Accidentally Better

Pu'Dant Chemical Corporation's three-story warehouse casts a dark shadow over the shipment dock. An unlovely, impersonable structure built with concrete and steel by a former Russian architect who, apparently, clings romantically (if there could be such irony) to cold-war Soviet Modernism.

Large steel barrels marked with ominous symbols are clustered and stacked. The drums are painted black, marked with rust and scratches caused by the robotic arms that lift and drop them from sea to shore.

Steve flicks his badge across the gate's automatic lock. A red light dims momentarily but returns to full glow. Steve takes three more frustrated swipes. With two fingers, Jeff gently moves Steve aside. He bangs the lock with his palm, a green light flickers, the gate buzzes and then mechanically unlocks. The men proceed to the stacks of drums.

Jeff's thick arms wrap around a container, he tasks a last gasp of clean, fresh, outdoor air, and lifts, teetering unsteady.

"You got that?" asks Steve.

Jeff squints, sweat already stinging his eyes, "Ha, you want to get the lift and trolley?"

Steve peers distantly through the building's doorway and across the warehouse's oil-stained floors. The hauling machines line against the back wall. Steve says nothing but his right hand, as if to provide security, hovers above the trembling barrel.

"Thanks for the spot" grunts Jeff, acknowledging Steve's phantom support. 

"Not at all."

"Yeah, not one bit at all" Jeff forces a chuckle.

Jeff thrusts forward with his powerful right leg while the twisted left one drags behind. Jeff's left foot shuffles up to the right one, creating a rhythmic thud-drag-thud-drag-thud.

"You ever look into that 'disability' thing?" asked Steve.

"No, too much paperwork and Alice said the prospect of being let-go increases as the injury forms travel up Human Resources."

"Sometimes the chicken, sometimes the feathers" Steve begins. "Strange that we schmucks are always getting the feathers."

"A couple of Do-Do's" Jeff retorts.

*******

The men walk slowly, enjoying the final moments of crisp air before entering the warehouse's belly. There are no windows through the Warehouse corridor; just fluorescent bulbs flickering above, giving dim and unnatural light. The smells are pungent along this stretch with the sort of toxicity that would alarm the lungs if not for Jeff and Steve's tolerance, which they developed through years of unrewarding labor.

Jeff lumbers further. His left leg dragging, catching up to the right.

Thug-drag-thud-drag-thud…

"You catch the game last night?" asks Steve.

Jeff, reserving energy for the task at-hand, wheezes, "No, mowed mom's lawn and I had to fix the faucet."

"You didn't miss a thing. Clobbered again. You know, Earl could have fixed that leak."

"His daughter's going through stuff at school, I couldn't pull him from that. Besides, mom doesn't like being alone" huffs Jeff, straining his neck to see beyond the barrel.

"Jeff, you're a good man. Crippled and knotted like an old tree limb, but a good man."

"Spoken like a skinny twig” Jeff smirks and shambles forward.

******

Jeff does his best to remain on the straight path, only zigging-and-zagging to avoid the occasional slick spots.

Thud-drag-thud-drag…

Sweat drips down Jeff's arm moistening the contact between the barrel and his hand. The steel drum slips, but Jeff adjusts his grasp, pulling the barrel up his chest, and steadies it against his cheek. 

Steve is saying something, but Jeff devotes full concentration on the drum, his feet, and the now unseen oil-splotches.

Thud-drag-thud-(pause)-drag-thud-(pause)-drag…

Struggling to control the huge barrel, his right leg lands on a slick spot. The barrel shifts hard to the right. Jeff compensates to the left, swinging the drum along. The barrel wavering and shaking, and Jeff's body and hands trembling. He wrestles further, gripping the drum tighter. Steve, noticing impending doom, reaches out, nearly touching the barrel before Jeff and the barrel fall.

drag... THUD!

The drum slams Jeff, his head smacking hard against the concrete floor. The lid unfastens as green, glowing slime escapes. Above, the lights glow dimmer as if a blanket of fog is draping Jeff's face. He closes his eyes and feels the ooze's stinging warmth drip thickly from his cheeks to his neck. Jeff's hair floating in a pillow of slime.

****

Jeff lays in a hospital bed, weakly opening his eyes. Steve tosses the Teen Beat magazine and darts to Jeff's side. "Oh man, you are up!" Still groggy, Jeff mumbles, "Wow, that was something, right?"

"Something? I'll say."

Jeff sits up, getting his bearings. "I am so sorry about that. I thought I had it. Did you have to stay late?"

"Stay late? I left two hours earlier and then took three-days off for pain-and-suffering. The trauma, you know?"

Jeff squishes his eyes and massages his forehead. "Yeah, sorry about that. Causing your trauma and all."

"Ah, no man. I leveled up my Bard and caught-up with Regis and Kelly."

Jeff smiles. "I'm glad you could make the best of it."

"Lemons to whiskey sours, or however that goes."

Jeff shifts, sitting at the bedside. "Here, let me help you" Steve's hand hovers above Jeff's large frame.

