This is a scene I wrote some time last year that I won’t be using in my novel. This character barged into my head and started talking to me last May; she’s been with me ever since and I’m still trying to figure out how to best tell her story. I know how crazy that must sound, but I don’t really mind.

So, here it is . . . Week 10 of 52 Stories.

* * * * * * *

Mike dialed Penny’s cell phone and waited as it rang, pacing briskly from the door to the window.

“O’Neal,” she said brusquely.

“Are you downtown right now?” he asked.

“Oh hi, Mikey,” she said. He swore he could hear her smiling. “Nope; I’m on duty till at least two. What’s up?”

“Have you seen today’s Sun Times?” he asked, trying to contain his irritation.

“I don’t read that shit rag,” she said. “Then again, I don’t read any papers; too depressing. Why?”

“Find one,” he said.

He heard her yelling away from her phone. “All right, Baz! Settle down. And get me a Sun Times while you’re in there! Yeah, I’m serious—Sun Times! I know it’s a shit rag! Are we married or something, because last I checked, I wasn’t required to take any shit from you!”

She spoke into the phone again.

“I should have one in about a minute, depending on how long it takes Baz to count out his money,” she said. “Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked, her voice teasing.

“I wish I had,” he said. “Because I doubt I’ll be sleeping much tonight.”

“What?” said Penny, her voice sounding distant again.

“What’s so damned funny, Baz?” she asked, adding, “Gimme that.”

Mike heard the sound of paper rustling and then a quiet, “Oh, shit.”

“’Oh shit’ is right,” said Mike grimly.

The column devoted to local gossip on the inside front page read:

Cook County’s newest State’s Attorney on the case in Boystown

Below the headline was a photo of him, his head tilted slightly and his eyes half open, clinking beer bottles with Emmett, the Manhole logo clearly displayed in the background. What was actually a moment with Penny’s friends captured in between blinks now appeared as if he’d spent a wild night out on the town.

“They’re calling me “The Gay S.A.!” he yelled, his voice rising an octave.

After a moment, he said, “Are you there, Penny?

He heard the sound of her laughter and held the phone away from his ear.

“It’s not funny, Penn!” he said loudly. “Look, you know I’m not a homophobe, but stories like this can damage a career. Oh, wait–it gets better–a blogger is calling me ‘The Fey S.A.’ At least they’re trying with that one.”

“I’m sorry, Mike,” she said, catching her breath. “I know how important your job is to you. But hey, Chicago’s a surprisingly fag-friendly city, you know. You might have allies now you’d have never had before if you decide to run for State’s Attorney after McCready croaks, because you know he’s not givin’ up that gig till he’s in the ground.”

“I highly doubt that I’ve made any allies from this,” said Mike grimly.

“Aw, cheer up, Mikey,” said Penny. “It could be worse; they could’ve printed pics of us humping in your Jeep the other night. Hang on–Hey, d-bag!” she yelled, her voice further from the phone again. “I said climb INTO the dumpster, not stand next to it looking like a retarded basset hound! Sorry Mike; I’m stuck babysitting a couple of newbies at a crime scene here.”

Mike closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been called into a meeting later; something tells me it’s not going to go well.”

“Hey, what can they do to you? Fire you for being a dick smoker? You can sue the shit out of ‘em then, Mike.”

“No, but I can be disbarred for behaving inappropriately by appearing to publicly inebriated.”

“Having a beer in a gay bar while fully clothed with your tongue in your mouth—well, it’s mostly in your mouth in this photo, anyway—doesn’t sound all that inappropriate to me,” she said. “You should see McCready at a strip club!”

“You’re not helping, Penn,” he said dryly.

”What, are you girls afraid of a little garbage?” she yelled again. “Because if I’ve gotta help you into that dumpster, you’re gonna get to know garbage. Intimately.“

He heard some muffled conversation in the background for a moment, then she said, “Hey, Mike; I gotta go or we’re never gonna get out of here. Wanna meet up later? I bet I can cheer you up.”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

“Let’s talk tonight after I calm you down a little. Well, I’ll rile you up a lot and then I’ll calm you down. Meet at my place when you’re done getting your ass pounded by Don and probably some guys from the mayor’s office.”

She disconnected the call.

“I can’t wait,” he said to his empty office.

FRED.

A few years ago, I found myself at a crossroads with more than one friendship. Getting married and having kids will do that to some friendships, as will changing jobs and moving to a new town. Oh yes, and experiencing pregnancy-related and probably longstanding, on-and-off depression will shank a friendship or two as well.

I’d done all of these things, and saw a couple of older friendships grow distant and a new one I’d made online positively implode, with periodic aftershocks for months and even years later, all beginning during one of the roughest times of my life. I have my side of that story and she has hers, and the incessantly nitpicky, “she said/she said” details aren’t important to me any more.

