foz

Holding 200 pounds of staggering dead weight, my hip settles, down
then to the right, away from some unknown creaking sting that runs
down my side into my leg meat. Some splintered bone spoked out into a
churning bloody axle.

Placing all of this man on my right, and half thinking to hip-toss him
into the car to see a doctor, I swoop under his right arm-crotch and
demand that he stand. Slung over his center and tracing the siding we
make it to the door where he begins to gurgle... then swallow. How do
I get him to lean forward without him toppling over into his own vomit
and ensuing a gritty conference with his front step? I manage to avoid
that and my own foreseen visit with his spit-up, hoisting and pinning
him against the outside of his house while handling the storm-door
propping it open with my elbow. Reaching for the door knob with the
same arm, taught fingers and a saturated patience, I see he has taken
interest in finding the door-knob himself. Causing the lean-to I had
created to lean-too far forward causing his hat to fall to the ground,
Tuscola Bank laughing at me as it stutters on its bill and settles,
properly facing us with a faded, but firm, frown...

he reaches for it, scratching the top with his soft finger nails,
giving in to the thread, a gold ring and a sagging freckled finger
redden his eyes and reflect in the sound. In this action he leaves the
door-knob unguarded. I detach my elbow from the door, reach for the
knob, the storm-door thwatches against my back side, I press the
wooden door wide open while scooting the hat out of his reach to quell
his interest in an "accidental" gesture. Besides being mmmmmostly
cooperative he was the worst bunch of grocery bags I had managed in
several years.