand a word. Still, it’s a big fucking rat, so I push it, hard, off of my chest. The rat hits the ground and rolls in the disgusting black puddle I call home, before getting back on its legs and running away screaming, probably calling me an asshole.
The sky is so blue. It’s a gorgeous day, ironically. In a brief moment of blinding clarity, I miss her. I think back on the first night we actually spoke. The talk. How clever and funny she was. I think back on her beauty, how it washes over you like a wave, makes you feel like you got a shot at being a better man. Then my old asshole of a brain skips a few pages and brings me back to that other night. The only night that really counts, and all of a sudden I miss her moans. The way her hips moved on me. The way her firm breasts caressed my face. How she let me touch her…
But a throbbing sting echoes across the right side of my face, where she slapped me, and that brings me back to now. I’m reminded of the look she gave before the slap, too. The words she said. Her disappointment in me.
Goddammit, I can be clumsy.
I try to sit up but I can’t, every inch of my body feels like darkness, broken glass and bad decisions. I drag myself to the side of the alley, out of the goddamn puddle (a win), and manage to prop my back up against a brick wall in some semblance of a sitting position.
My entire body is sticky with blood and alley juice. I fish the cigarette pack out from my pocket and manage to find one that’s intact, or at least partially smokable. In a moving display of not being a complete asshole, the first match I try in my matchbook actually lights when struck, and I proceed to quietly enjoy my cigarette, knowing full well the goons are coming.
Goons twice my size are coming to kick me, and punch me, and probably shoot some more of my fucking fingers off, while they’re at it.
“Get up.”
The words get me to open my eyes. I guess I lost consciousness again, just for a moment (my cigarette is halfway done now, perched on the edge of my lips). I look around to see where the words come from.
I hear them again, coming from right in front of me, by my feet.
Get up.
The rat is back. It has two friends, as big as it, flanking it on each side. It says the words a third time, “Get up.” In English. I take a drag off my cigarette and stare at the rodent who can apparently talk, now.
“Seriously, get up.”
Like a broken record, this guy.
“No,” I tell the rat, “I tried. It hurts. You get up.”
“Why did you push me five minutes ago? Are you an asshole?” The rat asks.
“I’m allergic to giant alley rats. You were sitting on my broken ribs. I’m having a bad day. I’m an asshole. Pick one.”
The rat considers this. His friends stand quietly by its side, maybe waiting for instructions. “Okay — I didn’t know you had broken ribs, but okay — you really need to get up, though.”
I stare at the rat for a few seconds that seem like hours because I’m in pain and pain makes every moment take too long.
“Why do you need me to get up so bad?”
“Because,” the rat says, “I need to see if you’re worth a damn. I saw you crash through that window up there and hit the street and I thought This guy’s not getting up, but you got up. It took a while and it didn’t last long but you did it. Your body is broken, your heart is in pieces and your soul is bleak and shitty. You know damn well your world has just the one thing in it that makes it worth the breathing you do, and the beats your heart beats. One thing only, and without it? That’s a world without spark. You got up. I saw it. You’re broken and yet you rose, the entire shattered length of you — stood. You know why you did it? You didn’t do it because men are coming to kill you. You didn’t do it because you need to get yourself to a hospital. You didn’t do it because no sane person would want to be in this god-forsaken alley longer than they have to. You got up because, even though she’s mad at you and has every reason to be, the princess is in danger and you’re going to go save her. If you have to punch a hole through the gates of hell, walk a mile barefoot on fire and broken glass, and rip her from the clutches of the devil himself, you’re going to save her. You got up, Frank, I saw it happen. Now show me that you’re worth a damn and do it again.”
I flick my cigarette into the puddle in front of me and, pain and broken bones be damned, I do what the rat says.
Read Three Wednesdays, part 2: The Best Bench In The Park, HERE
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