Traffick

  a latex-sheathed pointer exploring my ass.

  Mom brings me books, and the unread

  pile continues to grow, along with a stack

  of magazines. Sports Illustrated. People.

  National Geographic. No Hustler, not that

  it would do anything but remind me

  what a worthless excuse for a man I’ve become.

  No, my life will never be the same,

  and worse, my future as a complete human

  being was stolen by that low-life fucker, Chris.

  Federico would tell me to shut the hell

  up, cancel the pity party and get to work.

  His idea of work? Learning to sit up.

  Equilibrioception

  That’s another word for balance,

  and apparently I’ve got a problem

  with that. First of all, I’ve been lying

  here for weeks, rolled side to side

  from time to time so I don’t get these

  nasty things called pressure sores—

  .

  wounds caused by staying in one

  position for so long your bones

  poke through your hide. I’ve seen

  pictures. Disgusting. The worst thing

  is, since I can’t feel the wear and tear,

  they could get infected before I even

  realize my skin is rotting away.

  But there’s more. To keep from falling

  over, your eyes, ears, and proprioceptors

  have to work together. Proprioceptors

  are sensors that tell you where your limbs

  are positioned in space. Like, your right

  arm is over your head, or your left foot

  is two inches off the ground. And since

  my legs don’t have a clue where they are,

  things get a little tricky. Federico insists

  it gets easier with practice. Too bad

  sitting up isn’t on my to-do list at all.

  This Will Be the Day

  That’s what he said, and I do

  believe he meant it. Best of luck

  with that, old buddy. He’s yanked

  the sheets back, exposing most

  of my uselessness, slack and pale

  as the Cream of Wheat they tried

  to make me eat for breakfast.

  Okay now. The process is fairly

  simple. Put your elbows flat

  on the bed beside you and push

  down, bending your head and

  shoulders forward. He stands there,

  waiting, but I don’t bother to try

  and move. What’s the point?

  “Don’t feel like it. Maybe tomorrow.”

  His expression is priceless.

  Look, Cody. Time keeps ticking

  forward, and the rest of the world

  isn’t on hold waiting for you to

  get on board. You’re not going

  to die, and the quality of your future

  living is entirely up to you. I believe

  you want to get up on your feet

  again, and I also believe we can

  absolutely make that happen.

  Scratch that. You can make that

  happen. People with worse injuries

  than yours have made that happen.

  But it takes heart and courage.

  Out of breath with the effort of not

  convincing me to budge an inch,

  he lingers there, hands on hips,

  with such genuine bewilderment

  on his face I almost feel sorry

  for him. But not anywhere near

  as sorry as I feel for myself.

  “Look, dude. I’m lying here with

  a tube hanging out of my dick, leaking

  piss into a plastic bag. That dick,

  by the way, is totally useless for

  anything worth getting excited about.

  Yeah, yeah, Dr. Harrison told me

  ninety percent of men with incomplete

  injuries, T12 and lower, get it up, and some

  higher than that, too. But that’s not the real

  problem, is it? Not like I want to go

  above and beyond, just to whack off.

  How many girls go looking for cripples?”

  Half-Sad

  Half-annoyed, that’s how

  he looks now, like he needs

  to dig for words of wisdom

  but the shovel needs sharpening.

  It’s “disabled,” not “crippled,” and

  so you know, there are millions

  of couples living with disability.

  Not only that, but there are plenty

  of perfectly healthy partners who

  don’t have sex regularly. He winks

  conspiratorially. You could ask

  my wife, but she’d probably lie.

  That actually makes me smile,

  and I almost consider rewarding

  him with the behavior he’s seeking.

  But then he has to go and ruin

  the moment. So, do you have

  a girlfriend? Someone special?

  With a stunning burst of memory,

  the face of an angel materializes

  from the ether. “Not anymore.”

  He’s gone too far, and backpedals

  quickly. You don’t know that, do

  you? Have you talked to her?

  Are You Out of Your Mind?

  That’s what I want to ask him,

  quite loudly, but yelling is too

  much effort. “Not since before . . .”

  Look, at the very least, let’s work

  on mobility. You don’t have to do

  anything but roll onto your side.

  I’ll handle the heavy lifting, and

  while I do, why don’t you tell me

  about your girl? What’s her name?

  “Ronnie,” I answer without

  even thinking. “Well, Veronica,

  but everyone calls her Ronnie.”

  Federico rolls me onto my left

  side, begins manipulating my right

  leg. This isn’t new, but I sense more

  movement than before. Ronnie.

  Is she pretty? Bet she is. Bend.

