It all started with a short drive to meet my husband Nolan at his boss Alfred’s house. It was party season, and we had been to many parties, almost every weekend since Thanksgiving. I had taken to forgetting the exact occasion for the gatherings, even the ones that I celebrate like Hanukkah. So I left the bank to begin the short drove over to Alfred’s to be involved in another party, this one was for Christmas. Of that, I think, I was sure.

I knew the path to Alfred’s house well, and tried to get in a cigarette before I arrived. I reached for the pack inside my purse and one-armed the turn into Alfred’s driveway. I had the car cigarette lighter in my hand when I opened the car door and let a freezing breeze blow in. The breeze unexpectedly went up my skirt causing a slight drop in the burning lighter, which singed a slight hole in my skirt. The word shit made an unconscious appearance while I swiftly paddled out the embers and put the lighter back.

Nolan had been at the party since the early afternoon. He was busy working the crowd when I walked in. He was having a good time after several drinks and we spoke quickly while I went into the kitchen for food and seated myself next to Alfred’s secretary Lila for some good holiday conversation.

Suddenly, the front door swung open and this spectacular woman walked in. She sauntered in with a silky walk and phenomenal pair of shoes. Behind her, a cold breeze whipped in taking over the room, freezing most of us where we stood. But there she was. And she stopped the party, one person at a time. Everyone stared and those who weren’t staring were nudging someone to sneak a head turn to get a good look at both of her beautiful sides.

She slowly walked to the center of the party. Her white shirt tightly tucked in, a black skirt that fit her smartly. She placed her arm across the top of her head; her hip dipped down to make her look sexy. I could see Nolan looking at her. He stood frozen in his gaze, his stare using a sly eye. The framed picture of a black crow stood prominently on the wall just behind Nolan, and as he turned to speak, it looked like the crow would speak. His black hair and eyes opened wide, his beak set to squawk silhouetting the crows. But, of course, it didn’t.

“It was obvious he didn’t have any coffee in his cup, yet, he pretended to drink it. I hate it when they do that in the movies,” Nolan said to Alfred who was standing and looking at Nolan, but obviously not listening to him. Poor Nolan, his mouth and words were moving, grappling at making sense of a conversation devoid of his eyes and brain. They were busy staring at her pose, which she managed to sustain, sweeping all of her blonde hair to the left. I supposed that she thought it looked good.

Unlike Alfred, or the tall blonde, it seemed Nolan always had on a messy suit and tie. He always wore dark colors with ties only one shade up, my Nolan Crimson. He chose off-white shirts under a wrinkled linen sport coat. Funny that he was handsome under the brown bag look, very bookish. He reminded me of Al Pacino pacing back and forth yelling, “Attica! Attica!” And she did look back at him. As interested as she was in making sure her hair stayed in place – she did look back at Nolan, and he knew it.

Nolan walked over and said to me, “my ankle hurts from playing racquetball today. I stepped on it wrong and now it really hurts.” He showed me where the swelling was by moving it around, “You see?” he pointed.
“Yes, I see that,” I say, “and her…”
“Why can’t I look? It’s just a look, why don’t you ever flip your hair around?” Nolan asks.
I was startled at Nolan’s indication that I try to be like her: startled. Of course, the look was all over my face, “…with all proper care, of course,” he said with a wink, “…to your vanity.”

I should have known that Nolan would want me to do a similar pose just for something funny or something sexual and seriously sick. He knew he was caught looking at her, so taken and distracted by her, voluptuous sight. I laughed at the thought of me moving about a room of men, known and unknown, colleagues and others. Suddenly stricken to throw my hair around and wear my dangerous means on the outside. But I thought seriously about doing it for Nolan and for a laugh.

Nolan smiled and walked away. He went over to the fireplace wall and stood by a sleeping cat in a high back chair and continued his conversation with Alfred. They spoke candidly with laugher on both ends even though I know Nolan hates his boss. Nolan was telling him about his racquetball incident as he was twisting his foot around. Alfred listened although I know Alfred hates to play racquetball.

Leaning forward to hide behind a pillar dividing the living room from the dining room, I unbuttoned my shirt and managed to pull my bra down until some skin popped out. Then there was an easy moment of walking into Nolan’s sight, where he could see the new me. I had taken my long brown hair down from the hair clip, the clip I’d worn to work, and sipped my gin and tonic while leaning against my hip. It was about as sexy as I could manage without laughing.

It took a minute but Nolan finally saw me. He looked strangely, and then the shock seeped into his alcohol spiked brain. He poured over the sight of me, slowly. Then a smile came to his face, over Alfred’s shoulder, a stunned smile came across his face. I moved my hips back and forth for a “stripper” effect – and then – I fell off my black high heel shoes.

The pain instantly went up my calf and across my heel. I bent down and grabbed my calf and then tried to stretch out the pain by bending the heel back and forth causing strikes of excruciating pain from my knee to my toes. It stopped hurting but the damage was done. Nolan came across the room and saw my familiar stance.

“It hurts like a brush fire raging up your leg, huh, Georgia?” he said as he bent down to look at my calf.
“Yes, shit,” I said.

I buttoned my blouse-up and clipped my hair; it’s always practical to have it up. Nolan smiled as he saw me button the blouse. “I must look like a freak show,” I said while I limped towards the front door, “this is embarrassing. Who’d-a-thought I’d leave with a better limp than yours,” I whispered to Nolan as he helped me put my dark coat on.

