Other People's Problems

"So, I'm balls deep and just as I let loose there's this loud crashing noise, right? I hear the noise, but I'm not paying any attention. You know how it is, just as you're getting your nut? Nope, nothing's getting through to my brain. The door bursts open, and there he is, and the kid is seriously pissed."

The cop looked at the nurse, then back to me and nodded before speaking. "It was a kid?"

"Well, no, I guess not. Teenager. Probably 15, 16, something like that."

He nodded again. "Okay, go on."

I flinched and grimaced as the nurse adjusted my arm in its sling. "Yeah, he starts yelling at Dee. That's when I realized he was her kid."

The cop looked at his notes. "That would be Deirdre Clancy, wife of Detective Roger Clancy, your patient, correct?"

"Uh, yeah. But... Look, this wasn't a regular thing. He wasn't getting the job done anymore and she was out looking. It's not like I had to push the issue or anything."

"Right." He looked at his notes again. "You're Detective Clancy's physical therapist and he wasn't 'getting the job done anymore' because he was shot in the line of duty, correct?"

"Yeah. Listen, I'm not an idiot. I know how that makes me look, but if it wasn't me, she'd be with someone else. Like I said, she was out trying to get some."

"No judgments, Mr. Magrin. We just want to make sure that no one else gets beaten again. So, what did he say to Mrs. Clancy?"

"I'm not sure. Things are a little hazy, you know? I mean, there I was, banging away one minute and then something crashes through the window, the door flies open and some kid is screaming."

"All right, your memory is hazy."

"Yeah."

There was something off about this conversation, but I couldn't put my finger on what was bothering me. I had the feeling that I was being played, but I wasn't sure how. I wasn't being arrested and they seemed polite and everything, but still...

"To be clear, Mr. Magrin, you warned the minor that you were an expert martial artist? Before the two of you engaged in a physical conflict?"

"Right. I told him. I mean, I'm not like some UFC guy or something, but I have a brown belt in Shotokan. Seriously, why..."

"Mr. Magrin, I'm going to get a copy of your records from the hospital, in case there's any legal action, is that all right with you?"

"Yeah, I guess. Sure. I mean, I don't know. I don't want to screw this kid's life up. I'm not sure I want to press charges."

The cop raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure he'll be relieved to hear that."

"What did he hit me with, anyway?"

"An Asp. Standard issue extendable baton. His father's, actually. Detective Clancy carried it while on duty."

"It was his dad's? Fuck, that's messed up. I'm with his... Well, you know. And his kid is using his father's baton-thing to beat the crap out of me."

"Good thing he had something for self-defense, with you being a martial artist and all. I have all I need. I'll get this recording to the DA. Thanks for your time."

"Self-defense? He..."

The cop interrupted me.

"I have what I need. Thanks, Mr. Magrin."

Somehow, I knew that this wasn't going to end well.

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I knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again. When she finally opened it, she looked me up and down before saying anything.

"What train hit you?"

"Funny, Ma. Listen, can I stay here for a couple of days?"

Raising her eyebrows, she silently stepped back and swept her arm in front of her, inviting me in with her silent but grandiose gestures.

"You want a drink?"

"Nah. They've got me on pain meds."

"Yeah, looks like. You can take the guest room. You're always welcome, you know that."

No, I didn't know that. The longest my mother and I had spent together since I was 14 was four days. She enjoyed being thought of as the type of person who loved her children. It was probably very inconvenient to not actually give a crap about me. My mother has never loved anyone but herself.

It wasn't the multiple affairs that ended her relationship with Dad. It wasn't that he threw her out. It just got too tedious for her to continually make up new lies and excuses. I was an anchor holding her down and Dad was a warden, keeping her locked in. She wanted her freedom, not responsibilities, so she jetted.

She took most of the money in Dad's accounts, the better of the two cars and our hearts. Dad didn't do shit. He kept her on his insurance, he left the account open for her to dip into from time to time and didn't get a divorce until she filed for it so she could get remarried the first time.

Ma got me a Dr. Pepper and brought it to where I was sitting. She was the only person I knew that still had ashtrays. They'd probably be pulling a cigarette from between her fingers when she eventually gets to the coroners.

"Use a coaster. So, you look like shit. What's the other guy look like?"