  Lift. Backward. Forward. As

  he continues the routine, I find

  myself describing the girl who

  still possesses my heart. “She’s not

  pretty. She’s beautiful. Her hair

  is the color of obsidian, and shiny

  like it, too. And her body. Man,

  it’s amazing. You’ve never seen . . .”

  I skid to a halt before I mention

  her glorious tits. “But there’s so

  much more to her than that.

  She’s—was—my rock.” My rock,

  when my stepfather, Jack, got sick

  and died. My rock when Cory melted

  all the way down into a puddle

  of booze-inspired anger. My rock.

  And then I went and fucked it all

  up with drugs and gambling and

  financing those by offering myself

  up for sale. Invincible, that’s what

  I believed I was. Untouchable.

  Such conceit! And now, look at me.

  Hard to maintain an air of vanity

  while being posed like a nude mannequin—

  bend, lift, backward, forward, flip,

  and repeat. Federico finishes each

  side by massaging my legs and feet,

  all for the sake of circulation. Too bad

  I can’t feel it. Ronnie used to do that

  for me, and boy, did I love . . .

  Next thing I know, I’m sobbing.

  Even Better

  Suddenly, my right foot jerks. Ouch!

  But, wait. Movement? “Hey, what

  was that?” Does that mean more

  brain conne
ction than we supposed?

  The action was involuntary. Federico,

  it seems, missed it. What was what?

  “My foot just twitched. Hurt like

  hell, too. That’s a good sign, right?

  Like, maybe you’re all totally wrong

  and my spine just had to heal more?”

  But Federico shakes his head.

  That’s called spasticity. We’ve been

  wondering if it would affect you.

  It usually doesn’t first occur until

  several weeks post-injury. See,

  your muscles have memories, and

  even without an intact circuit board,

  they try to repeat learned behaviors.

  The bad news is, it can be painful,

  or at the very least, annoying.

  The good news is spasticity

  can actually be helpful with bowel

  and bladder behaviors, and many

  SCI patients utilize it to help them

  stand and even walk. One day

  at a time. If it becomes a real

  problem, there are drug therapies,

  so be sure and let a team member

  know if the pain is too much.

  Team member: one of the nurses,

  doctors, physical therapists,

  psychologists, and social workers

  assigned to my case, just a number

  among many on their busy lists.

  Federico waits to see if I’ll spasm

  again, but when that doesn’t happen

  right away, he spreads the sheet

  back up over me. “So, if spasticity

  is nothing but my foot remembering

  how it used to move, and I’m still

  paralyzed, why could I feel it? And

  how could it possibly be painful?”

  He shrugs. With incomplete

  injuries, it’s always possible some

  feeling will return. Besides,

  the brain is an incredibly

  complex machine. Sometimes

  its will trumps common wisdom.

  Go Right Ahead

  Burst my fucking balloon.

  The truth is a sharp pin,

  and I tumble back down

  to earth. “Hey. My brain

  tells me I’m hurting. Can

  you give me something

  for that? You must’ve

  worked me too hard. Or

  maybe it’s just spastic me.”

  He looks unconvinced,

  but then he decides, Tell

  you what, Cody. I’ll send

  in a nurse, but only if you

  give me your word that

  tomorrow you’ll cooperate

  and help me get you sitting

  up. We’ve got a long way to go,

  and it starts with you upright.

  I’d say anything for the key to

  oblivion, and besides, as my Kansas

  kin might say, my word ain’t worth

  a pile of manure, so it’s a no-brainer.

  “I solemnly swear if you eradicate

  my pain I’ll try to sit up tomorrow.”

  Nurse Carolyn

  Who remains my favorite filly

  in a stable of Thoroughbred

  caregivers, tries to rip me off

  at first, offering acetaminophen,

  but I’m not going for that.

  Federico isn’t overseeing,

  so I’ll use my latest, greatest

  excuse. “Please, Carolyn.

  Did Federico tell you? Spasticity

  has reared its nasty head, and

  I’m in a lot of pain right now.

  I need something stronger

  than Tylenol!” I wait for her

  stern face to soften, and it does

  almost immediately. Score.

  Oh, all right, as long as

  the on-duty physician concurs.

  I’ll check and be right back.

  She isn’t gone long, and

  when she returns it’s with

  a healthy (or not) dose of codeine.

  Dr. Cabral gave the okay

  this time around, but there are

  better pain management methods.

  I understand spasticity can

  cause quite a bit of discomfort,

  but so can opiate dependency.

  As your rehab progresses,

  I’m sure your doctor will

  recommend alternatives.

