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Wednesday, September 18, 2013

The Fat Man Made Me Do It

I’m blaming it on the fat man.  I mean, the scrawny man with the glasses is not at fault here.  He’s just the reason I ended up on what was making do for a dance floor.   

Colonel Bruce was jamming it up at Coastal Kitchen on Saturday night so Marnie and I went to hear him and his band.  Old Bruce was singing and playing that guitar of his and laying his soul out for all to see and we were hanging out on the porch just dancing with ourselves.

Then I saw the scrawny man with the glasses dancing all alone right in front of the bandstand.  He started pleading with a table of stuck-up women to come out there with him but they didn’t have any time for him.

Okay, I might have been wanting to dance with a live person pretty bad.  So I went down where he was and started shaking my moneymaker.  He was jumping around like a chicken but he would occasionally swing me around.

I guess the fat man didn’t want to miss out on the action because before long he appeared out of nowhere and stepped out there with us and started grinding his rather abundant booty around and waving his arms, kind of like a hippo on speed.  Jesus.  I was dancing in a zoo.   

I swear to God I was not gyrating hard enough to throw anything of joint.  I swear.  The pavement was uneven and when the fat man lost his rhythm while we were doing a sort of bump thing, I stepped on a brick and threw out my right hip.  I felt the crunch.

Embarrassed and not wanting to look like an old lady who couldn’t dance a little while without injuring some body part, I stayed with it for about a minute more.  I have to say the pain pretty much took my heart out of it.  My hip was screaming at me to stop so I did and after a while Marnie and I came on home.  We were both tired and I needed to put some ice on my hip and pray nothing was broken.  I worried that I might be dragging her away from the band but she insisted she was ready to leave.

I didn’t sleep much.  My hip was hurting pretty bad and I couldn’t get comfortable.  Honey was outdone with me for flopping around from side to side all night and she settled at the foot of the bed instead of on the pillow next to me where she usually sleeps.  Who could blame her?  A dog deserves a little peace and quiet in the middle of the night.

Sunday morning finally came and I got up and made some coffee and looked in the phone book for the number of the urgent care place that is so conveniently located about half a block from here.  I called and found out they didn’t open until twelve o’clock and then waited and watched the clock until noon.  I somehow found out I could walk without a lot of pain if I flailed my right leg (the injured one) way out to the side.  It wasn’t pretty, really looked like I had something shoved up my ass, but it worked.  I tried a cane and it helped some but not like the leg flailing thing. 

Marnie took me over to urgent care and while I was waiting she went to the nail salon to fetch my iPad.  I left it the other day when I got a manicure.  That’s the kind of thing I do all the time - leave my important stuff around town.  I have to do business with people I can trust.  I once left my debit card at The Players Club in Macon.  They all just sighed and put it in a safe place for me.

When I got in to see the doctor he ordered an x-ray and I am pleased to report that nothing is broken, which is not to say that nothing hurts.  The doctor explained to me that I have a severe hip sprain, probably some damage to the muscles and tendons.  Hell, I didn’t know a person could sprain a hip.  An ankle, yes.  A hip, no.

So he gave me a prescription for some pain pills and muscle relaxers and said if I were not a whole lot better in four days I should come back and pick up my x-rays and he would send me to an orthopedist.  He said I should rest in bed as much as possible.  It wasn’t hard to follow his instructions.  Every time I took a step I wanted to scream. 

Here it is Tuesday night and I have to say if it weren’t for the pain pills I would have pulled out all of my hair by now.  I can actually walk without the flail and be pretty comfortable but when the drugs wear off, the pain starts up again.  There’s a down side to those pills, though.  They make me nauseated and itchy.  My nose is red from me scratching it.  My skin feels hyper-sensitive and itches too.  I’m foggy in my brain and slow to react.  I can’t think of any reason anyone would want to take Lortab for fun.  

Tomorrow afternoon I’m supposed to go to Brunswick and pick up Stanley and take him off to a pub so we can have a proper visit. I haven't seen him in over ten years and I intend to keep that date.  Ever since I talked to him on the phone the other afternoon, I’ve been excited about seeing him.  

Stanley Booth is a writer of some note, having written Rythm Oil: A Journey Through The Music Of The American South, not to mention The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones, which has been translated into just about every language and remains popular since its release in 1985.  It was re-released last year.  Also last year, he received a lifetime achievement award from the Smithsonian honoring his work.  There are other books as well and he has written articles for GQ and Rolling Stone just to mention two well respected magazines who have published his work.

He’s about the best story teller I ever knew, and the idea of missing an afternoon with him because of this fucking dancing injury is out of the question.  I will be there.  Stanley will talk and I will listen and forget about my hip for a while. 


Sue said...

Have fun with your writer friend. And get well soon.


Ujjvala said...

Ah, your own inimitable style of slapstick! I was grinning the whole time. Except for maybe 2-3 too many "dances" in the first couple of paragraphs, this blog was smooth as silk. The dance in a zoo and the leg flailing will stay with me...:)

Love, Ujjvala

Claudia Schlottman said...

Thanks, Ujjvala! Good eye! I made a few changes and think it reads better now. It's great to have someone out there keeping me true to my own style.