Ignoring her disgusting soda, I told her what happened. It was annoying to need her help, but I couldn't drive on the meds. My hand, forearm, and leg were messed up and I just felt like crap. Telling her what went down was going to catch me some grief, but not answering her would be worse. When I finished, she had this half grimace thing going as she looked at me as if I was a complete idiot.

"You had such promise. Smart boy, good grades, graduate college, partners in that physical rehab thing. How can you simultaneously be so dumb? You think they were doing anything other than helping that kid out? He's the son of a cop shot on duty and you're nailing his wife and you think they were looking out for you? C'mon. Seriously? You're lucky you're not up on assault charges."

My mother had only a few semesters of college but was the smartest person I knew. Cracking her beer, she sat on her recliner. After tiring of waiting for me to respond, she continued.

"Get your head out of your ass. One of these husbands'll put a bullet in your ass. And a cop's wife? When he's a client? It's like you have a death wish."

I nodded. Acknowledging how she's always right was the easiest way to shut her up. "I'll be out of your hair in a couple of days. I appreciate your letting me stay."

"You know, you have a normal relationship, one of those women could watch you at your place."

A lecture on relationships from a woman who left her family to go fuck anything with a dick was the last thing I was interested in. "Yeah, I get it. Thanks."

We sat in silence as she drank her beer, lit up a smoke and my Dr. Pepper got warm. Eventually, she got up and started puttering around in the kitchen. I could smell some food a few minutes later and heard the ding of the microwave.

"You want a burrito?", she called out.

"No, I'm good. Can't really eat."

Mom had never been what you would call domestic and subsided on frozen food. She came back in with her dinner on a plate and another beer.

"Whatcha gonna do about Jeremiah?"

"I'll manage. I'll take him to do something sitting. Maybe a movie or something."

"You can't just not go."

"Yeah, I got it, Ma."

"Kids need consistency."

"I said I've got it."

"Okay, I'm just saying is all. He still into that heavy metal crap?"

"Yup."

I met Jeremiah through Big Brothers, Big Sisters. He was in and out of foster homes for years. At 14, chances were he wasn't going to be adopted. We met up once or twice a week and we'd play some basketball or do some shopping. I paid for his tutors and made sure he had the basic stuff that kids needed.

There were some weird undertones with our relationship with Jeremiah. I made sure he didn't have the childhood I had and sort of lived a second youth through him. Needed the latest sneakers? I bought them. Wanted to go to some concert with a friend by an atrocious pop group or the latest metal band? I took them. Mom saw him as a chance to redeem herself for how she treated me.

Jeremiah didn't get any more affection from her than I did, but he did get diligence. She stayed up on his grades, called him like clockwork on Tuesday and Friday evenings, and made sure he had gifts for his birthday and Christmas. He let her convince herself that she was a decent person. He benefited from both of our issue laden backgrounds, so I wasn't worried too much about motivations. On top of that, I actually did like the kid.

Mom's place had no stairs, unlike my apartment and it helped to have someone I could call if need be. I stayed for two days before she drove me crazy enough to go home. I was sure that she was as happy to see me leave as I was to go.

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If it had a bench or a seat, I was okay. That kid had worked me over good. My elbow, my wrist, my knee, and my shin were all screwed up and I had soft tissue damage elsewhere. It was going to take a couple of weeks before I had a semblance of normalcy. Jeremiah had to carry the popcorn and sodas when we went to the movies. We usually did something sports-based, but the idea of sitting down in a dark, cool theater was appealing.

I'd been enjoying sitting in the dark lately. Okay, maybe enjoying is the wrong word. I felt more comfortable sitting in the dark than I did in the light. There was no chance of looking around and seeing something that bothered me, I didn't have to see a door and wonder if it was going to be kicked in by someone who was going to put me in the hospital and I didn't have to risk looking somewhere and seeing my reflection.

I was in a bad headspace but thought that if I just gave it time, I'd be fine. It wasn't anything new. There were periodic dark times throughout my life. My father would take me to see a counselor and I would tell him what he wanted to hear. It always boiled down to the same thing. "My mother, blah, blah, blah. My father, blah, blah, blah. Can't seem to get out of bed. Having trouble concentrating. No, I have no thoughts of self-harm. Blah, blah, blah."

