After Doc takes X-rays, he announces, "Sorry to say, Gordy, but you have four fractured ribs, not one."
"Am I going to live?"
Doc smiles. "Yes, Gordy, you'll live."
After he wraps bandages around my torso tighter than a Python that's more than interested in swallowing me whole, it no longer hurts to breathe. I tell you it's darned near impossible to breathe. Doc returns me and one large X-ray home where Mother and Dork are in the kitchen, talking. Those two are like two peas in a pod.
"Gordy has four fractured ribs," Doc announces. He waits and shoots a glare at Mother. Then, he continues, "If the authorities find out about this, it won't be good for you or for my medical practice."
"Who's going to tell the authorities?" she demands.
"I told Gordy not to tell anyone. Not anyone. And he promised. Right, Gordy?"
I nod tearfully.
Doc then tells Mother, "I'll let you talk to the other kids."
Dork's grinning as he's taking it all in. Dork's not his real name. It's what I call him. He's my older brother, born nearly three and one-half years before me.
If Dork doesn't top the all-time A-hole list, I'd be awfully surprised to discover that his name's not there, with a couple of stars after it. Definitely, I'd be knocked for a loop. That's for certain.
Ever since I was four and Dork was seven and a-half, I've been the taller and heavier brother. Which upsets him. He doesn't say so. I just know it by the way he acts. And by the looks of him, he knows I know.
Besides being an all-time A-hole, Dork's a Mama's Boy, to boot. And he's the biggest brown-nose kid I've ever had the displeasure of knowing. He chooses his buddies whose fathers are lawyers or insurance salesmen or a JC Penney's manager. My buddies' fathers are laborers who either work in Consolidated paper mill or Preway stove factory in town. Thing is, I've got to live in the same house as Dork. Not a good thing.
"There are patients waiting for me," says Doc who leaves. I hear the Oldsmobile's engine roar to life.
In the kitchen, it's quiet as a tomb. There we are, the three of us. Dork stands there, arms akimbo. "Mother, isn't it true that boys Gordy's age who still wet the bed end up in insane asylums?"
It's the same Dork question each and every week. And it's always asked in my presence. You just have to believe me when I say it's not a question. It's a Dork statement of fact.
"I believe you're right," says Mother. Which is how she always answers.
I face Dork head on. "You don't know what—"
The tape halts me mid-sentence. I take in more air.
"—you're talking about." There aren't any insane—" Inhale.
"—asylums nowadays. Psychiatrists closed them." Inhale.
"There are only mental hospitals."
"Yeah," says Dork, "for nut-bags like you."
"You're a nut-bag."
Dork glares and half closes his eyelids. "Kids who pee their beds just about every night are definitely nut-bags." Then, he turns to face her. "Aren't they, Mother?"
"I believe so," she says, looking straight at me.
"Am I really your son?" I ask.
The next moment, I'm thinking of mounting the Schwinn and riding it to City Hall, that is, if I can ride the bike with these tight bandages. I'll pay Chief Exner a visit. I'll lay that X-ray on top of his desk. He'll take a look. "What's this?" asks the chief.
"It's an X-ray," I say.
"Well, I see that. Oh, yes, you're one of Doc's kids, aren't you? But why did you bring this X-ray to me?"
"Because you're the chief of police. That's why. It's an X-ray of my four broken ribs. Did you hear, my broken ribs? My mother kicked me hard enough to do the damage."
I think she can see the pictures in my mind because Mother no longer looks at me. She turns to face the sink.
Dork's at it again. "They have insane asylums, don't they Mother?'
"Um-hmm," she says. Which means yes.
If I wasn't hurting so much, I'd slug Dork.
Whenever we fight, he always wins. Besides being the family reject, I don't have the killer instinct. Dork has the killer instinct, big time. He'll keep pounding on me even after I yell, "I give."
When I'm on top, I just want to hold him there, hoping he'll give. I'm sitting on his chest. My knees are on his shoulders. I can't hit him but I tell him to give.
"No," he screams. Ugh. What a stink. He's got bad breath. Halitosis. Smells like a sewer. But he won't give up. Eventually, I give him time for his strength to return. Then, he flips me off and gets on top and pounds away.
"I give," I call out.
"No, you don't," Dork insists. He keeps pounding away. That's when I wish I had the killer instinct. Truth is, I'm all worn out. And if I'm honest, I have to admit he wins each and every fight, fair and square.
In everything I do, Dork tries to upstage me. He's got that short guy problem. You know. It's a complex. Whenever I picture him when he's not around, I see him with a hand stuffed inside his shirt. He's riding a horse. Just like his undersized Frog hero, Napoleon.
