Part 1 by Castgimp Maxwell loved to run. In Missoula, it had not been a problem. There was so much wide open space in Montana that a man and his dog were never at a loss for a space in which to have an outdoor adventure together. When Doug had first decided to move back to San Francisco two years ago he had silently committed to making sure that Maxwell would get a chance to run at least once a day, despite the obstacles that city life presented. He had accepted the job before he found a place to live, and at one point he had despaired that he would ever find something he could afford that would have access to a green space. Doug was a runner himself and he had fantasized about living near the marina and being able to take Maxwell running with him every night after work down on the paved path through the Presidio that ran along the bay from Fisherman’s Wharf to Golden Gate Bridge. Second only to Stanley Park in Vancouver, the run out to the bridge and back in San Francisco was his favorite anywhere. After just a few days of looking for an apartment, however, it had become clear to him that even with what was considered a very good salary for a social worker he was never going to be able to afford anything near the water. He’d felt extremely lucky when he finally found a one bedroom third-floor walk-up in one of the very few old Victorians that had not been restored to its former glory on the fringe of the Haight, not very far from Golden Gate Park. A friend of a friend of a friend had known someone who was about to move out and by moving quickly he was able to secure the apartment before it was even listed. He considered it something of a miracle that he had been able to find a place that would accept a dog, and that, against all odds, there was a fenced dog park virtually across the street. Maxwell seemed to adjust to the change from Missoula to San Francisco with relative ease, and Doug and his dog soon established a routine that was inviolate. Every morning at six Maxwell would rouse Doug from sleep with a cold nose in his face. Doug would pull on crumpled jeans and a t-shirt from the floor where he had stepped out of them the night before and the two of them would bound down the stairs where Maxwell would sit at the door until Doug had snapped the leash onto his collar, and then together they would cross the busy street that ran in front of the house. Once they were safely inside the fenced dog run, Doug would set Maxwell free and he would romp with his canine friends while Doug chatted softly with the other dog owners he had come to know. There was an anthropology of dog parks that Doug found fascinating. In dog parks he found that it was possible to strike up friendships and have conversations with people who in any other setting would be off limits. There was a great equalizing that happened inside the wire fence of the dog run, and bakers and lawyers and nannies and school teachers and scions of old San Francisco all melded into a community of sweatshirt wearing pet owners who, at least first thing in the morning, had not yet generally washed their hair. Doug didn’t delude himself. It was not the case that the dog park scene was utopian. There were certainly annoying dog owners, and there were certainly annoying dogs, but in general there was a feeling of community and a dissolution of social barriers the likes of which in this city Doug had only experienced in the immediate aftermath of the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989 when strangers throughout the city had suddenly found themselves on the street together. In the fall of 1989 when the tectonic plates along the San Andreas Fault had suddenly shifted and the Bay Bridge and the Nimitz Freeway had come tumbling down and the World Series had been halted, Doug had been a freshman at Berkeley. Now, sixteen years later, that seemed like a very long time ago, and Doug had certainly covered a lot of ground in the intervening years. After graduating in 1993, Doug had taken a job teaching high school English at the Ojai Valley School, an elite boarding school just south of Santa Barbara County and the Los Padres National Forest. The school was progressive and the kids were smart and the setting was idyllic, but after two years Doug developed a strong feeling that he was meant to do more than groom privileged children for admission into the country’s most selective universities, and the strong sense of entitlement that both his students and their parents shared was beginning to make him angry. There was another factor at play in his general dissatisfaction with the path his life had taken. As a young gay man living on a boarding school campus in Ojai, California, Doug was pretty sure he was never going to meet anyone he could date. By his calculus it was time for a big change in his life, and he enrolled in a Master’s degree program in social work at Columbia University in New York. After Berkeley, and Ojai, Manhattan was nearly overwhelming, but Doug loved it, and found himself intoxicated by the city. The City. That’s how he came to think of it. After New York, there could be no other. And there were men. More men than he could imagine. There were aspects of the downtown club scene that Doug found revolting, and even frightening, but through the gay graduate student union and in the several neighborhood bars in Morningside Heights that he came to know, Doug found a community of friends where he felt at home, and it was through this network of gay and lesbian friends and colleagues that he met Sam. Sam was a graduate student in the School of Journalism. He’d been an NYU undergrad, and in his mind was now on track to be the next Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein. He loved politics. He loved to write. He loved a scoop. And maybe best of all, he loved sex, and he certainly seemed to love Doug. Doug and Sam moved in together six months after Doug arrived in the city, and they were still together eighteen months later when they both finished their graduate programs. Doug took a job with a social service agency in Brooklyn and Sam took a writing fellowship with the New York Times and all was well with the world. Until suddenly things changed. More specifically, Sam changed. It took Doug longer than it should have to figure out that the new intensity of Sam’s personality, the new