22.2 – I’ll Be Stoned for Christmas

After trying unsuccessfully to sleep with an aching, bulky log of plaster where his leg used to be, the reality of Marty’s incapacity finally sunk in.  He ran out of Percocet and started using various and sundry drugs to dull the pain.  He got up only to go pee, or to turn on the stereo to drown out the noise of the creek.  To pass the time when he got tired of reading or watching TV, he doodled cartoons on his cast everywhere he could reach, using colored pens to make wild designs that he planned to show off when he returned to school.  By now, he was pretty handy with the crutches, and got used to lugging his heavy leg around the cabin like a ball and chain, wearing an old pair of sweat pants with one leg cut off.  Mercifully, it finally stopped raining for a few days, and the creek subsided to a dull roar, while the canyon remained dark, moist, and brooding.

 

Christmas came and went – ‘making spirits bright’ – or so the song goes.  It was anything but bright in the dark Paper Mill Creek canyon that time of year, and the only spirits were Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo.  Jimbo was still way out of the picture, working on a dome house in Southern California.  Marge celebrated the birth of the savior by getting so smashed Mike and Susie had to carry her to bed.  But first, they amused themselves by putting bows on her head, and hanging candy canes from her glasses.  They couldn’t afford any film, so the picture remained as a holiday memory in their heads only.  For Marty, it was much the same as any other day, sitting on the couch with his leg propped up on the coffee table until his butt got sore.  He was actually looking forward to another phony Christmas ceremony at Good Ol’ Dad’s place later that day, just to break the monotony.

 

After dark, he managed to hobble up to the driveway to Julie’s Barracuda, picking his way through the mud puddles like a clown on stilts.  Susie sat in the back seat so he could stretch out his cast, which had to be loaded into the car like a torpedo with a man’s torso attached to it.  At the familiar apartment building that tried to be architecturally stylish but failed, his sisters solicitously assisted him step by step up to the second floor.  G.O.D. didn’t offer any help or consolation when he opened the door, acknowledging his son’s injury with only a grunt; as if he was tired of dealing with a disabled child.  As Marty got older, he learned to read his father’s hidden emotions, and realized that the lack of a sarcastic comment was as close to displaying sympathy as he ever got.  Marty keenly pressed his advantage, flattering G.O.D.’s omniscience and enquiring if he knew anything about the condition of his legs when he was born.  He shrugged his hard shoulders and mumbled evasively, “I don’t know, that was your mother’s thing.”  Marty smirked, and figured he was probably out playing golf at the time, anyway.

 

They had Christmas dinner again at Denny’s.  There was a different waitress every time, and that year’s model (“Hannah” on her name tag) regarded Marty and his sisters with doleful concern, as they all quite obviously wished they were somewhere else.  G.O.D. was scanning the menu imperiously, as if the establishment might have added a new dish in commemoration of his supremacy – but he was just pretending to read it while ogling the waitress’ legs.  Hannah was checking out Marty’s cast, with sensitive eyes masked by too much mascara, and she complimented him for the decorations.  She made a big fuss, and called over a couple other waitresses to take a look.  Suddenly, Good Ol’ Dad became interested in the condition of his son’s leg, due to its unanticipated potential as a chick magnet.  He described what little he remembered of the injury with great drama, and flirted openly with the waitresses, using the sharpness of his deprecating sense of humor to pinch and poke at their curves.  They got uncomfortable and left.  Hannah returned with a free scoop of ice cream for Marty, “For the pain,” she winked knowingly; glancing subtly at his father to acknowledge there was more than one affliction.  Blushing with yuletide spirit, Marty fawned shamelessly under her attention.  His dad tried to resume flirting, but Hannah ignored him intentionally, just to piss him off.  He was stern and sullen the rest of the night, and his children were grateful when they left the table (even though he didn’t leave a tip), just so they could return home, and Christmas could finally be over.

