The Country Duet(32)

I’ve learned that when Dave had his stroke seven years ago, it left sixty percent of his lower body paralyzed. It makes everything inside of his house make sense. It’s like walking into a museum of the former Dave from seven years ago. The dust and clutter is evidence of how the stroke paralyzed everything. It halted his life and ever since then he’s just been struggling to live a normal life.

It’s a damn wonder he’s made it this long. He admitted that there had been other college kids who worked for him for short stints. He didn’t trust them, and they were lazy, the list goes on. I’m sure they ran for the damn hills after a few days with Dave.

“Look what I brought you, old man,” I say, setting him down in his recliner.

His eyes light up when I pull the package of black licorice from my back pocket. Dave snatches it before I can hand it to him. He has the package open and chomping on the candy while opening his medicine bottles.

I sweep through the house, emptying the piss bottles then pick up trash. Dave has the candy devoured with black slobber running down his chin, not bothered in the least.

“Need a favor.” He leans forward in his chair.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Can you clip my toenails? Bastards are long.”

I lift my ball cap off my head, running my hands through my hair, trying to figure out how in the hell to get out of this.

“Clippers are in the bathroom.”

Walking slowly, I find them in his medicine cabinet. They're like I’ve ever seen before; they resemble a pair of pliers with a sharp ass point. It’s a torture device, and with my luck, I’ll clip off a damn toe and not just the nail.

“You’re going to owe me for this.” I pull up a footstool. “You are really pushing my limits here, Dave.”

He smiles with his couple of black teeth exposed. “Thought cleaning up my shit and seeing me naked would do you in. You’ll be just fine.”

“You are too damn much.”

Pulling off his socks, it takes everything inside me not to gag. Even though I’ve helped him in and out of the tub, I’ve never actually paid any attention to his feet. Thick layers of mold are nestled between his toes. It's the sickest shit I’ve ever seen. I focus on the job at hand, beginning at the pinky toe, trying to avoid looking at the black mold.

The clippers are easier to use than I thought. Thank God, they’re viciously sharp to get through his thick, yellow nails. Dave chuckles, watching me wince at the horror his feet are.

My hand squeezes down on the clippers, the toenail flying right into my chest. Each one that strikes my chest chips away at my shield of armor. It all becomes too much. I turn my head and begin gagging and coughing. My stomach cramps and vomit threatens.

“What’s wrong, Hunter?” Dave asks with amusement in his voice.

“Nothing.” I shake my head, trying to steady my breathing and avoid gagging again.

This cannot be healthy in the least. His other foot is just as bad, maybe even a little better. I find a clean pair of black socks and cover his feet up as fast as possible. I don’t have it in my gut to clean his toes.

“Fucking disgusting,” I whisper to myself in the mirror while pouring a whole bottle of rubbing alcohol over my hands.

There’s not enough hot water in the well to wash away the nastiness from my hands, or any amount of counseling to wipe away the memory and sight of what just happened.

“Saw that you have a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes in the fridge.” I stand in front of Dave. “Want me to warm it up for lunch?”

“Sure.” He tosses a magazine to his table.

Dave continues talking in a louder voice while I’m in the kitchen warming up the food.

“Been thinking. I need a pot with a handle that I can hook on my walker.”

“For what?” I shout back.

“Having a hard time making it to the bathroom. Tired of shitting myself. If I can find a pot that fits on the front of my walker, then I can just shit in it.”

Stunned. Shocked. Speechless. Holding the warm plate in my hand, I realize he’s serious as a damn heart attack. Dave holds up a piece of paper with the exact dimension of this pot. It’s precise with measurements on every angle of the pot.

“Are you serious?” I ask, handing him the plate.

Dave takes it in one hand while giving me the note. “Go to town and find it.”

I stare at him dumbfounded. “Dave, there’s no way in hell I’m going to find this exact pot.”

“Take the tape measure off the table. Make sure you get a cheap one, and it’s the right size.”

“There are other options…”

“Nope.” He cuts me off. “I want the pot.”





***


Teale: Where are you?

Me: Just hopping out of the shower…be there in fifteen.

Teale: You didn’t need to shower. I love the smell of a hard working man.

Me: Shower was a must. Have a good Dave story for you.

Teale: Are you here yet?

I toss down my new phone, knowing this could go on forever. I throw on a pair of Wranglers, a black Henley, and slap on some cologne. My hands rub the scruff on my face. I always have been a clean shaved man, but I know Teale enjoys my scruff in more than one way.

“Hello?” Her voice flows through my apartment right into the bathroom, striking my heart alive.