Chapter 30 Mickey #2
“The firebox cracked. Right down the middle. I’m out there at five in the morning doing the morning smoke and I hear this sound like a gunshot, which as you know is not a sound I enjoy anymore, and I look down and there’s a crack in the firebox the length of my forearm.
The whole left side. Smoke pouring out of it sideways. ”
“Did you fix it?”
“I welded it. Stormy held the pieces together while I welded them in the parking lot at six in the morning wearing a welding mask I borrowed from Robert next door. Robert’s a retired electrician but he has a welding setup because in this part of Florida every retired man has either a welding setup or a boat and he chose welding.
The weld held. Bertha’s got a scar now but she’s back in action.
I tell people it gives her character. Stormy says it gives her a safety hazard.
Sheila says if Bertha dies, she’s not coming to work anymore because Bertha is the only thing at the bar that’s been there longer than she has.
I told her that’s not true because the pool tables have been there longer and Sheila said ‘the pool tables don’t feed people’ and she’s right and I dropped it. ”
“How is Sheila? I’ve missed her.”
“Sheila’s great. She reorganized the liquor shelves again.
Fourth time this year. She’s got opinions about alphabetical versus categorical and the opinions change with the season.
In winter she organizes by color because ‘the bar looks warmer that way.’ In summer she organizes by popularity because ‘nobody’s browsing in July, they know what they want.
’ I’ve given up trying to find the bourbon.
The bourbon has been in four different locations since January.
At this point, I just ask Sheila where it is like a man asking his wife where his keys are. ”
He shifts lanes and keeps going.
“Last week some guy comes in wearing one of those shirts with the flip-flops on it and asks Sheila if we have a cocktail menu. Sheila pulls her reading glasses down her nose and says, ‘You’re looking at it.’ Guy says, ‘No, like a printed menu. With descriptions.’ Sheila says, ‘Tell me what you like and I’ll tell you what you’re having.
’ Guy says he likes something refreshing.
Sheila makes him a dark rum and ginger with a lime and doesn’t tell him what’s in it.
Guy drinks it in four minutes, orders two more, and asks for her number.
She told him she doesn’t date customers and he said he wasn’t a customer yet when he walked in and she laughed so hard she gave him a free shot.
” He shakes his head. “That’s the Sheila effect.
You walk in thinking you’re in charge and you leave thinking she’s the most interesting woman you’ve ever met.
She’s been running this game since before I could drive and I’ve never once figured out her system. ”
I lean my head against the cool glass window. The highway opens up ahead, flat and straight, pine trees on both sides, the north Florida landscape that Benji drove every day to see me.
“You know what Stormy did last night?” Tex says.
“He made your bed. He put on clean sheets and folded the comforter at the foot the way they do in hotels. He put a mint on the pillow too. A single wrapped mint from the gift shop downstairs. I said ‘Stormy, it’s Mickey, not a Marriott guest’ and he said ‘it’s his first night home and it should feel special’ and then he went back downstairs and left me standing there looking at your mint on the pillow. ”
He’s quiet for a second. Tex being quiet is notable enough that I look over to see what’s wrong.
“That Stormy,” he says, shaking his head.
“I swear to God. He spent his whole life in places where nobody made anything feel special for him. Nobody folded a comforter for him. Nobody put a mint on his pillow. And now he does it for other people because that’s what Stormy does with the things he never got.
He gives them away. He gives them to the people around him like he’s trying to fill up all the empty spaces he lived in by making sure nobody else has to live in them.
” He clears his throat and adjusts his grip on the wheel.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. The honey bun wrapper is in my lap and the sweet tea is warm in my hands and everything Tex and Stormy have done is sitting in my chest next to all the other things I can’t speak through right now.
Tex knows. He turns up the music and we drive for a few minutes without talking and the not-talking is its own kind of conversation.
“Let’s discuss the bathroom situation,” Tex says after a bit. “Stormy’s starred location is coming up in about forty minutes. The Pilot gas station in Madison. How are you doing?”
“I could use a stop.”
“Then we stop.” He pauses. “Mickey, I need to ask you something and I need you to not be weird about it.”
“That’s a great way to guarantee I’m going to be weird about it.”
