Could his luck get any worse? A down
pour. No umbrella. Griffin stood inside the door of the professional building
undecided. He shifted the black nylon sling on his right arm and prayed for the
prescription strength ibuprofen to work, envying rain-coated,
umbrella-wielding, able-bodied people their freedom.
A faint cough made him aware of
someone at his elbow. A boy around twelve glanced up at him.
“How’d you break your arm?”
Such a bold child. Griffin would
never have asked a personal question of a stranger, no matter how bedeviled by
curiosity. He’d make it clear it was none of his business.
“Pitching. It was the bottom of the
tenth, my team needed to break a tie. Even though I was too sore from pitching
the first six innings, they begged me. The whole team. How could I say no to my
mates, especially when they knew no one else could pull it off? Fast ball. Out.
Screw ball. Out. Gum ball. Out. Tore a ligament, but we won the game.
“Gum ball?”
“That’s a sticky spin combined with
a curve. My signature pitch.”
Griffin looked down at his
questioner and waited. Big blue eyes looked back wide with admiration.
“Wow.”
The boy’s mom swung through the heavy door
and motioned for him to follow. He turned back to Griffin and waved.
The uptown bus splashed along the curb.
Griffin dashed into the rain and managed to stomp down into a deep puddle, a
crevasse really, filled with icy water, before almost tripping up the first
high step. Pants leg soaked to the knee. At least he found a seat along the
side.
What a bizarre exchange. Had the boy
really thought what he’d said was true? And all the while he’d thought he was
telling the kid an obvious whopper to make him realize he should mind his own
bee’s wax.
Griffin settled back against the seat and
nudged the woman who was reading next to him. He started to excuse himself when
she beat him to it.
“Oh I’m sorry I bumped your arm! What
happened?”
Again Griffin was nonplussed at the need
to know of the general populace.
“That’s all right. A rodeo clown gets used
to a few bumps and bruises. This time got it snapped clean in two by the quick
flick of a bucking palomino’s left rear hoof. Couldn’t stop to take stock
though. Had to get that horse away from his downed rider before he trampled
him. He was crazier than a bag of mad monkeys.”
Griffin paused for breath and rubbed his
arm through the sling. The woman gaped at him and said, “Oh my!”
Just then the bus pulled to the curb and she
closed her book and rustled her umbrella.
“Too bad this is my stop. I’d love to hear
more. Take care of that arm!” she called over her shoulder and exited.
Griffin was puzzled. She couldn’t have
believed that story, could she? If he didn’t know better, she was almost
flirting with him too. Not what usually happened to him on a bus. Was it the
clown or the arm that warmed her up to him? He never talked to women, and not
so freely either. They’d take a quick look at the too tall, too thin guy in
loose clothes who seemed to always say the wrong thing and dismiss him without
a thought. He thought everyone liked Star Trek!
The next afternoon Griffin needed a few
things and strolled over to Gristede’s. He liked their kopi luak coffee with
cinnamon buns in the morning. Just as he was reaching for a five pound bag, a
man with a longer arm procured it for him.
“Looking to buy some of that cat poop
coffee?” he asked. “I’ll help you out
with that. Good to the last plop, hey? How’d ya bust the wing?”
Griffin smiled. He was ready for him.
“You know that heist down in Chelsea two
nights ago? The one where the Fifth National Bank almost got cleaned out?”
‘Yeah…”
“I was in on that one.
“You held up a bank?”
“Law enforcement. Special Forces. Mounted
police. Took a slug in the shoulder. They never had a chance.”
The man’s face blanched. He took a one
pound bag of kopi luak civet cat fermented coffee out of his coat pocket,
placed it on the shelf, grinned at Griffin and sped out the door. As Griffin paid the $349. 74 for the coffee
he had a hard time stifling his laughter. You never knew who was roaming the
streets.
That evening Griffin got a call.
“Hello, Griffin Carstairs? This is Pamela
Baxter from the Fordham Alumni Reunion Committee. I remember you from the Ballroom
Dancing Club. There’s a dinner dance scheduled for February 16th in
the Rose Hill Gymnasium. Tickets are $250.00. How many can I write you down
for?
“Well Pamela, I’ll take one ticket, but I
won’t be doing any dancing. You see, my arm’s in a sling. Dislocated it doing
some marlin fishing down in the Caribbean. A thousand pound fish can do that to
a man.”
Griffin stretched his right arm over his
head to keep it from getting stiff after healing up from his latest bout of
tendonitis. He’d have to get the sling out of the cabinet for the event. He
wouldn’t want to disappoint his public.
(901 words)
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