Emergency Room

There's something criminal about getting hit in the mouth. First of all, that is one of the most painful places to take a hit, whether you're a man or a woman. Secondly, it can cause long-term damage; a tooth knocked out, bruised gums, a bit tongue. I once knew a guy who bit clean through his own lower lip when he got punched in a bar fight. And as if that wasn't enough, he was in the middle of a fight while he had all this blood streaming out of his mouth and a really gross pain. Imagine being able to stick your tongue through your own lip! But the worst part has to be the end result. You end up looking so goofy, half your face swollen to twice its size, your mouth often forced up into a weird grin. And everyone can see you got hit.

I used to try not to think about this kind of stuff, but it's hard to do, when you work with someone like Alma. Alma used to come into work every morning with something new and sad. It might be a bruise from her husband, a sour look from being chewed out again for tardiness, or a heartbreaking story about how she was humiliated at the bank when the teller announced that her account was overdrawn. I got so frustrated when I'd have to hear her talking about it. I wanted to shout, "You are thirty years old, for God's sake! You're an adult! You're not helpless!" I wish I never did.

I guess I could blame my own nasty temperament on the fact that I always have bad luck. It's true; I'm twenty-five and I work at a supermarket. I never went to college. I hated high school and it showed in my grades. Dicky's Mart is my big career move. Plus, all my friends end up like Alma--they don't talk to me anymore.

First, there was Regina. Now I'll admit, she was a girlfriend and I'll admit, I did cheat on her, but it was only with the slow girl who sorts the produce and it was only a couple of innocent kisses behind the tomato display. Howie caused all the trouble.

Of course, Howie's another one. He's all "buddy, pal" when he first meets me, then he's asking me all kinds of really personal questions, then he's squealing to my girlfriend that I'm screwing the produce girl. I punched him in the mouth after I hung up with Regina for the last time. I just walked into work, where I was driving anyway when Reg called, and there he was, setting up the seasonal cupcakes. He looked at me, grinning and grating, and I knew he was going to ask me to finish the display for him while he ran outside for a quick cigarette, and I knew that he was the one who told Regina about me and the girl, and I really couldn't take it anymore, so I just hauled off and clocked him in the mouth.

Surprisingly, there was no blood. I guess I don't hit very hard. That's well enough I guess, because otherwise, I might have gotten a pink slip for my actions, just like Alma did.

I think that was kind of unfair. The poor woman's kid was running a fever of 104! Now I know, it would have been better for her if she'd called someone to let them know she was going to miss a shift. I mean, her excuse for missing was good enough. In my opinion, her excuse for not calling ("They don't let you use no cell phones in the hospital.") was good enough as well, but the boss didn't care for it. So Alma left. And she never came back.

We heard about her son Georgie on the news the other night. He had just gotten over his fever and was sent home with his mother a few days before. Some of the neighbors heard him wailing away in the apartment. The landlord, this huge tattooed guy who looked like he could have swallowed the reporter who interviewed him, explained how first he yelled for Alma, but she didn't answer. He thought she might have passed out or hit her head or something, and God only knew what was happening to the baby with no one to help him, which was reason enough in the landlord's mind to fatally damage his own property. The next thing, he kicked the door in. He told the reporter that when he got inside, he "couldn't believe" what he saw. Georgie came crawling across the floor toward him, bawling like he would never stop. The poor kid was wearing nothing but a diaper, which was so full, there was a brown stain on the seat of it and the whole room smelled like a pile of shit. His knees were all raw and cut from crawling around on the hardwood floor too, and there was so much snot and tears all over Georgie's little face, the landlord remarked that it was a wonder the kid could even breath. Georgie is living with his grandma now. They interviewed her, too. She said she never saw it coming.

I guess I blame myself. I definitely blame myself. Everyone else at the grocery store sort of got in the habit of not speaking to Alma. No surprise really, since she was so depressing to deal with. I only offered her a ride to work one night that week. It could have ended with that.

But she just kept thanking me, almost in tears with the gratitude. She kept saying how no one ever did anything nice for her, her husband was never around except when he wanted "sex or a punching bag" and how hard her life was, with the poverty, the hitting, the hardship. And no one understands. No one understands! That did it for me. I'm not saying what I did was right, just realizing then how self-pitying she was, and how much she seemed to secretly enjoy all the negativity in her life, I had no wish to baby her through the rest of the conversation. I had no desire to keep on with the soft little affirming replies. So I just turned around and told her what I thought.

When I was finished, I expected her to cry, as she tended to do, but she just said quietly "Don't actually need you tomorrow, thanks," and ran off to clock out. I would have followed her, but Howie was right there and watching to see that we finished restocking the cookie shelves. I could see that he made a major mental note of the fact that Alma apparently bailed before the job was done. I should have explained to him what had just happened.

And now here I am, sitting on a wobbly white gurney in the same hospital where Alma rushed her little Georgie with his fever, where they tended to his shredded knees and raw behind when they found him alone in the apartment, and where they'll probably store away Alma, if they ever find her body.

Everyone thinks she's dead. That was actually the last conversation I had, discussing that with this guy, Kurt. He just started at the store. He was getting all intrusive about what he'd heard about why the position was open, what happened to Alma. I told him to shut up. He asked me why I cared so much about some crazy bitch who left her kid and disappeared. Howie told him pointedly that I was the last one to talk to Alma, so I probably knew more about her than most people, and so I knew more clearly than anyone that she must be dead. I asked Howie, who then quickly left, if he'd like a tooth knocked out this time. Kurt told me to lay off him. I knocked the bread out of Kurt's hand as a means of response, and the next thing I knew, we were rolling around on the floor, surrounded by overturned crates and loaves of bread while I tried to get a good shot at his stupid fucking face.

I'm sucking on blood now. Kurt got me pretty good a few times, and I think I bit the inside of my mouth. Just another injustice in getting a fight in the face. I'll have to add that to the list. I wish Alma was still keeping track.

The End