Skid-steer Mike (Introduction, fiction)

I was just settling in with Catherine to watch Judge Judy. I had rubbed lotion on her calves and shins and checked the length of her toe-nails.

My life had turned into a narrow tunnel since Kit's accident. I kept the house neat. I cooked and ate. I took care of Clyde, our dog and the chickens. I worked out at the gym for stress-relief. I went to Mass every Sunday. And I spent as much time with Kit and the rehab facility would let me.

She had suffered a fall due to sudden vertigo. The doctors insisted on discharging her to the corporation’s step-down facility rather than sending her home. Their reasoning was murky. The vertigo was diagnosed as a viral infection that impacted her inner-ear. The doctors claimed she needed to be "in-patient" because she needed special physical therapy...but I had my doubts. The facility had recently added a wing specializing in "fall recovery" and they needed to fill it with patients to stop the financial bleeding.
 

Kit shared her room with Penny. Penny was in following a double rotator-cuff repair and was learning how to stand up.

I ate lunch with Kit every day and we watched Judge Judy. I brought my own lunch. I also brought Kit a sliced-up Fuji apple and a small container containing her favorite brand of Greek Yogurt. Institutional food is...well...lowest common denominator at best.

We kept the TV volume low. Penny was a Wheel-of-Fortune girl. She returned the favor by keeping her volume on her TV low, as well.

Early on, I greased the skids by asking Penny what she missed the most from “outside”. It was coffee. The step-down's kitchen brewed coffee in a massive urn. Other than being cold, weak, bitter and stale, it was acceptable coffee. I won Penny’s eternal cooperation by bringing a fresh coffee of the local coffee chain’s Premium Central American Arabica blend every time I visited.

I am not sure that the CNAs (Certified Nursing Assistants) who had to handle Penny’s bedpans were as happy with me, but I brought them donuts once a week so they couldn’t too mad.

The case was typical Judge Judy. The girlfriend had kicked her boyfriend out of the duplex and filed a restraining order against him. Then, she wouldn’t return his property claiming they had been “gifts”. The twist was that her ex-boyfriend’s father owned the duplex she had kicked her ex out of and the lease was in his name.

I was as comfortable as I could be considering the circumstances. That is when I started hearing angry voices in the hallway. At first they were distant, angry sounds. Many people involved. Sharp. Short bursts of syllables. Belligerent. Gutteral sounding, hard "ck" sounds. Command voices.

I was able to start resolving words. They were looking for somebody.

They were looking for Mike Tardive. “We seen his truck in the parking-lot...” 

Kit reached out and gripped my wrist.

My name is Mike Tardive. I write a blog. Sometimes I write about sensitive issues. That was not a problem a few years ago, but now every issue was like five gallons of hot nitroglycerin...looking for any excuse to explode.

I knew better. I never should have posted the essay about Mohammad (possibly) being a Jew who had been snubbed and not invited to be a rabbi. All the evidence was there. Mohammad claimed Abraham as an ancestor. Monotheistic. No local gods allowed. There was no knowledge-path of Abraham's existence outside of the tribes who left Egypt for the desert. The most logical plot was that Mohammad was a disgruntled Jew who went full L. Ron Hubbard on his peers.

The post went beyond my regular 30 readers. It got picked up by aggregators and then international newspapers. The chains all lead back to Skid-steer Mike's blog. The usual suspects were burning tires in the streets.

The usual suspects had found me. Somebody had doxed me, even to the extent of tracking my truck.

I felt an overwhelming desire to urinate. Not fear. Just a natural body reaction when I knew I might need to fight for my life.

I scanned the room. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon. By design.

I wasn’t carrying. I wasn’t even sure that I would use it if I had been. Too much possibility of collateral damages. Lots, and lots of fragile people in this facility.

It was just a matter of time before one of the CNAs spilled the beans. HIPPA does not allow it but they would either be scared or be sympathetic. "Sympathetic?" you sneer? Somebody let the mass of people into the facility.

Either one of the CNAs would rat me out or the thugs would start throwing open doors and search room-by-room.

Whatever was going to happen, I didn’t want it to play out in front of Kit. She didn’t need to be a victim of this, too.

I gave her a kiss. “It might be a few minutes before I come back” I warned her.

She closed her eyes and said “I love you…”

I pulled my arm away from her grasp.

Before I went out the door, I did 10 pushups to center myself.

Standing back up, I dusted off my hands. It was now or never.

I gently closed the door behind me. Then I walked up to the group. Every one of them, individually, outweighed me and the oldest one looked to be 30 years my junior, maybe even 40 years younger.

They were all looking past me.

I walked up to the oldest man, the one with the command voice and said “I am Mike Tardive. How can I help you?”

 

*** I don't know if this has the legs to go beyond a very short story-arc. I have things going that came up this week so I am tossing this out to fill space.***