Divine Intervention
written by: Sharon Frame Gay
@sharonframegay
If you like underdogs, I’m your man. Seems like everything I do is a day late and a dollar short. When I get to the right place, it’s the wrong time.
So here I am, sitting in the lobby at the Veteran’s hospital, missing a leg, an ear, and most of my soul.
I went to Viet Nam reluctantly. That’s the day late, dollar short shit again. “I ain’t no Senator’s son,” as the song goes. Far from it. I grew up on a farm in Kentucky. Barely made it through high school. The Draft was waiting to grab my young body and drag me from the rolling fields of bluegrass to the rice paddies of Nam.
If you saw a photo of me arriving in Da Nang back in the Sixties, you’d be hard-pressed to pick me out of the crowd. We looked alike in our uniforms and shaved heads, already homesick as we stepped off the planes. I was just one more potential body bag in a meaningless war I didn’t understand, and still don’t.
As luck would have it, and I say this sarcastically, I got blown up my first week over there. Yep, that’s right. I was a rookie kid, wet behind the ears, walking behind another tenderfoot who tripped a wire and we both went flying. I woke up missing half a leg. The other guy didn’t wake up.
I thrashed in pain as someone tied a rag around my thigh. I remember him muttering “Jesus Christ” over and over. Only Jesus didn’t show up that day. Neither did my leg. I like to think it hopped straight to heaven, where it’s dancing the jig by itself up there like a drunk Leprechaun.
The rest is a blur. A medic arrived and gave me a shot. The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed back in Da Nang. I’ll be damned if my mangled ear didn’t hurt more than the missing leg. It throbbed like hell and rang like church bells in a Baptist town. I was so busy concentrating on the pain, I didn’t have time to mourn anything else.
That came later. I soaked up the grief by pouring vodka, whiskey and beer all over it. As soon as they released me from the hospital, I got drunk as a fool, and didn’t stop that day until the jagged edges of sorrow softened. I still haven’t stopped, even when they said my liver’s shot to hell now, too.
That’s why I’m here in the medical center, waiting for my ride home. The doctors wanted to see me because my blood work came back wonky. No more drinking, they said, or you’ll die. Then they left me alone to digest the bad news and talk to a social worker.
So here I am with a bunch of papers in my lap, clutching the sides of the chair because my head is pounding, and life has taken another turn. Maybe I’ll follow my leg into the Universe soon.
I can’t help but wonder why all of this should matter anymore. I’m weary just thinking about it. Maybe it’s time to give up, I say to myself. Surrender. Except for one thing. There’s one thing that’s kept me going, and the only reason I push forward.
She’s walking through the big double doors right now. Casts her eyes about the lobby until they find me. Then they light up. Yeah, that’s right. They fucking light up, and my heart sings.
“It was bad up there,” I whisper in her ear when she comes to me, warm breath on my neck. I fold my arms around her. “I’m scared to death,” I admit.
She kisses the side of my face and wags her tail. My buddy Mike holds her by the leash and says “Come on, Dan, it’s time to go home.”
He helps me out of the chair and I poke along with my spindly fake leg. Misty, my dog, walks beside me, as gentle and easy as summer.
Home. Mike says it’s so nice, but the fact is, it’s a shithole. I live in a tiny apartment in a mediocre part of town. It’s supplemented by the government, and filled with heartache, junk and dirty sheets. Misty’s bed’s in the corner, but she sleeps with me at night. The cupboards are empty, except for a bottle of whiskey, a box of stale crackers, and a few chipped dishes.
There’s an old plaid recliner and a used television in the living room. That’s where Misty and I spend our days. She’s trained to get things for me, pull open drawers, things like that. But I’ll be honest and say she’s mostly here to keep me company. Here to keep me from jumping out a window or swallowing a bullet. I trust my dog. She knows everything about me. I tell her all my worries, and she still wants to hang out with me.
The thought of me dying, and somebody taking her out of this apartment and placing her somewhere else fills me with terror. I’m seventy years old. Misty’s eight. I’m determined to outlive her, so I never have to worry about where she might end up without me. I promise you with a fierce heart, nobody on earth could love her like I do.
She came into my life six years ago. Her registered name is Miss Divine, but I call her Misty. I introduce her to people we meet on the street by her full name, though, proper and cordial. My heart swells with pride when children walk over and pat her on the head. She stands there like a goddess. Everybody talks about how beautiful she is. The joy I get from hearing it takes up the space where my empty leg was.