What’s important to me now, years after having moved on, is that I know why I did what I did and I’m at peace with the way I handled things, even when I was irrational and emotional, even when I knew I’d be despised for some of the choices I’d made (because I sensed they were the right choices, as each aftershock has proven, time and again), and even though I know I made missteps and mistakes.

I still stand by it all, and now take the attitude I should have taken from the start, which is, essentially, “Fuck me? Fuck YOU!” Not sour grapes; I simply refuse to be manipulated or disrespected again, not from friends and certainly not from people who proved themselves otherwise. It took me a few years to realize that having the backbone to take that stance with someone means you truly are at peace, and I am. I also learned the hard way that trying to spare everyone’s feelings and make everyone happy often ends up doing just that–only it often leaves you holding the bag, and I can tell you, that bag ain’t filled with happiness.

What I learned from this time in my life–as I’d learned with lovers before I met my husband–was to know what behaviors and treatment I would and would not accept from a friend. Over time, I was lucky enough to develop several new friendships (while also keeping some old ones that had fallen away and a few others that grew from online into “real life” bonds). These friends not only saw the “real” me in good times and rough, but also loved me anyway (to paraphrase one of my favorite quotes). That was so vital to me, because frankly, I can be a real pain in the ass and I do believe my image appears under the antonym for “grace under pressure.”

During this time, every spring my mother-in-law would travel to Sanibel Island, Florida for a week or so to visit some old friends. They’d stay at a friend’s beach house and hang out, read, and go shopping; a totally relaxing deal. I remember thinking, “I want to do that some day.” At the time, I had two young kids and a mountain of student loan debt (but a part time, at-home job). Travel? Every year? With GIRLFRIENDS? Who all get along? Forget about it!

Also during this time, every time I’d think of names for each of our three sons (whose gender went undetermined until their birth days the first two times), my husband would shoot the majority of them down (including Angus–he actually giggled; NOT a smart choice around a pregnant me–and Deaglan).

Exasperated, I’d say, “Well, what do YOU want to name him if it’s a boy?”

“Fred,” he’d deadpan. Every damned time. I must have smacked that man a thousand times per pregnancy, but I suppose I deserved some of those “Freds.”

Fast forward a few years. I was done with pregnancy and breastfeeding and had managed to build a reasonably successful freelance writing business from home. I blogged about starting a girlfriends’ getaway and asked if any readers (most of whom were my friends already) would like to come along. To my surprise, about a dozen actually replied yes.

It’s so hard to get away when you’re working and married with young kids, not just financially but in terms of asking spouses or significant others to take off work and tend to the schedules we usually run, not to mention taking time off work yourself. My mother-in-law and her friends were retired with few financial worries; how, exactly, would we manage to pull this off?

Somehow, we did (that’s a whole other piece on smart trip planning for groups). We began planning, and as we did, I wanted to come up with a name for our girlfriends’ getaway. Nothing came to mind until I remembered those arguments with my husband: FRED! We’ll call our trip Fred!

In July 2007, we rented a luxurious cabin in Salida, Colorado and pretty much from the moment we got together, we laughed. When we’d be out, people would assume we were partiers because of all the giggling, but no, that was just us. In 2008, we converged upon Lake Tahoe and again, every night I’d go to bed with a sore jaw and abs from all the laughter, only to laugh again with my friend and Fred roomie, Janey, until we’d finally fall asleep, often still giggling.

The best part was how seamlessly everything went. A dozen women, all used to running the show at home, figured how to divide up the money for meals and activities, how to tidy the home, who got what bed (or what spot on the floor–eep!). We all just put our own egos aside and let it flow, and it worked.

This February, we held an impromptu “mini-Fred” in our sweet home Chicago. Once again, despite a bump or two in the road (and on the way), the laughter was there. So was the liveliness and the complete freedom from the mundane details and hectic schedules we normally face. We were just us, only funnier and more vibrant, and we just . . . laughed. Man, that feels great.

So on the day we left for home, fellow Freddies Melessa, Kelly and I walked to the River North Paper Source store. I hadn’t been here in about a decade, since their Evanston store north of the city is closer to me. I wanted to look at pretty papers for my friend’s  baby shower invitations (struck gold there, by the way!). As we entered the store, I noticed some rubber stamps positioned on a display table. Guess what they spelled?

FRED.

I love you guys. And I miss you. Thanks for putting up with me and laughing at my jokes and my crazy conversations with random strangers. You make me a better person and a better friend and I know how lucky I am to have each of you in my world. CHEEP!

Stormin’ Norman

Last week, a dear friend of my husband’s (and mine, via marital osmosis and mutual preference) passed away unexpectedly.