Out we slowly walked from the party, into the night, to go home. Nolan took my hand as I gingerly limped on my left foot and used my right one to stand accidentally on Nolan’s toes.

“Ow,” he said and as he winced and jerked his foot, back and I echoed him, “Ouch.”

Our words bit at the night. It bounced off the walls and into the darkness fading into what sounded like a baby’s cry. I was leaning against Nolan completely for support. His face was full of pain, his blue eyes strained, body trying to limp and carry me at the same time.

Nolan said, “Time to go home and get out the Ben-Gay.”

For the last several days at home both Nolan and I sat on the couch with our feet up on the ottoman. It was as crazy to us as it was to the doctor who x-rayed our feet. Both of us had small fractures in our heels, both of us had casts on our legs that stopped just below the knee. Both of us were in very bad moods while we sat like prisoners on the couch. We hadn’t been this close in a long time – this close in our doings, emotions and proximity both of us together a lot lately. I noted our frustrations, more than once, “The only words you use lately are: no and don’t.”

Our time was hard, but hurt less and less. It was now a matter of time before we could put weight on our toes and remove this humiliation and be rid of this heartless couch. At times even the fuel needed to change the television channel was costly as baseball started annoying me as only a slow meaningless game can. Nolan cleared his throat to indicate to me that he didn’t want to discuss the television options, as there were no options, only baseball.

“That movie Goat on a Cliff is on…” I noted.
“I saw the guide and time,” Nolan stared at his watch, “there’s only…one…second left of the movie. I think that means you missed it.”

The torture is infinite – but never to far beyond those willing to worship at the church of the pain medication. So we began the pain meds dance. We put all the pill bottles on top of the television cabinet, directly in front of us, and mulled over life and time in relation to the last pill we took.

“Oprah’s on. It must be time for me to take a pill,” Nolan said.

Almost every time after Nolan took a pill, he’d drift off to sleep. Most times I’d run my hand through his hair, like I was petting a cat and recalled his ponderous movements when he rock climbs or his sway as he avoids the barking dogs on the street. It was like having the perfect head cold, one where you continue taking the NyQuil long after its ended.

As soon as he woke up the baseball game was on. We started playing baseball in the front room after Nolan insisted on tossing the empty pill bottles around. We were adlibbing the impromptu game, a sort-of baseball salad. This means we were cheating, winning and running with hops and skips around the living room as we hit the gin too soon after taking the pain meds. As we continued the game of toss, Nolan chose to call his team the Battery Acids because it described the way his butt felt after sitting for so many days.

Nolan tossed the pill bottles in his shorts and under t-shirt while I still contemplated the name of my team. “Why not the Bed Heads,” Nolan suggested. After that my tosses became faster and directly pitched at Nolan’s head. He immediately responded with a quicker tossing pace and one aimed directly at my head. I hobbled back a step or two with only inches between me and the laundry stacked on the living room floor. When I backed up from Nolan I was closer to the windows and front door. I instantly noticed a cold breeze coming in from the old window sashes and threshold of the door. I shivered in response and said, “Let’s turn up the radiator.” “That’s it,” Nolan shouted while catching a fast flying bottle, “that’s your team’s name, Turn up the Radiators.”

Nolan hobbled over and grabbed the cordless phone and hit the pill bottle with it, across the room well into the dining room. I ran after the bottle that was sliding across the hard wood floor and had to reach under the dining room table to get it. “You can’t do that,” I yelled, “foul ball, foul ball!”

“Home run! The mighty Nolan has gone and done it again! Home run, listen to the roaring crowd, their going insane over his daring good looks and rippling biceps,” Nolan said, “I win! I win!”

Of course, he leaped into the chair yelling, “safe,” as he landed. This only because I was limping closer, with the bottle in my bra, so I could use both crutches. So I challenged the Battery Acids to another round as they were well ahead of the Turn up the Radiators and we are a competitive, undefeated team.

Nolan got up and hobbled over with his one crutch, swung the telephone, hit the bottle and before I knew it, he was behind me and on his way to second base.
“You’re out at home, for sure,” I said.
“Crazy woman thinks she can get me,” Nolan said as he pushed the stack of laundry aside with his one crutch to stall me.

Nolan tried to short cut the trip by going around the television cabinet and up the landing and back around, in an attempt to beat me to the lounge chair. Well, he did. He got there first. And sat waiting for my late arrival. I would have been there if I hadn’t tripped over the electric cord attached to the video game box on the coffee table.

I fell toward Nolan who was holding a make-believe mitt and braced for my slide into home plate. He was looking straight at me, smiling, with a huge smashing grin that – I smashed on impact. I felt the pull of the cord, slightly touch my good foot and tried to hold off from pulling the x-box completely off the coffee table. So, I let up on the momentum, which caused me to fall like a domino directly on top of Nolan.

The horror is always behind the reality once you realize it’s real, and the shitty is in the sound. Really when you collide heads with others it doesn’t hurt, it just feels stupid, more than it hurts.

“There are only two sounds in the world I hate,” I said clutching the broad side of my head. “The sound of crunching metal and the sound of something hitting against my head, shit.”

I turned to see Nolan writhing on the ground. He turned to look up and there was blood splattered around his nose, “fuck,” he repeated, over and over. I gasped when I saw my head smashed into Nolan’s nose – and broke it.

Back in the hospital after the x-ray, the doctor said to Nolan, “Maybe you should stick to being an accountant and not a ball player.”

Georgia Crimson, Part II Tomorrow