There'd be a quick and easy diagnosis, usually something about an attachment disorder and then a scrip for Celexa or Lexapro. Pretty soon I'd be right as rain. I stopped going when I was 18 and figured Dad couldn't make me. He still pushed the issue, which is one of the reasons I don't see him that often.

I lost myself in the juvenile humor of the comedy. Halfway through I felt Jeremiah occasionally pelting me with a piece of popcorn. He did it four times before I snatched the bag and began firing back with my good hand. We enjoyed ourselves and I sat on a bench when we were through while he played one of the video games in the lobby.

Two girls walked up and played a side-by-side racing game that was next to his first-person shooter. They chatted for a while and I checked emails on my phone, rescheduling appointments with patients and moving things around on my calendar. It was going to be a couple of weeks before I was back to normal.

As we left, I asked him about the girls. "So, you know them?"

"Yeah, they go to my school. They're cousins."

"Nice."

"Uhm, you think maybe I can borrow some money? Kaitlyn said she'd go out with me next Saturday. We're going to meet here."

"Yeah, of course. Good for you."

We were on the way to the batting cage when we were pulled over.

"License and registration."

"Uh, yeah. Sure. One minute, officer." I leaned over towards the glove compartment. "Was I speeding?"

"Sir, are you going to cooperate or just argue with me?"

"No, I'm getting it. Just, you know, asking."

"You'll receive a full explanation including your options when I return with your ticket."

"Okay, sure."

I handed him my paperwork.

"Sir, have you been drinking?"

"Drinking? No, I was at the movies."

"Is that your son with you?"

"No. He's my... I'm his Big Brother."

"Uh-huh. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

He gave me a breathalyzer as I leaned against the car, trying to keep my balance on my good leg. When I blew sober, he stepped close and placed his hand over his uniform camera. Leaning over, he whispered.

"This kid going to kick your ass too, jackass?"

He stepped back and spoke again in a normal tone. "Please return to your car, sir. I'll be back with your license, registration and citation."

The cop dinged me for going six miles over the limit. I was left wondering if this was going to be my new normal. I stuck to the speed limit like glue the rest of the way. I stopped fully and paused at every stop sign. I made sure my turn signal was on for a good long time before turning.

Sitting, I watched him take swing after swing. Baseball and soccer were my games when I was his age. His coach drafted me into helping out with his team when I was available, and I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. The baseball diamond was a refuge for me. Regardless of what was happening at home, I could always lose myself in the game.

Every day during the week I'd save some of my lunch money. When Saturdays rolled around, I'd spend the day at the park. There were always pick-up games, both before and after my Little League game. I'd be there from nine in the morning until eight at night, eating hot dogs and drinking from the water fountains. Dad would come by for my game and make sure I had enough cash.

"Hey, pick up your back elbow. You're popping the ball up."

He didn't look up as he called out. "Okay!"

Jeremiah was a good kid. He listened and he was grateful for whatever attention he could get, which was sort of sad. No kid should have to realize that attention can be a rare commodity.

He was a sweaty mess by the time we were ready to leave.

"Hey, Brandon, hold up."

We stopped and he walked over to one of the softball cages. There were a bunch of girls his age there and a man and a woman who seemed to be coaches. Jeremiah began talking to one of the girls. They seemed to know each other, and she laughed at something he said. After a few minutes I limped over to a chair and sat down.

We were heading to the car when I nudged him. "Hey, my leg is bothering me. Think you can drive us back?"

"Seriously? Yeah, of course! You'll have to..."

"No, not seriously!" I smiled. "C'mon, you think I'd let you drive? You're 14. Who was that girl?"

"Carly Stimple. She's hot, right? We're going to come back here on Saturday and then maybe go mini-golf."

"Steel City Putt? How are you getting over there?"

"Her mom."

"Okay. What about the movies with that other girl?"

"I'll see her at school and cancel."

I stopped walking and he looked back at me.

"You made a commitment to that other girl."

"Yeah, but... you know. Carly's really hot. You saw her."

"Jeremiah, you made a commitment. There's always going to be hot girls. How would you feel if that other girl got asked out by some football player and dropped you?"

"Good, 'cause then there'd be no problem with Carly."

I sighed. "That's not the point. I... Forget it. Just think about it, okay? Treat these girls the way you want to be treated. It's not just the right thing to do. You pull that shit and you'll find out quickly that girls talk to each other."

"Okay. I get you. But she is really cute, right?"