Jeff stands, a bit uneasy at first. He shakes the cobwebs from his head and wiggles his arms. Stretching his wingspan, Jeff notices his skin's green tint. "What the frog?" Jeff exclaims.

"Yeah, Hulk, I was gonna mention."

Jeff inspects the glow, turning and twisting his arms. His muscles, already bulky, seem more defined and larger still. He stands straight then hunches over, doing a body-builder's flex. "Whatcha gonna do when Hulkamania's runs all over you" he growls with a laugh.

*****

Jeff walks to the dresser. "Yeah, your mom sent over some clothes" adds Steve. "I told her how you're always talking about that pink turtleneck I gave you for Christmas," Steve smirks mischievously.

"Steve, do you know why you're my best friend?" Jeff asks.

"No, why?"

"Too bad, I was hoping someone would know," Jeff smiles, putting on the turtleneck, nearly tearing at the seams.

Jeff walks to the mirror to admire the style. "I look like an inverse watermelon."

Steve eyes Jeff's gait. "Holy Lord's Shepard! Your left leg!"

Looking down, Jeff notices the absence of the drag or any infirmity. "Well, I'll be damned" Jeff muses. "Seems I got myself some super-powers or, at least, lost my super-weaknesses."

"I'll say. You think you can try-out for the Eagles?" Steve asks with slightly more seriousness than humor.

"Ha! I'll be satisfied avoiding the dog's 'gifts' when I mow mom's lawn."

****

Jeff is met with back-slaps, high-fives, and warm welcomes when he returns to work the next day. Alice holds a cake under a large "Hulk Smash" banner that hangs above the warehouse's entrance. "My idea" Steve grins proudly.

"Clever" Jeff nods with approval.

During the course day, Jeff practically glides. Onlookers watch with glee as he performs Changements, Grand Battlements, and a Petit Saut. "Look, Swan Lake" Jeff grins. Steve yells from a small group of coworkers, "More like an ugly duckling in the mud." Jeff joins them all in laughter.

The barrels float like beach balls in Jeff's arms. On the typical day, he does the job of three men. Today? Jeff's carrying the entire department's load.

Later that afternoon, Jeff sees Steve talking with two men and a woman, each dressed in black suits, dark shades, and serious - seemingly identical - faces. One holds a long, wrought-iron rod, the other has a thick black briefcase, and the third carrying a clipboard. The group are engaging in an uneven conversation. Steve animatedly yapping and smiling like a goofball, while the three 'suits' listen stoically unimpressed. Steve turns, spying Jeff. As if in perfect synchronicity, the suits' eyes follow Steve's finger pointing right at Jeff.

"Shit. Corporate and their paperwork" Jeff says softly.

As they begin the approach, Jeff calls loudly, "No worries. I'm ok."

Undeterred, they march briskly towards Jeff.

"Jeff Albom?" the tall, skinny visitor says - more of a statement than question.

Jeff smiles half-heartedly and nods.

The man holding the wrought-iron bar hands it to Jeff. "Bend this" he directs.

"Bend it?"

"Bend this."

"Like, just bend it?"

"Bend it."

Jeff takes the bar holding each end, and curls it into a 'U.'

"Make a pretzel" the shorter man orders.

"A pretzel?"

"Pretzel."

Jeffs grasps the ends, twisting the bar into a pretzel-like shape.

"A dog" says the woman.

"A dog?"

"Yes," she says. Her pony-tail bobbing just enough to signal impatience and annoyance. "Like a balloon animal. You can make a giraffe if you like. But I prefer a dog."

Jeff's unravels the pretzel and turns the bar until it forms some sort of abstract four-legged creature. The woman examines the sculpture. "Adequate."

"Adequate?"

"Like a 47-inch tv" she says with some ambivalence.

"That's a fairly big TV" Jeff adds.

"It's not a 60" she retorts.

"Run to that wall" the tall man breaks into the exchange.

"The wall?"

"Just do it."

Jeff begins trotting to the back wall.

"Faster," says the shorter man.

"Fffff…." begins Jeff.

"Faster!" they all interrupt.

Jeff sprints. In the corner of his eyes, the shelves, barrels, and coworkers are mere formless blurs.

He touches the wall, stops and turns. Smiling giddily at his unexpectedly velocity.

In the distance, the short man places the black suitcase on the ground. He methodically unfastens the latches, lifts the cover, and pulls out a football.

"Goal post" the tall man orders.

"What?"

"GOAL POST!"

The short man cocks his arm and throws the ball to the room's back corner. Jeff watches the ball wobbling mid-flight and begins chase. Dramatically overthrown, Jeff pushes from his left foot, and leaps with outstretched arm. The ball falls softly into his green-tinged palm.

The three visitors walk with determination across the warehouse, avoiding splotches of oil. When they reach Jeff, the woman extends the clipboard and a pen.

"What is this?" Jeff asks.

"Sign it."

"Seriously, guys, I'm ok."

"Sign it" the woman says in all seriousness.

Jeff takes the clipboard and pen, flips the cover and examines.

It reads: "Philadelphia Eagles: Contract: Inside Linebacker."

Jeff smiles.

In the distance, Steve yells, "Sign it!"