Arthur’s Mighty Zen Pt 2

Part 2

A few days later I found out

It was Arthur

Who saved my foot,

Not the doctors.

Instead of cutting it off

Like they’d planned 

When they first saw

What a mess it was,

They changed their minds pronto when 

Arthur used his shall we say powers of persuasion

To convince them of the wisdom 

In doing otherwise!

“Or else, pal!” added Arthur threateningly

As he raised his mighty fist.

Boy! You should have heard Arthur 

Give the doctors a piece of his mind!

Said the boys who’d helped 

Get me to hospital that day.

Funny, but now they were proud 

Of the terrible gang boss they once feared.

Oh! The contradictions of life!

Anyway, they told me all about it.

“Arthur was never 

More magnificent!” they bragged.

“You should have heard him curse!

The bleedin sawbones wasn’t ready 

For a bleedin bastard like our Arthur!” they laughed.

“And within seconds they was 

Shifting their asses good and proper

To save you and your bleedin foot!”

Then, with a rare sense 

Of respect they added,

“That Arthur! He sure showed them!”

Arthur visited me in hospital 

Every week that summer.

One time I asked him why 

He was so tough 

On me in the beginning.

“The men had to see 

That I showed no favorites,” he answered,

Only with more curse words.

Then he looked directly at me 

From under his massive brows, and slowly smiled.

“And I wanted you to learn,” he added,

“To stand on your own two feet.”

Then he roared with laughter!

“Shhhh,” hissed the nurse

Who’d come running.

“Quiet! This is a hospital!”

“Shit!” answered Arthur, a little embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Like all healthy men, 

Arthur despised the hospital.

And I think he was a little

Intimidated by the nurse, too.

I know I was.

“Well, take it easy, mate,” he said. 

Then he left.

Next visit Arthur brought me books to read.

Which surprised me because

Before the accident 

Arthur used to make fun of me 

About my reading,

Calling me a bookworm 

And an egghead, etc,

Only with more cursing.

So I asked him why.

“I never finished grade school,” he said quietly.

“So I don’t read too good.”

He looked me in the eye and added,

“I was afraid you’d laugh.”

Oh! The similarities of life!

I’d feared him for his language.

He’d feared me for my learning.

He never mentioned saving my foot.

When I tried to thank him,

He told me with a laugh 

To shove it up my ass!

“Them dumb doctors!” he spat.

“They don’t know shit!”

Then to change the subject 

He cursed doctors ferociously

For about ten minutes,

Hardly stopping for breath.

I listened in awe.

He’s been dead a long time,

Arthur the gang boss.

Killed in an accident 

A few years later

When a Caterpillar D-9

Ran off its own tracks

And tumbled down an embankment.

Arthur was standing at the bottom

Of the embankment, 

Urinating against a bush.

They say he never knew what hit him.

But I wouldn’t know.

I’d already left by then

To begin my journey as an artist.

Sometimes I wonder where Arthur is now.

I hope he’s happy.

And not squashed too flat

By the bulldozer to enjoy the afterlife.

Because I owe him a lot.

A lot he wouldn’t want, probably.

And instead of sentimental horse shit 

Like saying you’re welcome,

He would probably suggest 

Most strongly that I shove it!

Way up where the sun don’t shine!

So from the year 2016,

Arthur, you son of a bitch,

Wherever you are, 

From the bottom of my heart

As I stand upon my own two feet,

One of which you 

Jumped into a shitty ditch

In order to save…

I thank you!

I love you.

You big son-of-a-bitch.

“How Do You Feel, Mister Pliers?”

   I awoke in a strange bed. 

   Aha, you say, how interesting! 

   Hold on, I say, because it was a hospital bed in a hospital room that I awoke in. 

   I think. I wasn’t sure.

   The room smelled faintly like a zoo or stables, which contrasted oddly with its exceptionally clean appearance. I had a headache and my mouth was dry, but otherwise I felt okay. Maybe a little weak. No need to be in hospital, surely. 

   I looked around me. It was a hospital room, of that I was certain, but there was no medical equipment of any kind to be seen. There was only the hospital bed I was in, inclined slightly to let me sit up a little, a small bedside table with cheap reading lamp, and a simple, hard-backed chair for visitors. There were no windows in the room. 

