Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

14 - IT ALMOST BROUGHT TEARS TO MY EYES

I was sitting out in front of my place a couple of days after me and Chet had escaped detection where our hemp plants once thrived, and feeling a bit lonesome as I looked into my empty cooler, when who should come limping into view but Owen Purty.  He was carrying a clear plastic grocery bag, and I could see relief was at hand.

Owen dropped down next to me on the front steps and pulled out a bottle of cherry Nyquil and a six-pack.  “Here amigo,” he winked, “let’s have a shot.”  Owen opened the Nyquil and passed me the handy plastic cap that doubles as a shot glass.  “We’re celebrating.”  He poured the syrup into the cap and passed me a cold beer.

Never one to start an argument, I slammed down the medicinal shot.  I handed Owen the empty Nyquil cup and asked, “What are we supposed to be celebratin’?”

Owen slammed down a shot of his own.  “We’re toasting my permanent disability status.”

I saluted him with my can of beer before cracking it open, “You shit’n me?”

“Have I ever shat on you?”  Owen grinned as he tossed down another shot and popped his beer.

“The Golden State has officiously concluded that I am no longer fit to pursue gainful employment,” he claimed with pride.  “So no rehabilitation is possible for me.”

“Isn’t that the same thing they said when they threw you out of reform school years ago?”  I gave him a playful jab.

“Well, yeah, actually that was what the reform school said, but they didn’t offer me $675 a month in compensation, plus food stamps.  If they had, I bet I would have stayed out of prison more often, and school too.”

In the ensuing silent moment Owen looked plain thoughtful, and I was afraid he might be sick, when he suddenly looked up at me and said, “Of course it’s true, you know.”

“What’s true?”

“That my medical condition has been diagnosed as an authorized disability, so I won’t be going back to my old job at The Recycling King.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Ever since my car flew off the road I can’t even make a fist,” Owen held out his trembling hand to demonstrate the extent of his injury.  (It about brought tears to my eyes watching that poor boy form his hand into a shaky fist, but I was careful to stop myself from laughing outright.)

As the Nyquil and beer kicked in I noticed I couldn’t make much of a fist myself either, so it occurred to me that maybe I should get myself over to that disability office and stake a claim.

“What was you up to that night anyway?”

“Don’t ask,” was all my drinking partner could muster referring to his recent accident.

Mindful of his current disability and all, and considering it wasn’t none of my business anyhow, I decided not to press the matter.  “Well, it sure was spectacular.”

“That’s what Sheriff Al said right after he handcuffed me.”

Owen wrapped his bad hand around his beer and continued with all due seriousness, “After the ambulance took me to the emergency room a lawyer came on to me and told me I should go on disability right away, that for a small fee he’d help me fill out the papers and then the checks would start rolling in.”

Owen grinned, “Maybe I’m blessed with some of that extraterrestrial perception.  I always had a premonition I’d retire young.”

I nodded in jealous admiration.

“So, what are you gonna do with your days now?”

My neighbor stared off in the direction of the interstate, as if deep in thought.  “If I tell you something personal, can you keep it secret?”

I spit in the palm of my right hand and held it out for him to shake.  Owen shoved his hands in his pockets before confiding, “Believe it or not, the other night I had one of them premonition dreams, and it was revealed to me that my destiny was a choice between auto repair or veterinary science.”

“Wow.”  While I wiped my hand on my pants I inquired, “Well, what’d you pick?”

“I more or less favored becoming a vet.”

“Dawg,” I toasted my friend with another shot of his Nyquil.  “What college do you plan to masticate at?”

“In fact I can stay right here and pursue my studies from the comfort of my camper,” Owen smiled.  “I sent in a form and won a full scholarship to correspondence school.”  Owen proudly took another swig of syrup from the Nyquil bottle as his eyes glazed over.  “I chose the most challenging course available to me when I picked veterinary science.”  He shot me a look.  “If I cannot make a proper fist, think how tough it’ll be for me to pass my class on neutering.”