Norm was the sort of guy you immediately felt comfortable around, because he made you feel that way. It didn’t matter if you’d just met him or hadn’t seen him in years, he actually listened to what you had to say, with the best sense of humor and this vibrant, electric energy. If Norm said you were cool, you were cool.

When our firstborn son was a baby, Norm saw a photo of him with his fist beside his head, and he exclaimed, (in true Norm fashion), “Power to the PEOPLE, little man!” Through the years, that’s how he always remembered our boy, now nine years old.

Sadly, my boys don’t remember Norm; usually we stayed home while Dan went out with him to watch a college basketball game every March. Such is life; things get busy, you get caught up in your routines, you let too much time go in between get-togethers.

I was in Chicago with friends the weekend of Norm’s visitation and funeral. My husband and I agreed that only he would go, and while I wanted to attend, I thought it would be a nice opportunity for him to reconnect to a very important part of his past–his days as a morning drive time sports radio producer. That job didn’t bring him a great deal of money, but it gave him so much more, including work he adored and more than one friendship that lasted years after the job ended, especially with Norm. I wanted him to focus on his friend and his past without having to worry about me.

When Dan told me about the funeral service, I was grateful I didn’t attend. Not because I didn’t want to, but because one of his two grown daughters put together a handful of Norm’s favorite songs that played at the end of the service as mourners left the church.

One of those songs made my husband smile, because he gave Norm so much crap for liking it: Simply Red’s “Holding Back the Years.”

“I love that song!” I cried when he shared this anecdote. “I’m going to download it from iTunes right now!”

“I hate that song!” he said, shaking his head. He said Norm would lean back in his chair in the studio and close his eyes while Dan mocked him as he listened.

“I don’t care; I’m getting it anyway,” I said.

I also read that Norm loved Boz Scaggs, so I downloaded a few of his songs, too.

He’ll live to regret ever buying me an itunes gift card. But maybe he’ll also appreciate that every time one of those songs plays, I’ll think of Norm, and that shared friendship with my husband.

My favorite Norm memory? He once told my husband that he liked hearing from him because he genuinely cared how he he was doing, as opposed to asking him for something. When Dan arrived at the visitation, Norm’s wife saw him and said, “I’m so glad you’re here; Norm loved you!”

Really, is there anything more anyone could want in a friendship?

More of Norm’s favorite songs: “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago (my very first ever FAVORITE SONG from when I was seven years old; I distinctly remember hovering by the stereo waiting for WCLR to play it. I’d wait for hours, and when it came on, everyone in the house had to be completely silent while I listened), “Days Like This” by Van Morrison (hold me) and “Wishing You Were Here,” also by Chicago (hold me while I wail).

I don’t know about you, but had I been at that service, I’d have been a blubbering, sobbing mess. Where Dan laughed about ribbing his former radio host, I’d have probably embarrassed everyone by openly–and very loudly–weeping.

This photo was taken the day before Norm’s funeral while my friends and I were wandering Michigan Avenue. The 4th Presbyterian Church is located across from the John Hancock Center. I’d first photographed this courtyard as a young woman–on black and white film, of course–and hadn’t really paid it any mind for the 20 years since, even when I’d stroll past it nearly every day while working in that neighborhood in the late 1990s. When my husband came downtown for the service, he mentioned the location of the church and my heart skipped a beat. I was just there! I said. One day it’s a photographer’s fancy, the next, a place for family and friends to bid farewell.

I downloaded those songs from Norm’s service, listened to each of them, and thought of him. I thought of Norm’s family, wishing he was here. And I cried.

“Now you take my picture!”

Okay, I will.

This guy saw me photographing the bridge and told me to take his picture, too. How awesome is that? A woman passed us a few minutes later, smiled, and said "Good morning." Only in Chicago; one of many, many reasons I adore this city. The people here work hard, play hard, love their sports teams (sports haters go on about how passive watching sports is, but so’s reading and sitting at a computer–it’s all about what you enjoy doing), and generally know who they are without pretense (pervasive hipsters notwithstanding).

Dan read this and said, “Next week, write a happy one.” FINE. More depressing fiction for this week.

After weeks of gray that felt as if the sun had abandoned the sky altogether, that day it was impossibly blue. It was Valentine’s Day, which on a good year was a consumerist farce; she smiled remembering joking with him about how lame it was.  This year was different; this was the year he left her with three young kids and a nearly empty checking account to fly halfway across the country. To her.

She trudged toward the grocery store, coupons neatly sorted in a zippered pouch, knowing she had exactly $78.52 to her name. He’d moved his direct deposit paychecks elsewhere last week, the day he moved out, promising to send her a check every other week. She’d believe that when she saw it.