This was a losing battle. I wasn't getting through.

"Just think about it. Women aren't interchangeable parts of a machine designed for your amusement."

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I spent my evening in the jacuzzi, trying to ease some tensions. One leg ached from trying to compensate for the other, my back was bruised, and I was in an all-around shitty mood. There was bone bruising, but only one hairline fracture. As crappy as the situation was, it could have been much, much worse. I was grateful for the kids' lack of training.

Not liking the fuzzy-headed feeling the pain pills gave me, I cut back on the recommended dosages and would try to get off of them as soon as possible. After getting out, I tried myself carefully. Slipping on the way into the house would be a nightmare. I made myself some tea, grabbed my Kindle and went to bed.

The phone ringing startled me. Putting down the Kindle, I saw the caller ID and sighed.

"Hey, Deb. What's going on?"

"Hello, Doctor. I need some private PT. Think you can help me out? I need to get stretched in all the right ways. The hubby's going to be in NY until Tuesday."

"That sounds great, but I was... uhm, in an accident. I'm a little bruised up and on pain meds. Can I get a raincheck?"

"An accident? You okay?"

"I'll be fine. Nothing too serious."

"Okay, well, he leaves in the morning and then I'm free as a bird. Maybe I can come over and give you some TLC? I could... Shit, he's getting out of the shower. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Right, I don't know if..."

She hung up.

I stared at the wall for a minute before going back to the Harry Bosch latest.

The mornings were rough and the next day was no exception. The shower was long and hot as I spent much of it sitting on the tiled bench. Owning the clinic was profitable and the huge shower and jacuzzi were perks for both solo and shared use. After stretching as best I could, I took a half pill, some Theanine for the stress and my usual vitamins and supplements.

If I wasn't going to be productive, I could just as easily be unproductive from my office as from home. My shifts were covered, but it never hurts to have the boss pop in. After circling the building a few times, a parking space opened up near the door and I nabbed it. Limping to my office, I waved to a few people, mumbled "Accident" to people who asked what happened and settled in.

A few employees came by and Mr. Hoagland stopped in. He was an elderly man who I had been working with for years.

"Morning, Brandon! Brought you some tomatoes. They're growing like wildfire. You okay?"

"Yeah, fine, Will. Thanks. They look great. I'll be up and at 'em in a week or so."

"Great. Looks like someone put you through the wringer. Need anything?"

"No, I'm all good. Thanks, though."

"Okay."

He left the tomatoes and went back to the lobby. He'd likely have some of the coffee we put out and read his paper before he went home.

My list of people that I could call for the clinic and the work I could do from my desk was growing as I went over my notes. Our cleaning crew got a call, as did the garbage carters and the wholesale suppliers from whom we purchased bandages, liniments and the like. I had just hung up with the salesperson for our office supplies when Jared, my partner, stormed in.

After slamming the door behind him, he started to speak and then stopped, looked up towards the ceiling and shook his head.

"You are such a total dick. You... I can't believe what a piece of shit you are. For years I've been telling Molly that you were fine. That it was just one part of your personality. That you're a good guy if you just look beyond your fucking married women. She absolutely loathes you. You surprised? Well, it's true. That's why she rarely comes down when you're here, why I don't invite you to the house and make excuses when you invite us over. My wife hates your guts and I should have listened to her."

I leaned back in my chair. "What the fuck is up your ass? You don't get to barge into my office and start coming down on me."

"Yeah, I do. When the daughter of a client tells me you were screwing the wife of another client? Yeah, fuck you, I do. Mrs. Cruz? With the sciatica? Her daughter Jennifer took her in today. Said you were assaulted by the son of a cop who came here for rehab because you were having an affair with the man's wife. I have to find out from a client! And you're screwing the wives of our patients now? And a cop? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Not plural. One. It was an isolated instance. Okay, yeah, it was a bad call, but it was one situation, not some ongoing pattern. Cut me some slack."

His face was almost turning red. Jared was clenching some paperwork and his knuckles were white. "Cut you some slack? Do you have any clue what percentage of our business comes from cops, EMT's and firefighters? Let alone just how fucking deplorable that shit is? Listen to me carefully, Brandon. If there is any blowback from this at all, I'm going to my lawyer and I'm going to look into dissolving the partnership. I'll get the money together to buy you out."