"Am I going to live?"
Doc smiles. "Yes, Gordy, you'll live."
After he wraps bandages around my torso tighter than a Python that's more than interested in swallowing me whole, it no longer hurts to breathe. I tell you it's darned near impossible to breathe. Doc returns me and one large X-ray home where Mother and Dork are in the kitchen, talking. Those two are like two peas in a pod.
"Gordy has four fractured ribs," Doc announces. He waits and shoots a glare at Mother. Then, he continues, "If the authorities find out about this, it won't be good for you or for my medical practice."
"Who's going to tell the authorities?" she demands.
"I told Gordy not to tell anyone. Not anyone. And he promised. Right, Gordy?"
I nod tearfully.
Doc then tells Mother, "I'll let you talk to the other kids."
Dork's grinning as he's taking it all in. Dork's not his real name. It's what I call him. He's my older brother, born nearly three and one-half years before me.
If Dork doesn't top the all-time A-hole list, I'd be awfully surprised to discover that his name's not there, with a couple of stars after it. Definitely, I'd be knocked for a loop. That's for certain.
Ever since I was four and Dork was seven and a-half, I've been the taller and heavier brother. Which upsets him. He doesn't say so. I just know it by the way he acts. And by the looks of him, he knows I know.
Besides being an all-time A-hole, Dork's a Mama's Boy, to boot. And he's the biggest brown-nose kid I've ever had the displeasure of knowing. He chooses his buddies whose fathers are lawyers or insurance salesmen or a JC Penney's manager. My buddies' fathers are laborers who either work in Consolidated paper mill or Preway stove factory in town. Thing is, I've got to live in the same house as Dork. Not a good thing.
"There are patients waiting for me," says Doc who leaves. I hear the Oldsmobile's engine roar to life.
In the kitchen, it's quiet as a tomb. There we are, the three of us. Dork stands there, arms akimbo. "Mother, isn't it true that boys Gordy's age who still wet the bed end up in insane asylums?"
It's the same Dork question each and every week. And it's always asked in my presence. You just have to believe me when I say it's not a question. It's a Dork statement of fact.
"I believe you're right," says Mother. Which is how she always answers.
I face Dork head on. "You don't know what—"
The tape halts me mid-sentence. I take in more air.
"—you're talking about." There aren't any insane—" Inhale.
"—asylums nowadays. Psychiatrists closed them." Inhale.
"There are only mental hospitals."
"Yeah," says Dork, "for nut-bags like you."
"You're a nut-bag."
Dork glares and half closes his eyelids. "Kids who pee their beds just about every night are definitely nut-bags." Then, he turns to face her. "Aren't they, Mother?"
"I believe so," she says, looking straight at me.
"Am I really your son?" I ask.
The next moment, I'm thinking of mounting the Schwinn and riding it to City Hall, that is, if I can ride the bike with these tight bandages. I'll pay Chief Exner a visit. I'll lay that X-ray on top of his desk. He'll take a look. "What's this?" asks the chief.
"It's an X-ray," I say.
"Well, I see that. Oh, yes, you're one of Doc's kids, aren't you? But why did you bring this X-ray to me?"
"Because you're the chief of police. That's why. It's an X-ray of my four broken ribs. Did you hear, my broken ribs? My mother kicked me hard enough to do the damage."
I think she can see the pictures in my mind because Mother no longer looks at me. She turns to face the sink.
Dork's at it again. "They have insane asylums, don't they Mother?'
"Um-hmm," she says. Which means yes.
If I wasn't hurting so much, I'd slug Dork.
Whenever we fight, he always wins. Besides being the family reject, I don't have the killer instinct. Dork has the killer instinct, big time. He'll keep pounding on me even after I yell, "I give."
When I'm on top, I just want to hold him there, hoping he'll give. I'm sitting on his chest. My knees are on his shoulders. I can't hit him but I tell him to give.
"No," he screams. Ugh. What a stink. He's got bad breath. Halitosis. Smells like a sewer. But he won't give up. Eventually, I give him time for his strength to return. Then, he flips me off and gets on top and pounds away.
"I give," I call out.
"No, you don't," Dork insists. He keeps pounding away. That's when I wish I had the killer instinct. Truth is, I'm all worn out. And if I'm honest, I have to admit he wins each and every fight, fair and square.
In everything I do, Dork tries to upstage me. He's got that short guy problem. You know. It's a complex. Whenever I picture him when he's not around, I see him with a hand stuffed inside his shirt. He's riding a horse. Just like his undersized Frog hero, Napoleon.
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