She walked past a display table crammed with red, pink, and white cupcakes and cookies and noticed a man in an expensive overcoat clutching a sorry looking bouquet of red roses and hurrying toward the checkout area. She walked slowly through the aisles, gazing at the name brand items she’d have tossed into the cart without thinking  just a month ago.

It felt like she was walking through pancake syrup. She’d just about trained herself not to say, “This isn’t happening,” because of course, it was. A few weeks ago, she’d been happily married and actually in love, a stay at home mother to three beautiful kids who wore her out daily while her resume atrophied in a metal file cabinet somewhere in their unfinished basement.

Now that reality was sinking in, the “what if’s” were starting. “What if I’d been more exciting in bed?” “What if I hadn’t gained so much weight with each pregnancy?” “What if I’d worn nicer clothes, maybe some make-up?” “What if I’d been more interesting/funnier/a better cook?”

“What’s the use?” she said aloud without realizing it. “He’s not coming back.” She spied a two teenagers ahead of her in the cereal aisle, talking quietly, their heads tilted toward each other. They laughed at some inside joke as she slowly passed them, resisting the urge to tell the girl to run while she could, he’d only rip her heart open.

She’d never been more acutely aware of how everyone around her seemed to be paired off and happily in love. Of course, she knew they all probably fought and felt bored and ambivalent at times, too, but she still felt like a stranger in the world, nose pressed to the glass of a never-ending party whose invite would never arrive.

And that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that even though he’d so clearly moved on, emotionally and physically, her heart was stuck in last month. Slow, lazy days helping the kids dress and the endless parade of snacks and toy pick-ups, maybe a little vacuuming thrown in for good measure. Family dinners, then helping the kids bathe and ready for bed while he worked on the computer (shopping for a girlfriend, apparently). It was a simple life, but a happy, contented life. It was her life, and it was gone, all of it, out the front door with a man everyone said was a shallow cad for abandoning his family, a man she knew in her head was those things, but her heart didn’t seem to want to listen.

She grabbed four boxes of generic macaroni and cheese and tossed them into her cart, pushing onward into the next chapter of her life, one she hadn’t asked to be written but, unlike her life a month before, was now more her own than ever.

I was sick for a good part of this week. No idea what to make of this one, which I hammered out pretty quickly. Sometimes ideas come and I just follow them, no agenda, no big deal. This is one of those times.

He pushed away from her, still panting as he fumbled with his jeans. He still wore his shirt but it hung open, revealing a pitifully tiny patch of black curly hair on his upper chest.

She slowly pressed her thighs together and quietly watched him as he snapped his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. A Ronnie Milsap song played from the cheap clock radio somewhere behind him. She sat on the desk that came with the room, her own jeans and panties on the floor.

That’s it? she thought.

He’d seemed so perfect–the broad shoulders, the white-toothed smile, the swagger–everything she’d ever dreamed of until a few moments ago.

He noticed her watching him and moved toward her again, the worn heels of his cowboy boots thudding over the thin, colorless carpeting of the motel room. He gently pressed her knees apart so he cold stand even closer to her, put his hands on her waist and leaned in to kiss her. The rough stubble she’d found so sexy felt like sandpaper now.

“Was it . . . ” he said, bending down to get her to meet his gaze. “I hope it was good for you, too, Ash.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, nodding and shrugging one shoulder slightly. “It was, Trey. Real nice.”

The truth was, it hadn’t been anything like she’d been led to believe.

Nobody told her it would hurt so danged much, for one thing. The ladies on the soap operas her Grammy watched all day long seemed to want nothing but romantic moments, usually with a slick dude with long hair or an eye patch; sometimes both. Only the soap opera ladies got to have their romance on shiny sheets, their hair gleaming and make-up perfect, smiling and saying perfect things to their perfect men.

This felt . . . different. Instead of romantic, or full of clever things to say, she felt turned inside out, like this man she’d swooned over all these weeks was a total stranger who knew more about her than her own family–or her best friend, even.

“I gotta get back to work or your Daddy will have my hide,” he said, propping his Stetson over his curly brown hair with one hand and checking himself out in the mirror behind her.

He looked down at her and said, “Well come on, girl; we ain’t got all day.”

Ashleigh nodded and slid off the edge of the desk, bending down to gather her clothes as he jingled the keys to her daddy’s truck. She shuddered as she felt something wet and warm between her legs but didn’t want him to see her cleaning herself up.

I just want to go home, she thought. I want to go home and shower.

She looked up quickly when she heard what sounded like a present being unwrapped.

“I got you these,” he said, handing her a bouquet of roses wrapped in cellophane. “They were for, you know, before, but no sense in them goin’ to waste.”

She nodded without speaking, biting her lower lip to keep from . . . crying? Why did she feel like crying?