“What’s your bathroom situation? Right now. Today. In terms of what you need help with. Because I have been thinking about this for the last four days and I have prepared myself for every possible scenario up to and including physically holding your dick. If need be.”
“For fuck’s sake, Tex.”
“I’m just saying. I’ve thought about it.
I’ve mentally prepared. I watched a YouTube video about assisting wheelchair users in public restrooms. The video was seventeen minutes long and very thorough.
I now know more about accessible bathroom protocols than I ever wanted to know.
The video was narrated by a man named Doug who has been in a chair for twelve years.
Doug was very informative and also very comfortable discussing things that made me pause the video three times and look at Stormy and say ‘are we sure about this’ and Stormy said ‘yes’ every time without looking up from whatever he was doing. ”
“You seriously watched a YouTube video about helping me pee?”
“Sure did. Doug recommends a specific technique for the transfer from the chair to the toilet in a public stall. The technique involves a pivot and a grab bar and a partner standing to the side at forty-five degrees. I practiced the forty-five-degree angle in my bathroom. Stormy walked in while I was standing at forty-five degrees to the toilet with my hands positioned the way Doug demonstrated. Stormy looked at me for a full three seconds and then turned around and walked out without saying one word. To this day he hasn’t mentioned it or asked me what the hell I was doing. ”
“I don’t need you to hold my dick, Tex.”
“Are you sure? Because I know how now. I’m qualified. I’ll be careful.”
“I can manage the bathroom on my own. I’ve been doing it for weeks. The catheter’s been out for a while. I can transfer to the toilet, do my business, and transfer back. It takes me a few minutes and I need a grab bar and enough room to position the chair but I do it by myself every day at rehab.”
“You mean the Doug video was unnecessary?”
“Completely unnecessary.”
“Well damn, now I feel like Doug and I bonded for nothing. That’s seventeen minutes of my life I can’t get back. Plus, the three ads I had to sit through. That’s probably twenty-two minutes total invested in your bathroom doings and you’re telling me you can do it by yourself.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Outstanding. I’m thrilled. I’m also slightly disappointed because I was ready, Mickey.
I was ready to do whatever needed to be done.
I had a whole speech prepared about how it’s not weird and we’re best friends and I’ve seen worse and manhood is not about who holds what.
I practiced the speech in the mirror. Stormy walked in during that too.
He’s like a ghost. He has a gift for slipping in on me at my most vulnerable. ”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. He just stood in the doorway and watched me give a speech to the mirror about holding your dick and then he said ‘I think he can do it himself’ and left. He knew the whole time. He could’ve told me before I watched Doug’s video and practiced the forty-five-degree stance in my own bathroom but he chose not to because apparently letting me prepare for a situation that doesn’t exist is Stormy’s version of entertainment. ”
I burst out laughing. “God, I love Stormy.”
For the first time in the truck, I’m really laughing, the kind that makes my stomach hurt and my eyes water.
Tex is grinning beside me, pleased with himself the way he always is when he finally gets the big laugh.
The truck is doing eighty on I-10 and the pine trees are blurring past. I’m laughing about Stormy walking in on Tex rehearsing a dick-holding speech and the laughter feels so fucking good.
“The gas station’s coming up,” Tex says, pointing at the exit sign. “Stormy gave it four and a half stars. He docked half a star because one reviewer said the hand dryer was ‘aggressive.’ I don’t know what an aggressive hand dryer means but Stormy noted it.”
We take the exit. The gas station is large and clean and the parking lot has an accessible spot right next to the entrance. Tex parks, comes around, gets the wheelchair out in sixteen seconds, and I transfer from the cab to the chair.
“I’ll wait here,” Tex says, leaning against the truck with his arms crossed.
“You don’t need to wait at the truck. You can come inside. Get a coffee or something.”
“No, no. You go ahead. You’ve got bathroom autonomy. I respect it. I’ll be here. Enjoying the autonomy from a distance.”
I wheel toward the entrance. The automatic doors open and the Pilot is standard highway fare. Bright lights, snack aisles, hot dog rollers that have been rolling since dawn. I head toward the back where the restroom sign is.
The accessible stall is at the end and Stormy was right, it’s wide. The grab bars are on both sides and they’re solid. I push the door open, wheel in, and lock it behind me.