A Storied Man

(Click here to go back to Part Eight)

Ronnie’s nose and mouth were completely submerged by the time he managed to get a hand on the faucet. He shut off the water and pushed on the basin as hard as he could, but the man holding him was too heavy and strong. He frantically slapped both arms behind him, trying to ward off the attack.

It did no good. He still couldn’t breathe, and his glancing blows were met with curses.

“You no-good little motherfucker. Puttin’ your dick where it don’t belong.”

Outhouse? Oh shit. He thinks I had sex with Trena.

The pressure on his face increased. He lifted one foot and kicked wildly behind him, making contact but changing nothing. He held back a scream to save what was left in his lungs.

Somewhere in the room an automatic air freshener spewed its scented payload.

Ronnie tried the other foot, with the same result. I’m gonna drown. He’s drowning me. I’m gonna die in the ER bathroom.

“Stop kicking me, ya little fuck. Take this shit like a man. You should thank me. I seen other men go down worse than this.”

Just let me up and give me a chance to thank you.

The door opened.

“Hey! What’s going on here!” a man’s voice echoed.

“None of ya business. Now get lost,” Outhouse said.

“Let the kid go,” said the stranger.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

Ronnie heard quick footsteps and then a sound that reminded him of a muffled bass drum. Outhouse grunted and shifted his weight, but Ronnie still couldn’t move.

“This ain’t your business, mister,” Outhouse said.

More sounds, like a blunt object hitting a cushion, matched by grunts from Outhouse.

Is he kicking him?

Ronnie pushed off the sink again and lifted his face far enough to catch a breath before Outhouse pushed him back down.

“See? I’m too much for the both of ya. Now leave before ya really piss me off.”

One more muffled thump and Outhouse turned his attention to the stranger. Ronnie stood and staggered a few steps before slamming into a bathroom stall. As he hit the floor, he looked up to see what was happening.

A man he had never seen before, tall with gray hair pulled into a ponytail, was beating up Larry Outhouse. With hardly any effort, the stranger administered a series of kicks and punches that quickly left the fat thug lying on the floor, wheezing.

His breathing sounded unnatural. The stranger looked at Outhouse, obviously confused.

“He’s god azba,” Ronnie said. Who’s drowning now, you piece of shit? “His idhaler’s id his pockid.” He sounded stuffed up.

The stranger looked at Ronnie. “Are you going to get it, or am I?”

“You mead we hab da helb hib?”

“I won’t be responsible for his death.”

“He albost killed be!” Ronnie shouted.

“Be that as it may, he should be punished by someone other than us.”

“Well, I’b dod godda do id.”

“I guess by process of elimination that leaves me,” the stranger said.

The stranger, lanky but for his big gut, walked over and squatted down next to Outhouse, who managed a few words between labored breaths. “Fuck –” Wheeze. “Stick. I’ll kill–” Wheeze. “You.”

“I’m quaking.” Then, to Ronnie. “Okay. Let’s do this. I’ll hold him while you give him the inhaler, then you go for help.” The stranger rolled Outhouse onto his side, then pulled one of his arms behind him and used his free hand to pinch a spot between his neck and his shoulder.

“I dode thig so,” Ronnie said.

“He’s not going to move. Trust me.”

“Fuck –” Wheeze. “Off.”

Ronnie gave it a few more seconds, then slowly dragged himself across the tile, holding his bloody, battered nose with one hand as he reached into Outhouse’s pocket. Despite his hostility, Outhouse accepted the life-saving device and breathed deeply.

“I’m gonna make sure ya both get the skull-fucking of your lives.”

The stranger rolled his eyes, then looked at Ronnie. “You go on. Grab some paper towels for your nose. You’ll look like somebody who’s come to the emergency room, so nobody should react. Calmly walk to a security guard and ask him to call the police and then come here. Can you do that?”

“I thig so.”

——-

Susan was trying to ignore the toddler next to her when she heard a gasp from the direction of the restrooms. She turned to look but couldn’t see anything above the others’ heads. Near a man with a cast on his arm stood a security guard, eyes wide open. She stood to get a better look.

A boy who looked just like Ronnie strode quickly toward the guard, holding a bloodied wad of paper towels over his nose and mouth.

Oh my God. It is Ronnie.

She practically flew across the room, reaching the guard as Ronnie did. “Honey, what happened? Who did this to you?”

“Dot dow, bob,” Ronnie said.

She didn’t understand a word. “What?”

Ronnie turned to the security guard. “Call dide wad wad.”

“Excuse me?” the guard asked.

“Dide wad wad.” Against the wall, he pantomimed pushing 9-1-1 on a phone’s keypad.

“Okay, son, I get your meaning now. First, tell me what’s happening.”

“A guy attacked be. He’s id da baffroob.”

“I’m sorry, son. I’m not sure I caught all that. A guy attacked you in a bathrobe?”

Ronnie pointed. “Da baffroob! Da baffroob!”

The guard turned to a receptionist. “Get Reynolds to send the nearest squad car. And, please expedite this boy’s care.”

“He’s not a patient,” the receptionist said.

“Well, you probably ought to get him started on some forms,” the guard said.

“I’m his mother. I’ll do it.” Susan said.

My baby. What the hell have you got yourself into?

“You go with your mom, son. I’ll go assess the situation.”

As the guard started off for the restrooms, Susan and Ronnie found the nearest chairs. Susan tried to get more information out of Ronnie, but he just kept pointing to his face and waving her off.

“Cad tawg,” he said.

“Can’t talk?” Susan asked. “Just tell me. Do you know who did this?”

He nodded. “Treeda’s dad.”

“Outhouse! That bastard. I’ll kill him.” She controlled her urge to get up and follow the security guard.

Instead, for the second time that night, she put her arm around her son and let him cry on her shoulder. Different from the first time, however, he wept quietly.

Why does he have to face the real world? Why can’t I just sweep him away to a mountain cabin and live in peace?

——-

“Oh, my dear girl. I wish you could tell us what happened. We only know that you were with the Batson boy.”

Ronnie didn’t tell them? What did he tell them?

“Your father — ”

He’s not my father.

“is just beside himself. He’s so upset that you got hurt. He would be here right now, but I think he needed a private moment.”

He’s real good at ‘private moments,’ Mom.

She wanted to tell her mom to get her a pen and some paper, but she couldn’t even move her hand to make the sign. She could move her eyes, twitch her nose. Did that mean she could talk once they pulled out that miserable breathing tube? God, I hope so.

She lay there, cold but unable to tell anybody. Hurting but unable to ask for relief. According to the clock on the wall, her pain had been back for about 10 minutes, at a level several notches below what she felt right after her fall. It was enough to keep her awake, but not enough to make her pass out.

A nurse walked into the room. “Hello, Trena. Nice to see those brown eyes. Excuse me, Mrs. Outhouse, but it seems you’re needed in the ER waiting room.”

Needed? Who needs her? Him? Please, Mom, don’t leave me here alone. I love you, Mom. Please stay here.

Despite looking straight into Trena’s eyes, her mother didn’t seem to get the message.

As she watched her mother follow the nurse out of the room, she thought back to the first time her life was turned upside-down.

They had just joined the program, thanks to the asshole her mother married. They left all their friends to move to a new town, where asshole promised they would start fresh. “Things are gonna be different,” he told them.

And they were, at first.

(continue to Part 10)

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