She’s from a therapy dog foundation for disabled veterans. It’s been the only thing I’ve ever followed through on in my whole life. I went to the classes, worked hard and did everything right. Even cut back on the drinking. I passed all the requirements, and one day they brought Misty in to meet me. They said we were a perfect match for each other. I thought so, too. We worked together at the facility for weeks before I earned the right to keep her. The first night I brought her home, I sat and cried, I was that happy. She walked over, rested her sweet head on my knee, and saved me.
Every morning, I drag my scrawny ass out of bed and limp with Misty to the park across the street. She depends on me for everything. Her water. Food. Brushing her long, golden fur so it doesn’t cramp up with knots. And believe me, I do it up fine. I wash her dishes every single day. Buy the best dog food on the market, even if I have to scrimp. Groom her each morning until she shimmers.
Misty rolls over on her back and gazes at me with soft eyes, and it’s as good as talking to God. I tell her about all the years before she met me, and how sad it was.
I couldn’t hold down any job for long. Lost my wife and son because of the drinking and despair. They don’t want much to do with me now. I can’t blame them. For years, I peered at life through bottles dark with remorse and bitter with shame, cut off from them in a prison of my own making. The last I heard, Sheila remarried and is living in Arkansas, and our son Todd graduated from college and took a job out west. I see glimpses of them in Christmas cards, sentences hastily scrawled in a cold hand.
I’ve disappointed everybody that ever stepped in front of me, or tried to help. Doctors, family members, the U.S. Government. Even the soldier that walked ahead of me in ‘Nam. I’ve been rubbing up against that day for decades now. We were both only nineteen years old. I’m haunted by thoughts. Maybe there was some way I could have saved him. Saved us. Every day I wish I’d done better with my life, so his didn’t end in vain. I look in the mirror and guilt stares back.
I’m not a bad guy. But I can’t seem to open up to the world. Be vulnerable. I harbored plans for the future before I went off to Nam. There were girlfriends, and the farm, and my parents. But afterwards, there was a wall between me and everybody. A wall I built with bottles and cans, hiding myself away from those who wanted to help.
Nowadays they call it PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There’s a label for that hollowed out feeling in your soul that needs to be filled with something before you eat yourself up from the inside out. An explanation for the fear and anxiety that jabs at me. A name for those nightmares I have, the ones where I lose my other leg. Dreams take me down to that jungle again and again. I hear the sounds of war all around, even though the only noise in the apartment is the ticking of an old clock by the bed, and Misty’s gentle snores.
Yesterday was payday. My skimpy check arrived in the bank account, and I high-tailed it down to the local Safeway. Put a little food in the basket, and a lot of booze. My favorites. A six pack of beer, a bottle of vodka, some whiskey and even a pint of gin. It took a big bite out of my money. Then I tossed in a few bags of dog treats. And a pack of cigarettes, even though I haven’t smoked in years. Bought a lighter, too, one with the American flag on it.
As soon as I got home, I lit up, sucked down some smoke, coughed and choked. Put it out under running water in the sink, then soaked the entire pack. Tossed it all in the trash. Misty wandered over and sniffed at it, wrinkled her nose, and went back to her bed.
Then one by one, I opened each can, every bottle of booze, and set it on the counter. Gazed at them for a long time. Inhaled their aroma like a sommelier in a fine restaurant. Poured some vodka in my hands and rubbed it all over my face, the way you’d caress a woman.
Then I poured every lovin’ ounce down the drain. Heard it fizz and gurgle its way through the pipes, me crying like a little kid who just lost his mother.
A nice lady at the Veteran’s hospital called around last week and found a rehab place that will take Misty, too. The lady told them I can’t function without her, and that’s God’s own truth. She said Misty was my therapy dog, turned it into a sob story, which I guess it is. The facility said yes, and that made all the difference. Hope lit up the dark corners of the room and spoke to me in my good ear.
I’ve tossed a few things in a beat-up suitcase with broken locks, and packed up Misty’s brush, dishes, and food. Stuffed it all in an old shopping cart I took from the Walmart parking lot last spring, the wheels rusted and wobbly.
Then Misty and I will get ready, wander over to the park this afternoon, and wait for Mike to pick us up.
- Divine Intervention - November 3, 2024
- Rooster Tail - June 2, 2024
- Second Sight - February 11, 2024