“You’re a woman now, Ash,” he said, winking at her from under his hat. “You’ll remember this day for the rest of your life.”

She nodded because she knew he was right, then followed him out into the scorching midday sunlight.

This is an excerpt from the first novel I wrote early last year. I’m not even sure this scene will make it into the final draft, or if there will ever be a final draft. I dusted this section off and tweaked it for this week’s story.

The genre is probably romantic suspense. You have no idea how hard it is for me to cop to that, but the characters came to me in a dream and started talking in my head–so not kidding here–and I followed where they led me. And I have no aspirations to be a literary writer, anyway. I read and enjoy genre fiction. Anyway, this is really a tiny sliver of a story about surviving horrible tragedies and how those who have suffered and made it through can help those who are in the trenches through their darkest times. Now that I think about it, my second novel-in-progress is really about this, too. Nicely played, brain.

Anyway, I’ve never written suspense before; let me know how I did (without being a dick about it, preferably).

She sprinted across the sand, barely noticing the bits of shell and sticks jabbing into her bare feet. She didn’t dare look back, not wanting to lose any ground to him. She was fast and in shape, but she had no idea where her pursuer was or how quickly he could get to her. She saw the beach house up ahead, and found a second burst of speed as she raced toward it.

Matthias, where are you? she thought. She wanted to scream at the thought of him dying at the hands of the man who now pursued her. Matthias, don’t leave me now, she thought. Please. Not now.

She took the wooden steps two at a time onto the expansive porch leading to the front door. It was locked, but there was a mat at the front door and she flipped it aside, frantically searching for a key.

“Think-think-think-think-think!” she cried as she spotted a stone statue of a sea turtle beside the mat. Flipping it over, she saw something metal glint in the moonlight, grabbed it, and tried the lock; it worked. She made her way inside, closing and locking the door behind her, knowing a lock couldn’t stop a gun but would at least slow its owner down. Her lungs burned with the buttery sensation that came with overexertion as she frantically looked around the beach house, listening for footsteps on the wooden stairway. None came.

When she’d first started running from the man who had Matthias, her pursuer merely walked after her, a slight smile on his face, as though he were taking a casual stroll on the sand.

He knows there’s nowhere to hide here, she thought. I’ve got to find a weapon. She ran to her right toward what looked like the master bedroom, hoping to find a gun safe, but found nothing within view of the room, which was thankfully lit by moonlight. She tossed the pillows aside, looking for something, anything, and then ran to the walk-in closet. Not daring to turn a light on, she felt along the shelves for something metal, a box of shells, a gun–anything that might indicate that the people who owned this house were fond of the Second Amendment. Nothing.

Just my luck to dart into a pacifist’s vacation home, she thought, stealing a furtive glance out the bedroom window, which faced the water, to see if the man was anywhere in sight. She saw nothing, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still out there.

She’d seen the sort of coldness the man’s eyes held before, in some of the gangbangers she’d treated to on the job as a medic and in two of the men her estranged husband had hired on for security. Those men hadn’t lasted long under Matthias’ supervision, however. Perhaps in order to become unafraid of killing, or death, or dying, something had to be switched off inside, something that eclipsed the life in their eyes. Whatever it was, the man had the same absence of light in his gaze.

Maybe he won’t come, she thought. Maybe it’s just Matthias he wanted. Oh God, she thought. Matthias. She shook her head as if to shake away the thought; there was no time to either worry or mourn.

Because the house was built into a hill, there was only one entrance, though the front stairs, which were noisy. Something in her favor, at least. Of course, one entrance also meant one exit, which meant she was also trapped.

She quietly opened the top drawer of the dresser that stood against one wall and felt around for a handgun. She jumped back after grasping something, barely keeping herself from crying out as the object made a humming sound that echoed off the wood of the dresser drawer.I suppose I could throw the bloody sex toy at his head, she thought, reaching in and fumbling for an off switch.

Bloody horny pacifists, she thought. Silence returned and she continued her search, still catching her breath while trying not to cry. Something told her not to make any noise at all, despite not having any idea where the man was outside.

Just then, an image of her son popped into her head. He’d turned two years old that month, and she tried to remember the last thing she’d said to him as she handed him to her brother, Colm, before leaving for the Keys; something about being a good boy. Surely I told him I loved him, she thought. Surely I did

The kitchen, was her next thought as her survival instinct shoved her maternal feelings aside. Something sharp or heavy; I can ambush the bastard, maybe. Kitchens have knives; let’s hope these people like to cook as much as they like to shag. As she turned to walk toward the other side of the house, she noticed dark spots on the carpet from where she’d run in the front door toward the bedroom. She looked down at her feet and remembered the pain as she’d run across the beach.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered, then clapped her hand to her mouth when she realized she’d spoken. She’d left a perfect trail that led the man straight to her. Her mind whirled through ways for how to get to the kitchen, find a knife, and then hide without leaving such an obvious trail. She dropped to her hands and knees to crawl toward the kitchen when she heard it.