   On the bedside table was a half-eaten box of inexpensive chocolates, a lipstick-smudged glass of flat Coca-Cola and a pack of cigarettes. 

   Not my brand, lipstick or smokes. 

   How long had I been unconscious, I wondered? 

   I didn’t know and couldn’t remember.

   I reached up to scratch an itchy spot at the back of my head. What the? Upon touching it I instantly withdrew my hand! What I felt back there was not my usual head, with its lustrous, flowing locks and solid, skin-covered cranium. No. What I felt back there was a swollen, shaved, stitched-up mess at the base of my skull! 

   I reached up and carefully touched it again. There was stubble growing where the space had been shaved and it was tender to the touch. Beneath the stubble it was soft and kind of gooey, like I was pressing my fingers into an overripe peach. I thought I heard it squish and it hurt when I timidly pushed against it.

   “Ouch,” I said to myself.

   Myself, I suddenly wondered? Who’s that? I had no memory of who I was or how I got there. 

   Before I had time to panic, however, a doctor entered with a clipboard under his arm. I assumed he was a doctor, dressed as he was in a white lab-coat with stethoscope dangling round his neck. He had come through a door that I hadn’t noticed before, after first unlocking it. 

   I heard it distinctly when he unlocked it. 

   So, I had been locked in. Why? 

   The doctor was a very small man, perhaps not even four-and-a-half feet tall, but with large hands and feet for his size. His dark hair was slicked back and he sported, beneath his flat little nose, an old-fashioned pencil mustache. There was a great deal of rough, dark hair on the back of his hands and sprouting from his shirt collar at the neck. 

   Coming up to the bed, without introduction he took me by the wrist and studied his watch as he began to speak. “Ah, Mister Pliers!” said he with a big smile. “I see you’re awake. Wonderful! How do you feel?”

   He had a high pitched voice to match his diminutive size and he spoke with a slight English accent. 

   “Yes,” he continued, “you look fine today! Just fine! How’s the head? Any more headaches?”

   “How long have I been here, Doc,” said I, “and who the heck am I? I can’t remember. Who brought me here? Why was I locked in?”

   “There’ll be plenty of time for all that later,” he smoothly assured me while he continued to take my pulse. “No need to worry.” 

   I lay back, feeling weak and disoriented. My head had begun to hurt, too, deep inside where it had never hurt before.

   Finished with my pulse, the doctor smiled at me patiently while he gently lowered my wrist to my side and patted it comfortingly a couple of times. He had very long hands, with the thumb well back towards the wrist. I noticed again how hairy he was. 

   “Please don’t concern yourself with too many questions, Mister Pliers, it will only slow the healing process. Now, roll over onto your side and pull your pajama bottoms halfway down.”

   “Pajama bottoms?” I answered. “I don’t wear pajamas, Doc.”

   That much I knew about myself  That I would never wear pajamas.

   I felt myself and what do you know? Pajama bottoms. With resignation I rolled over unto my side and pulled them halfway down. As I did so he produced, from seemingly nowhere, a fiendishly large hypodermic needle which he jabbed without ceremony into my backside.   

   “Now,” he said encouragingly as the hot serum flowed into my bloodstream, “about those dreams you’ve been having ...”

   I now noticed, standing quietly in the corner, my publisher. Had she been there all the time, I wondered? Was she even there now? The drug was beginning to take effect. I shook my head and looked again. Yes, there she was, dressed impeccably in a taupe-colored cashmere skirt and crisp silk blouse, standing quietly, holding the hand of a chimpanzee who stood at her side. They were both staring at me. The chimpanzee was wearing a little white lab-coat and smoking a cigarette. I think it was a female chimpanzee, because she was wearing lipstick.

   This odd sight had me wondering, as you can imagine, but it was becoming difficult for me to keep my eyes open. 

   All I wanted was to close my eyes and go to sleep.

   I fought to keep my eyes opened, watching as the chimp took another drag on her cigarette, causing its tip to glow a fierce red. After blowing a few lazy smoke-rings, she exhaled the remaining smoke through her nostrils. Then she shook her head insanely for a minute before barking something up to my publisher. My publisher nodded. As I lost the fight for consciousness and my eyelids fluttered to a close, the chimp released her grip on my publisher’s hand and started stepping towards me. 

   I could hear the chimp’s angry chattering, coming at me in the darkness.