07-28-2009

Start Fiction:


     Stanley expected the man's body to pop and crack as he stood up; slowly, wincing, he stepped as though he were walking on gravel.
     How does such a young man get so old? he wondered. He wasn't much younger than the man, chronologically, but physically was a different story. He looked familiar; maybe he went to West High.
     Stanley noticed he was wearing a construction company shirt, a tank top actually. His hat bore the cliche of the physical laborer: NASCAR. His arms were tan and his face looked raw, probably from years of exposure to the Iowa elements.
     Even still, Stanley knew plenty of other construction workers, heavy construction, who were not nearly as in bad of shape. They were also not as skinny as the man, which made Stanley believe that drug abuse was suspect. Not only would that explain the weight, or lack thereof, but also, the deterioration of his body.
     In some way, Stanley felt sorry for the man. Addicts usually get the short end of the stick; labeled as degenerates, weak minded and almost shunned from mainstream society. But he had been there with alcohol, suffered the itch, the misery that accompanied the pleasure each beer, each shot.
     He also had experienced withdrawal; how physically and emotionally torn apart one goes through with aches, pains, the shakes, sweats and the panic attacks and hallucinations.
     You feel weak minded, long for a fix of your poison, as though you are in fact going out of your mind, or that you had already lost your mind.
     Stanley wondered what stage the man was going through, wondered if drug detox was more intense than alcohol. Could he help this man in some way? Did the man need or even want help?
     He looked at the man again. He was hurting; his eyes were swollen, red. His breath was short, quick. Something was going on with this guy, that was for sure.
     "Are you alright?" Stanley said. The man didn't move, staring off into space.
     "I think, he began. "I think I am having a heart attack."
     Stanley jumped to his feet and went to the man as he reached in his pocket for his cell phone.
     "How long have you been experiencing the symptoms?" he asked as he dialed 9-1-1.
     "oh, a few minutes," the man said. "Maybe ten, or so."
     "How old are you?"
     "Thirty-five."
     "Really?" Stanley said. He chatted with the dispatcher for a few minutes and hung up his phone.
     "Help is on the way," he told the man. "My name is Stanley."
     "Ross, Ross Thompson," the man said. He had a name. He was a real person.
     Stanley knew it didn't matter the mans past, his present was all he could help.


End Fiction.