She stifled a scream as the doorknob turned, slowly and quietly.

I can hear the medic to my right calling in stats and requesting morphine.

“I’m twelve weeks pregnant,” I say.

Too soon for it to be obvious.

“Patient is pregnant,” says the medic. “Can we still administer morphine?”

He pauses a moment and looks down at me. I’m shivering as I lie on the gurney. I’m not even cold.

“No morphine,” he says. “Sorry.”

He looks at me again, then adds, “Boy, you sure are sweating a lot.”

Great. I’m the Richard Nixon of slip-and-falls.

I’m not quite old enough to have given birth to this guy, but we’re far enough apart in age where I could’ve been his babysitter. Even if I had the energy to make the Nixon joke–or even an “Albert Brooks in Broadcast News joke about Nixon” joke–it would’ve been lost on him.

The medic makes up for commenting on my trauma sweat with an astonishing act of kindness: he warns me before every bump in the road for the entire ride. He seems proud to have learned the routes through town, and I have to admit it’s an impressive body of knowledge of something most of us never consider. And as even the slightest movement sends shock waves of pain through my body, his super powers arent wasted on me.

Several potholes and speed bumps later, I’m wheeled into a very crowded ER. I have no idea where my two-year-old son is. He rode in the cab of the ambulance, chattering excitedly about the sirens while thankfully appearing oblivious to my injuries.

We’ve only lived here a couple of weeks. All of our friends and family are at least an hour away and my husband is out of town. A snowstorm had hit just after a bout of freezing rain, and there were many car accidents that day in January 2002. I quickly learned that Dansko wooden heeled clogs and ice hidden under snow don’t mix well.

After a few minutes, I’m wheeled into a room at the ER that barely fits my  gurney. A nurse whose name tag reads ‘Brandy’ asks me a few questions as she uses scissors to cut away my pant leg from mid-thigh downward. My son arrives in the arms of a nurse, who places him on a chair to sit with me. I start crying and am not even sure why, and I can see the worry in his big, brown eyes but I can’t stop.

“Look,” says Brandy. “You’re going to have to get yourself together–for your son’s sake,” she says.

I nod without speaking, trying calm myself and to breathe through the pain.

Even though I know she’s right, I also know that Brandy is kind of a bitch.

“Can you please cover it up?” I say, pointing without looking at my foot. “I really don’t want to look at it.”

Without speaking, Brandy obliges. I can’t tell if she wears a look of disgust as she does, but at this point, I don’t care.

Another nurse arrives to say she’s going to take my son to the cafeteria for a PB&J sandwich and some juice. I’m grateful someone is able to care for him because right now, I can’t. All I know is the pain, washing out everything around me.

Maybe an hour has elapsed since I fell, and I haven’t received any pain medication. Suddenly, I feel horrible for not worrying about this new baby more. I remember the words of a doula I’d met at an art show during my first pregnancy, who told me that right then, my baby was in the safest place he’d ever be for the rest of its life. I clung to those words just then, hoping she was right.

I notice an ancient man with thick, brown rimmed glasses shuffle past the doorway to my room.

How nice, I think to myself. Volunteering in his waning years like that.

I have no idea how long I laid there, my lower right leg covered by what looks like a white kitchen towel, but eventually my mom arrives. She has the same look in her eyes from when she saw me laboring in the hospital–an unnerving combination of fierce love and abject terror, only today it’s mostly terror.

“I had to take a cab to get here,” she says. Legally blind due to macular degeneration, my mom can no longer drive. “The car almost went off the road two, three, four times,” she says.

My mom is the strongest person I have ever known, but today, as on the day my son was born, I can see the dents in her armor.

“Where’s Jackie?” she asks, looking around the tiny room.

“In the cafeteria with a nurse,” I say. Brandy reappears and offers to take my mom to him. It’s the last time I see either of them that day. The cab driver drove with them back into the storm, even escorted them inside and made sure they were safely settled in.

With Jackson and my mom gone, I wait a short while until I’m wheeled into a large, open room filled with an array of medical equipment. A woman with brown hair wearing light purple scrubs stands beside me and gently says they’re going to take some X-rays before I’m prepped for surgery.

Surgery. Gah.

I see the old volunteer hobbling my way, and his thin, fuzzy hair and hunched back remind me of Yoda.

“This is Dr. Bobba,” says the tech in the purple scrubs. “Our attending ER physician.”