 

In the days that followed, Marty had way too much time on his hands.  His absence at the pet store during the busiest time of the year was difficult for the other workers.  Marge came home exhausted every night, and Bob actually called to see how he was doing.  He thought intensely about Michelle to distraction, and admitted to himself that he was falling in love with her.  Despite his best intentions to be sensible and cautious, he’d fallen overboard once again.  Without a life jacket.  Aside from the sentimental revelations, the dominant sensation in his life was that goddamn itch underneath the cast below his knee, which was getting incredibly unbearable!  He straightened a coat hanger to try and scratch it, but it wouldn’t reach far enough, and he was afraid he might get something stuck inside.  He fantasized about shredding the plaster with a power saw and scrubbing his skin with sandpaper… that would feel so fucking good!

 

The electricity went out at the Rusty Bucket Ranch during the recent storms, and it seemed as though PG & E would never get around to restoring it.  Marty was immune to boredom during stretches like that; seemingly with nothing to do.  He simply started having more ideas than he knew what to do with.  Copious cartoons were drawn when there was light to see, and even more were conceived that couldn’t find their way onto paper in the dark.  He started his “gag files” with written jokes and ideas that might become cartoons later.  He freely experimented with different styles to try and find something he could call his own.  When he got tired of drawing, he fantasized about Michelle and wrote more syrupy love poems.  More than once he got the notion to call and tell her of his accident, so she’d be mentally prepared to nurse him back to health – both spiritually and physically of course – when school resumed after the New Year.  He waited until he was all alone in the house, and rehearsed in his mind several ways to break the news, finally deciding to open with: “You know that hike we were thinking of taking in the redwoods…?”

 

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded nothing like the one in his fantasies.  “Yes, but that will have to wait.  I heard another storm is coming.”  Michelle spoke amicably, but was distracted by something, he could tell.

 

“Well, it’ll have to wait a lot longer, now,” Marty announced with wry pathos, “My leg is in a cast!”

 

“Oh!” Michelle exclaimed, suddenly fully present. “I’m sorry to hear that!  What happened?”

 

He told her the dreary fable of “look before you leap,” and that he couldn’t put any weight on his leg for two weeks.  In between the adorable cooing noises she made to express her sympathy, he could hear soft music playing in the background while she listened to his tale of woe.  “Are you playing my tape?” he inquired hopefully with bated breath.

 

“No, I mean – not now – I did listen to it, though,” she sounded less enthusiastic than he’d hoped.  “The songs are nice, but they’re just –” she faltered as if she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, in a tone he was far too accustomed to hearing from girls in his life.  Sadly, Marty had become an expert in detecting imminent rejection.

 

“I just… can’t… be involved with anyone right now, I’m sorry.”  She phrased her reluctance in a way that sounded as if it wasn’t her decision, and that was odd, so Marty dug deeper.

 

“What do you mean?  You know how much I like you.”  (He wanted to say ‘love’ but held back.)  His leg was itching fiercely now, and he wanted to pour gasoline on it, and light it on fire.  He shoved it to the back of his mind and swallowed thickly, dreading her answer.

 

“I like you too, but I just can’t have a boyfriend right now.”  Marty could sense her fidgeting uncomfortably on the other end of the line.

 

“Oh, okay.”  (‘Can’t have a boyfriend’??)  “Um, well, you know I’m here for you,” was the best thing he could think of to say, trying to keep the tone of defeat from his voice.  He didn’t want to sound whiny and ask “Why not?” but at the same time the question simpered in his mind with a keening wail.  He just wanted to reach out through the phone to hug her and tell her everything would be all right!  Why did I decide to call and tell her on the phone?!

 

“Thank you, Marty. That means a lot to me, really.”  Each of them was aware that neither was having very much fun during this conversation.  It occurred to them both at the same time that they could be doing something far less painful, like stapling their fingers together. “I have to go, I –”

 

“Yeah, I’ll see you at school,” Marty droned in a detached voice, as if someone else was speaking.  She sounded so miserable, he just wanted to leave her with a positive message, “Michelle, I’m here for you.  You can talk to me anytime, you know that.”  He hated himself for whimpering.

 

“Thank you Marty. I’m sorry about your leg, and I hope it gets better soon. Good night.” She sounded as if she was fighting to hold back tears as she hung up.  Silence filled the room like cold creek water.