Waking from the coma was much easier than all of just about everything else. The lights were off and then- without my doing anything- the lights were on again. I was a suddenly-woken focus of hospital wonder who got baby-spooned small bits of information and food that I nibbled and swallowed. Nurses came and cleaned between my cheeks and welcomed me back. Some reporter came and took my picture. She called me a hero. They all did.
“You’re a hero.“ they all said while I nibbled and swallowed.
I really had to blink my eyes at what I had woken to become. I got trampled by a dozen pairs of boots is what they tell me and I’m a hero? Imagine that? Three and a half months in a coma and you’d think I’d bump into some unique understanding of life’s profundities; and here I am, dumbfounded by a compliment on my second waking day? It’s all a mish mash. Who knew it would all become a mish mash?
Who knew I could get so angry, and “do” those things I think I remember?
They'd been in the bar a while when we got there, those good ol' boys. They'd traveled up from a dry county and had a good soaking in mind. I just wanted a quiet drink and a bite in my own dim corner.
They got louder as they got wetter, and as the volume went up things started to break. Sooner or later someone was gonna get hurt.
But not if I could help it. I slipped out back, cut the brake lines on their pickups and came around front. "Excuse me," I yelled, and for a moment, they did. "I need some help. I just hit a deer down the road."
Who knew it would work so well? Of course, a real hero would have had more sense than to stand in the doorway when he said it.
Opening: Scott from Oregon.....Continuation: Anonymous