“Doctor–” I can barely say it without smiling, but am proud that I at least refrain from laughing as we exchange greetings.

After placing a couple of reassuring, weighty lead aprons across my pelvis, the tech takes images of my leg by maneuvering a massive machine over me, since moving me would be both painful and impractical. She also takes images of my right shoulder, which is still painful to lie on or move at all.

When the tech finishes, Dr. Bobba shuffles over puts a hand on one arm and speaks to me in a reassuring tone. His voice and skin tone hint at an Asian origin, somewhere near India, I’d guess.

“This is Bonnie,” he says to me, gesturing behind him (he has to turn his torso since his head and neck won’t oblige). A tall, slim fifty-something woman with blonde wavy hair and glasses smiles down at me.

“Bonnie has some nitrous oxide for you,” he says. “I suggest you inhale deeply, as it will help you manage the pain.”

Finally, something for the pain, I think, as Bonnie smiles down at me. She has kind eyes, and as she gently places the mask over my face, I don’t notice that about eight hospital staff members have surrounded the gurney.

I take a shallow, cursory breath of nitrous when I feel Dr. Bobba quickly and deftly grab my right leg.

Imagine trying to scream as loudly and forcefully as your body will permit. Then double–no,  maybe triple–it, and you might have a close approximation to the sound I make.

When it’s over, my entire body shakes uncontrollably and before I can regain my breath, Dr. Bobba grabs my foot again to finish resetting it.

I don’t scream as loudly this time, but the pain is no less intense. I lay there, panting like a mountain lion, shivering uncontrollably, and once again drenched in sweat.

My only thought, besides being grateful for not having died of shock, is how in the hell did that little old man move so quickly?

Everyone congratulates me on getting through it while I’m wondering who I should kill first: Dr. Bobba or myself.

I’m wheeled back into the waiting room and finally look down at my foot. Instead of hanging sideways at a right angle away from my body, it’s back on straight again. The pain has receded a few hairs short of excruciating.

I close my eyes briefly when Dr. Bobba enters the room holding an X-ray.  I notice he’s standing just out of arm’s reach from me, a good thing since I’m actively considering strangling him.

“The films show that you have also dislocated your shoulder,” he says. Before I can reply he turns his torso and calls out the door:

“Bonnie! Bring the nitrous!”

{Contrary to what initial reactions to this image might indicate, this not a story about cleavage (not even Muppet cleavage–though that would’ve  made a great story) or butts, or even nuts. It is mostly true, however–a sort of confluence of conversations. My intention wasn’t to write weekly conversations between nameless individuals but these two first stories sort of evolved that way. Next week’s will be different.}

Farm Fresh Eggs

“He was the best dog we ever had,” he said, shaking his head slightly at the memory. He looked over at his wife, who nodded in agreement.

“We wouldn’t have found him if you didn’t ask me to get you some farm fresh eggs,” he added, the lines deepening around his blue eyes as one side of his mouth upturned very slightly.

His wife’s head jerked upward, her eyes wide as she studied his face for a moment. Then she shook her head, waving her hand at him dismissively, Sicilian style.

“Don’t you remember?” he asked. “It was the late ’60s and we’d just moved out of the city. We went for a drive, and you said you wanted to get some farm fresh eggs.”

“Get outta here!” she said, laughing in the sort of contagious way that gets other people laughing, too. Their party guests were no exception. Her laughter was mixed with wheezing coming from deep within her chest, and after a while, she began to cough.

“I grew up in the city,” she said, finally catching her breath. “When the shit have I ever asked you for farm fresh eggs?”

“You did,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and nodding curtly, closing his eyes briefly as he did.

“You insisted upon them,” he continued. “We passed a farm that had a sign that read, “Puppies For Sale” and we stopped. That’s when we got Sloopy. He was a Collie/Shepherd and the best dog we ever had besides my Trixie growing up in Smoke Run,” he said.

She muttered to herself about farm fresh eggs, wiping tears from her eyes as her body shook with laughter once more.

“Remember how Sloopy used to take my socks off with his teeth?” he asked. “He’d never once touch my feet.”

“Thanks for the visual, Dad,” deadpanned a woman walking past the entry to the living room. “He’s telling the Farm Fresh Eggs story again, you guys,” she called to people in another part of the house.

“I remember how he’d goose step around his own turds when he went out to pee. He hated getting his paws messy,” said his wife.

“I still miss that dog,” he said, shaking his head again.

“We had to give him up because of your crazy mother,” she said. “He went for her after she hit him with her purse one too many times, yelling, ‘Outside! Dogs belong outside!’”

“She grew up on a farm and lived in the country,” he said. “That’s all she knew. In her mind, animals lived outside, never in a house.”

