The great man eased into his settee and lifted his affected leg onto a footstool. Anxious nurse wannabes flitted about, eager to be dispatched to satisfy his every whim. The parade of visitors started around 12:30 pm which, of course, happened to neatly coincide with the start of NFL football on Stu's big screen TV. For every guest, he was made to answer the same inquiry as to his general health.

"Yes, I'm fine. No, the leg doesn't hurt as much. Yes, they think the blood clot is nearly gone / cleared. Yes, I'm still taking copious amounts of expensive perscription narcotics. No, I can't have any beer or cigars."

There was a general consensus that all smoking and drinking was to be done outside of the house, so as not to lead Stu down the road of temptation. I watched with amusement as guests herded outdoors to light up, and popped a beer for myself.

Stu looked over rather sadly and remarked, "Well, at least I can count on you to not treat me like an invalid. Uh, is that cold beer?"

Wouldn't have it any other way, pal. Enjoy your water.

After spending a day torturing his wife with his surliness he couldn't take it anymore. Called me up on the road and begged for a rescue operation. As a matter of fact he called three times, and I went over more as a defensive gesture than anything. Lord knows my phone rings often enough these days. Arrived at 5 pm, just in time to start my evening shift. Which was preceeded by my 7 am morning shift

Understand now, the man isn't supposed to be anywhere near sharp objects. One good cut, with the amount of blood thinner running through him, could be disasterous. Not to mention messy. So his wife purchased two pair of high quality leather gloves for the man known as Stonehands. He modeled them for her on the way out to the truck. And promptly tossed them on the dash when I turned the corner.

We dashed out to the Taiwanese Resturant in the Strip Mall to install a couple of vanity tops in the bathrooms. Normally, this operation would elicit little more than a huge yawn from Stu. He and I both could do this blindfolded.

He bounded from the truck and eagerly watched as I began to remove materials. After listening to him pleading to help for a minute, I handed him a piece of cleat about two feet long.

"There ya go. Make like Fred Sanford and haul that sucker in there."

He looked wounded. Hurt, even. But he gravely took his prize and carried it in.

He hovered over my shoulder as I swiftly ran screws through cleat into wall. Chirped unneeded advice as I leveled the thing off. Danced around with glee as I slid the top between two walls with that satisfying little rush of air that signaled a bone tight fit. By the time I tossed the drill back in the toolbox he was positively giddy.

So I squared up and looked him in the eye and asked, "You sure you're feeling okay?"

"Never better."

I took him by the watering hole and ordered up a nice cold ice tea for him. Come to think of it, I even picked up the tab.

previous - next 0 comments so far