Long Story Long!

Buckle up, this could take a moment.

Retta was waiting outside the pain center—another doctor's appointment paid for through a service. So, you know there will be no tip. That's ok, I get a lot of these while driving during the week.

I started with my usual banter.

"Well, how's your day going?" 

That was the starter's pistol, and she began a race in which I was a poor competitor. 

"I'm done with these guys," she said. "I've been coming here for a year and all they do is stab me with shots. I keep telling them my back is killing me, and they just keep using medicines with names I can never understand. I'm like their experimental pin cushion!"

I knew the ride was to last about forty-five minutes. I also knew I would not be granted more than a phrase or two during our ride. Those were limited to: "I'm so sorry to hear that" and "I'll keep you in my prayers. I hope things improve for you soon!"

"I'm done with them. I'm never going back, and I told them so! I'm going back to my chiropractor. He's the only one who's ever had any success with my pain and all my swellin'."

She was graphically describing the aforementioned swellin' when her phone rang.

"That's my little sister. She's callin' me from prison." 

(I'm always taken aback when folks keep the speaker function on while taking private calls. It does make a ride interesting, though.)

"When you getting outa there?"

Her sister replied, "I be out in December. It's a little longer than I thought."

"You musta done something wrong. You told me you were gettin' out in November. You sound like you on those prison drugs - the way you talkin'"

"I ain't causin' no trouble, and I ain't on no drugs."

The prison only allocates time for talking through a prepaid phone service. They must have reached the limit. 

"I'll call you later," said my rider. The call ended.

"I know my sister. She don't ever talk that slow. She's on them prison drugs. That happens when she acts up in there."

We were only starting.

"We're going to my place now, but for several months, I had to move in with my brother Milton, because of my sickness. He had this ne'er-do-well friend living there. Pete was nice enough and worked at the same place as my brother. He was livin' in the streets, and my brother let him stay at his place."

"We lived near a bar with pool tables. Pete was a beer drinkin', gamblin' fool who lost his paycheck to those guys in the bar. Milton and Pete would get into arguments. One night, Pete got into my brother's face, and Milton laid him out with one punch."

"We kept watchin' him close to make sure he was still breathin'. He woke up and Milton told him he had to leave. He could go back to sleepin' under the bridge for all we cared."

"He gathered his few things and started walkin' outside. I heard Pete calling the police. We waited outside for them to come. Milton had spent thirteen years in prison, and he knew better than to run." 

"Pete was obviously the problem. Even the police could see that. They took him to jail. After a few weeks, Pete asked to come back to my brother's house. He let him come back after I had gotten better. I was back at my own house, so it wasn't my problem anymore. It won't last, trust me."

"I have other brothers, but none of them come around. I raised my sister's kids until they were grown."

"My house is the one up there on the left, past that ol' beat-up truck. I'm gonna get in there, get my pain medicine, eat something, and relax. I ain't never going back to them damn doctors...fillin' me up with all them drugs. I'm going back to my chiropractor. That's the only way I can get down the swellin'!"

My turn. "Well, I'll keep you in my prayers. You've got a lot on your table. Hope you get better soon!"

"Thanks for the ride. Have a nice day! You drive careful now. There's a lot of crazy folks out there!"

Yes, yes, there are! 

God Bless,

Tommy