“In her mind, it was like a cuckoo clock. She also tried to smash the TV with a hammer when she heard the word ‘Philadelphia’ on the news,” she replied. “Crazy.”

“My sister Mary went to Philadelphia to get married, then came home with TB and died,” he said. “I remember her asking me to bring her a glass of water, and when I did, her eyes were still open but she was gone,” he said.

“Yeah, so she blamed Philadelphia for killing her daughter,” she said. “Couldn’t speak a word of English, but remembered ‘Philadelphia,’ the looney tune.”

“And she knew the word ‘Exit,’ too,” he said. “Kept running away from the nursing home every time she saw an Exit sign.”

“One time Sloopy chased the mailman up a light pole. There was mail all over the front lawn,” she said, spreading her hands outward like a blackjack dealer. Her hair, once golden blonde, was salt and pepper gray now, but the thing that had always been most beautiful about her remained so: her mossy green eyes.

“He was a good dog,” he said, smiling again at the memory.

“Yes, he was,” she agreed, smiling back.

“And we never did find those eggs,” he said, his eyes twinkling as she laughed, saying, “Get outta here!” and waving her hand at him again.

{contains language some may find offensive}

“I’d kill that lady over there for some pancakes,” I said, gesturing with my chin at a defeated looking woman in a red velour sweatsuit, a neon rainbow of curlers wound tightly into her sparse black hair. I tapped an unlit cigarette on the table top.

“Well, that might feel good in the moment,” she said. “But those cops over there would probably have to shoot you, and then you’d still be pancakeless.”

She smiled as she said this, revealing that dimple on her left cheek. I fought the urge to lean across the table and lick it.

“Are you hurting as much as I am?” she asked, sipping from her water glass.

I didn’t answer. I was trying in vain to catch the waitress’ eye from across a very crowded Golden Apple Restaurant. Located on Chicago’s North Side, The Golden Shower (our preferred name for our hangover hangout) was both bland and affordable enough to please everyone, from cops to seniors on fixed incomes to college students like us.

I stared at the bottom of my now-empty coffee cup and thought about vaulting over the counter to pour a fresh one myself. But that sounded like too much work, since even the hum of everyday noises in the restaurant hurt my eyes. A baby screeched and I swear I felt it scrape along the inside of my skull.

“I remember a pitcher of . . . something. And several straws,” she said. “After that, not much. And stop that tapping or I’ll hire that lady over there to kill you. And then I’ll eat your pancakes.”

I thought I saw the waitress headed our way and waved my empty coffee mug at her as she headed in another direction.

“You’re assuming pancakes are imminent,” I said.

“I think waving your mug at her will make her ignore you, not hurry over here,” she said, sipping her water again.

“Whatever,” I said. “Hey, did Wedge get naked this year?” I asked, laughing.

It even hurt to laugh. But the image of our friend–whose given name really was Wedge–and his barrel-shaped, hirsute body was worth it. The best part was the way he ran; high-stepping in fast motion, his Sumo grade thighs pumping up and down as we all desperately avoided glimpsing his junk.

“Oh God yeah, he was!” she said, her eyes widening. “That stupid hairy motherfucker even ran outside after midnight!”

We both started laughing, and I think I even snorted. A woman, her white hair set in tight curls like a swim cap, turned to glare at us.

This only made us laugh harder. We sat there, eventually shaking with silent laughter, grimacing from the pain of yet another New Year’s Eve hangover.

“I last saw him passed out lying across the sink with his legs on the toilet tank. How’d he manage to get up there?” she asked, still giggling.

“One can never know the mysterious ways of a Wedge,” I said.

“Oh my God!” she gasped. “Did you really call that lady in the fur coat a–a cunt on the walk home?”

Swim Cap Hair turned to stare at us again, her mouth slightly open. If there was a spot on her that wasn’t covered in wrinkles, I didn’t want to know about it.

“Possibly,” I said dryly, avoiding the old woman’s glare. I started tapping the cigarette on the tabletop again.

“You tool,” she said. “You were wearing a leather biker jacket. It’s not like you’re any less cruel to animals.”

“Yeah, but at least my jacket isn’t a status symbol,” I said, feeling my cheeks starting to burn.

“Oh come on,” she said. “If anything, it’s even more of a status symbol. ‘Look at me, all edgy in my Leathermakers coat my mom scored for me at the mall!’” she said.

“Hey! I paid for this myself!” I said.

“So,” I asked quietly. “Do you remember anything else from last night?”

“Yeah, I remember,” she said. The dimple was back.

“Okay, what can I get youse kids?” said the waitress in a voice so loud we both jumped. She flipped to a new sheet on her notepad and looked at us blandly.

Now she shows, I thought.

“Pancakes,” we said in unison. This time I know I snorted when I laughed.