Bumps and Bruises

He bumped into me. It’s hard to be sure of anything at moments like this, when nothing makes much sense, but he definitely bumped into me and not the other way around. Hell, I didn’t even know he was there or how he’d found me.

“Even Steven, Tommy,” I said, my voice sounding not quite right.

Little wonder then that someone from the group sitting around the desk shouted out, “What the hell?”

I said the only thing that came to mind, “O-o-o-h, you just said a bad word! Mom’s not gonna like that!”

And it was true; mom wasn’t going to, not one little bit. Except, my exclamation swallowed by the silence in the room, I stared at my audience of five with my mouth gone dry, all of ’em dressed in white jackets, wondering what they were gawking at, wondering where we were at that moment and, most of all, how I came to be there.

Last thing I remember, I’m hauling ass to first base, Big Tommy—’cause that’s what we all call him—using his bulking frame to block the bag as he waits for the shortstop to throw him the ball looping down the infield. But there is no stopping me, not this time. Squinching my eyes shut, I bring my closed fists up to my forehead at the last moment, the instant before the hard gravel under my toes suddenly surrenders to the squishiness of the base, the millisecond before my face makes contact with Big Tommy’s upper arm and the umpire shouts out, “Safe!”

The impact sent me sprawling out of the base path and into foul territory, but I’d certainly beaten the throw. The unmistakable smack of the ball hitting the leather of the glove came a second or two later, as my descent to the dirt had already begun. There’d be scratches and bruises, sure, but they’d come later. All that mattered at that moment was that the ump got it right. Safe!

My teammates cheered from the dugout as I lifted myself from the dirt and turned once more to put my foot on the bag. Except… except Big Tommy was lying face up on the infield turf, looking like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. For an instant, the glee of victory filled me, but seeing him like that, down on the ground, I did what mom had taught me to and extended my arm with an open hand to help Tommy up. His bulk nearly toppled me when he pulled on my hand—and wouldn’t that be a sight—but I managed to regain my footing and brought him upright.

“Nice job,” he said. And then he added, “I owe you one.”

Now no one owes anyone, and that’s the way it should always end.

“Mister Cartwright, are you okay? Do you need a moment?”

That voice… I… I recognize it! Somewhere in my past, something that—

“Mike? Mike Pinsky?”

All the heads turned to face the guy at the end of the table.

“It’s Doctor Pinsky, if you must know.”

Holy crap! Two in a row! I think to myself.

Fast as I can, I run around to the end of the table where this guy’s sitting with his lips pressed tight in smug haughtiness. I wouldn’t have recognized him in a million years, not with his half-moon glasses pinching his nose and his balding head. It takes only about six strides to reach him and, bolting, I’m right on top of him before any one of them has a chance to react. Next thing I know, I bump him hard, sending him and his folding chair sprawling to the ground in a cacophonous thud and clatter, respectively.

The others dart out of their seats, fear plastered on all their faces.

“What the fuck?!” he cries out.

“Eleventh grade,” I say. “I was standing in front of my locker, checking out the weed I’d just bought, and you ran down the hallway and bumped me, knocked me down while you ripped the baggie out of my hand and then kept on going!”

Indignation tinged his voice, sounding a lot ridiculous coming from this dweeb pretending respectability while sitting on his ass on the floor. “I did no such thing! I… I—”

“Even Steven, Mike,” I interrupt. “The rest of you can sit. I have no quarrel with any of you.”

Dr. Berger, seated in the middle of the table cleared his throat. “Are you okay, Mr. Cartwright?”

“I’m fine,” I answered, not at all sure how true that statement was, but saying it anyway.

Yet another bump and my body rocks, only this time I’m not quite sure who bumped whom. Maybe I instigated it, maybe she did. Some debts owed are easier to categorize in life’s balance sheets than others. Regardless, there it was; there she was. And, as usual (I dare say) all focus shifted, whiting out present circumstances to the non-descript blandness of an overcast sky stretched to the horizon.

We were happy together, Cessily and I, but then that’s kind of a stupid thing to say. Of course we were happy together, ’cause otherwise there’d be no we to speak of, would there? And even though most people don’t equate the word once with emotional upheaval, with the kind of power to open a nearly bottomless chasm of misery with oil-slicked sides that makes climbing out an impossible task, try this one on for size: we were happy together, once.

And here’s another: Once, I prided myself for paying strict attention to most things people take for granted. So, to this day, I’m still not sure how I missed it, how I let our fateful bump come and go without realizing it’d happened. But it did. In the years since, I’ve chalked it up to complacency, to the illusion of a changeless landscape that guarantees the future, where the only noticeable differences are the appearance of gray hair and wrinkles. Except that’s not at all what happens.

Was our bump built into the relationship from its onset, so well hidden by the butterfly- belly excitement of connection as to be undetectable? Or had I done something; had she? In such close quarters as we’d shared, there’d been many a time when we’d bumped into each other unwittingly, just as there’d been a great deal of deliberate body bumping while making love. So, it’s hard to determine which of the many was the bump, finally surfaced, that brought our time together to a close.

It’s a lot like playing pinball on one of those awesome machines where the ball in play starts rolling towards the flippers, hitting into one bumper and then another, sometimes rocking back and forth with such fury as to make your heart race, and sometimes bumping into one—just one—and then arcing down to the flippers without obstruction and testing your reaction time, your mettle. The only thing you can’t have happen is to have the ball find its way in between the two guardians at the base and getting lost forever in the machinery. Game over.

I should’ve been better, should’ve cradled the ball between the flipper and the silent side bumper, there to rest for a while before hitting it back into play and continue on in an endless game day after day. That’s what I should’ve done. Instead, I jumped too soon, the ball rolling off the end of flipper unimpeded and making its way to the slot and out of reach. No-o-o!!

Now, all I can think about is playing pinball again with all its bumps and dings. The high score doesn’t mean squat ’cause there’s no score to beat.