Poles Apart Read Online Free Page A

around behind me.”
    “Holy shit, really? Is your leg, you know, totally paralyzed?”
    “Kind of half-paralyzed, I guess. I’ve got some feeling there, but not much. It kind of feels like pins and needles, but not exactly,” he said. “And what’s worse, my golf game is in the crapper and won’t be getting better any time soon.”
    “Sorry about your golf game, but I’m more interested in your prognosis.”
    “Yeah, well, my prognosis wasn’t affected. It’s still working fine,” he said with an edge. “I have no fuckin’ idea what the word prog-fucking-nosis even means.”
    “Sorry. It sort of means what’s going to happen to you. Are you going to get better?” I explained.
    “Well, why didn’t you just say that,” he snapped. “The docs say I’m going to get better, but it’s going to take some time and I got to relearn stuff like using my crippled hand and my cement leg.”
    “Okay, so what do they have you doing?”
    “Well, in the mornings I do a couple hours of physio, or what I call Torture Time. Then in the afternoon, I got to walk around the big backyard at this place until my left leg starts to keep up with my right. And I got to squeeze my balls with my left hand.”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “I love saying that,” he said. “They gave me these two little black rubber balls. I got to spend all day squeezing them with my left hand.”
    “Okay, got it. I was confused for a moment there … well, you know …”
    “Yeah, well, I guess if I squeezed my own balls all day, they’d be black, too.”
    “Thanks, Dad. That’s just the image I was hoping to have stuck in my head.” I paused, but not for long. “So, do you have your own room?”
    “Yep, and it ain’t half bad. The bed’s kind of hard. You know, somewhere between old carpeting and three-quarter-inch plywood. But I got a TV on this funky boom gizmo so I can watch it in bed. Hell, I could yank it down and watch it under the bed if I wanted. And my physioperists are mostly hot. They’re always coming in and cooing in my ear, and rubbing my left arm and leg. A shame I can’t feel much there yet. But give me time. Oneday a guy came in to work on me, so that was a little weird and uncomfortable. But the rest are fine. Anyway, the women are all over me, you know? Three and four times a day. Who can blame them?”
    “Physiotherapists.”
    “What?”
    “Dad, they’re called physiotherapists.”
    “I know what they’re fucking called. I was just messing with you.”
    “Dad, why did you wait so long to call?”
    “I was just waiting to see how long it took you to call me,” he said.
    “I’m coming down, Dad,” I said. “I’m moving down for a while. I’m going to help you walk it off. We’re going to do it together.”
    “Hey, thanks, Ev. That would be nice. To see you, I mean, and talk a bit,” he started. “But, listen, rather than saying ‘We’re going to
do it
together,’ how about just saying ‘We’re going to
get through it
together.’ Okay, son?”
    “Ah geez,” I said to no one in particular. “So have you gotten to know any of your fellow patients?”
    “Well, I got my eye on a few of the women limping around the grounds. I think they’re a little older but I figure that just means they got more experience.”
    “Dad, I wasn’t asking if you were cruising the patients, or scoring with them. I just wondered if you’d met any of them? You know, and had a normal, civilized conversation, the way people sometimes do.”
    “Oh, I’m working on it, Ev. I think my gimpy left leg might be a turn-off. But I’m working on it.”

    My father is nothing if not predictable. By the time I said goodbye, we were on pretty good terms, though it’s often hard to tell with my dad. But I think he was looking forward to spending some time with his only begotten son. I might even have been looking forward to spending some time with him.
    Just before I headed to bed, I received an email notice of a bank