  Pill swallowed, agreement

  is easy. “I understand. Thanks

  for caring, Carolyn.” I reward

  her with my very best smile—

  the one that swears all will be

  well, though that, of course, is a lie.

  Okay, then, I’d better get back

  to work. You aren’t the only

  needy patient around here.

  As she leaves, the codeine kicks

  in and I find myself inexplicably

  drawn to the pendulum of her narrow

  hips, thoroughly disguised by baggy

  powder-blue scrubs. “You’re an idiot.”

  I scold myself for the transference,

  which is also impotent transference.

  Obviously, the will of my brain

  is trumping its common sense.

  Rocking

  In the cradle of the poppy,

  all the bad feelings slip away.

  Why am I lying here again?

  Where am I, anyway? White.

  Everything’s white, and quiet,

  like a winter-quilted mountain

  meadow, except it’s warm. I like

  it warm, and now I know this

  can’t be snow, because the air

  doesn’t sting my nose. Inhale.

  No sting, but there is perfume.

  Apples. That’s it. Baked apples,

  rich with cinnamon and brown

  sugar, and I realize I’m dreaming.

  Weird, when you’re aware

  you’re not treading time in the real

  world, but rather wandering

  another dimension. A drift of apples

  fills my nose, and a satin caress

  (surely not Federico’s!) slides

  along the skin of my legs. Legs.

  Why does that word bother me?

  Not important. What is worthy

  of my attention is the force field

  rising up around me, a halo

  of well-being that can only be love.

  I search for the source. Nearby,

  she must be nearby. My rock.

  There, in the mist, a shadow,

  approaching, and growing as

  it nears, solidifying. “Ronnie?”

  It’s no more than a whisper, and

  escaping the fog, comes an answer.

  I’m here, Cody. I waited for you,

  but almost gave up hoping that

  you’d come back to me. Wake up.

  Her voice is smooth and rich

  as frosting. But I still can’t see her.

  Now she urges, Open your eyes.

  I do and the dream dissolves.

  Bedside, in the flesh, is, “Ronnie.”

  I start to throw back the sheet,

  remember where I am, how I am,

  who I’ve become. “Go away. I

  don’t want you to see me like this.”

  Too damn bad. I have no clue

  why you decided to throw “us” away,

  Cody, but I won’t let it happen.

  A Poem by Alex Rialto

  The Dream Dissolves

  Every dream does,

  but hope saturated this one,

  and a tiny piece

  of me tries very

  hard to

  believe my cards

  have been re-dealt.

  The thought of nurturing

  an innocent soul makes love

  rise


  in me like nothing else

  ever has before, not even

  lying next to Ginger, wrapped

  in the warmth of her sighs.

  I am lifted high

  above

  the landscape of my life.

  But now I fall again, desert

  scrubbed of sustenance,

  without the promise of

  my baby, who chooses

  surrender

  in favor of time with me.

  Ginger

  Time Drags

  Here at House of Hope,

  where everything is regimented,

  little variation to any given day.

  They say that sameness

  is necessary to meeting

  expectations, that it’s good training

  for real-world situations like

  keeping a job. Up at six thirty a.m.,

  dress for the day, make our beds,

  straighten up our rooms. Breakfast

  at seven, finish by seven thirty.

  Load the dishwasher, if it’s your day.

  If not, lucky you, fifteen minutes

  to read or stare into space before

  chapel, where you’ll stare into

  space even longer. House of Hope

  is a Christian home, and morning

  prayer meeting attendance is mandatory.

  Saving souls. That’s what they believe,

  and hey, if it works that way, more

  power to the Power. The concept

  of God is foreign to me. Not even

  Gram subscribes to the notion,

  at least, she’s never mentioned it

  to me if she does. Personally,

  I’m just happy House of Hope

  has rescued my body from abuse.

  If there’s anything resembling a soul

  residing inside me, it probably

  does need a little assistance, but

  I’m pretty sure listening to Pastor

  Martin yak at us won’t make

  that happen. Doesn’t matter.

  It’s easier than scrounging a living

  taking my clothes off, and for the girls

  who somehow still do believe,

  his words seem to offer comfort,

  don’t ask me why. He sits on

  a stool in front of the group, as if

  standing would be too much effort.

  The amazing thing about our Lord,

  Jesus Christ, is his bottomless

  supply of love, and all you have

  to do to receive it is ask.

  That doesn’t sound so bad, but he

  won’t stop there. He never does.

  Because, although he would argue

  this, Pastor Martin’s all about judgment.

  And . . . His Engine Fires