manic quality he increasingly displayed, was not simply the euphoria of a young man who has the world by the balls, but was in fact chemically driven. It was not until a check that Sam wrote to his mother bounced, until he realized that his bank account had been drained, until he searched Sam’s dresser and found that little glass pipe, that he realized he had a problem on his hands. The dissolution was ugly. There were horrendous shouting matches, hurled accusations and denials, and even airborne crockery. And there were the HIV tests. In the end there was a tremendous sense of sadness and an urgent need to move on. Which is how Doug ended up in Missoula. Doug took a job with the Missoula School District in their at-risk student program, where he worked with troubled teens and their parents on just about every difficult issue that could come up, from drugs and violence to suicide and pregnancy and AIDS. There was no shortage of at-risk youth in Missoula, which Doug partly attributed to the fact that the main high school was called Hellgate, but difficult as the work was, it was more rewarding by far than his experience at the Ojai Valley School. Much to his surprise, Doug like Missoula, and more than Missoula, he liked Montana. After the tall buildings of New York City, the big sky overhead felt liberating. Missoula is also where Doug met Maxwell. He had resigned himself to never having a boyfriend again and decided that a dog would be the next best thing. Maxwell was a white German Shepherd he’d found as a puppy wandering the street where he lived. In fact, Maxwell seemed to present himself to Doug almost as if he had selected Doug to be his owner, and they had been together ever since. It was the most stable relationship Doug had ever experienced in his life, and the bond the two of them shared was fierce. Doug had taken the job with the San Francisco School District in part out of acknowledgement that he really would like to meet someone he might share his life with before he turned 40, but in fact in the two years that he had been in the city he hadn’t met anyone special, and his life still centered around work and Maxwell. The issues in the schools were even tougher in San Francisco, and the burgeoning crystal methamphetamine problem in the middle and high schools reminded Doug daily of his bitter departure from Sam and New York City six years ago. Despite the difficulty of his work on a daily basis, he felt as strongly as ever that his work made a difference and was therefore worthwhile, and no matter how slaughtered he felt at the end of the day, Maxwell was his welcome release from it all. Most days he was able to dash home at lunch to give Maxwell a quick parade around the dog park, and every single day after work, rain or shine, Doug and Maxwell went running. Most days, it was the highlight of the day for both of them. Often, they ran in Golden Gate Park, but when the weather was particularly fine and when Doug had some money in his pocket, they would hop in a cab together and go down to the marina and they would run toward the setting sun and the Pacific Ocean along the water’s edge toward the bridge, and it was during those runs in particular, with Maxwell straining to keep up, that Doug knew in his heart that he had found a home for himself in San Francisco. On this particular June morning it was damp and foggy in the Haight, and Doug shivered a bit as he stood in the dog park watching Maxwell romp with his pals. The weather seemed not to bother the dogs in the least, and despite the chill, they were fully engaged in sophisticated canine interactions that this morning included some serious doggy soccer with a large red rubber ball. The humans tended to cling to the periphery of the dog run, still half asleep, letting the dynamics on the playing field unfold as they might. Doug liked the brutal honesty of the dog park first thing in the morning. Here he could stand amongst his neighbors unselfconsciously unshaven and unwashed, entirely unpackaged for the day, and it didn’t matter. For most of the year the official uniform of the pet owners included a baseball hat jammed down over hair that had not yet been tamed for the day. Many people held steaming coffee mugs in their hands but Doug stood there uncaffeinated with his hands jammed deep into his pockets, trying to find some warmth by keeping his hands close to his balls. After enduring so much of winter in Montana he hated having to wear a coat in California, and in San Francisco he seldom did. It particularly irked him to have to wear one in June when January had been so fine, but as he shivered in the morning mist he conceded that he should have grabbed a jacket as they had come out the door. Just as he was about to whistle for Maxwell and head home for a hot shower he saw Chuck, one of the neighborhood’s relative newcomers, making his way across the street toward the dog park. It only took a moment for Doug to decide, against his better judgment, that he would give Maxwell a few extra minutes of freedom. Chuck seemed to immediately see Doug and lifted his chin from across the lawn in silent greeting. Doug declined to raise his chin in acknowledgement, but he stared shamelessly at the man as he entered the dog run. Doug didn’t hide the fact that he liked to look at Chuck, and he was equally blunt about the fact that he really couldn’t stand to talk to Chuck. Chuck was one of the few people who showed up at the park fully groomed every morning and resplendent in an expensive business suit. He wore a thick gold ring on his right pinky and a heavy gold bracelet on his right wrist. Because he had told him, Doug knew that Chuck was an executive with an ad agency downtown. They had only ever exchanged a handful of words at a time, but Doug found him insufferably arrogant and his expensive glasses and his expensive haircuts and his expensive shoes and his gym-buffed body, and the cynical campy inflection of his voice screamed ugly A-list fag to Doug loud and clear. Doug was comfortable with his own homosexuality, but there was nothing more alienating to him than urban gay male culture. His brief foray into the club scene in New York with Sam had left a permanently bad taste in his mouth. His friends accused him of homophobia, and it was an accusation that made him bristle, but it was true that he had no patience for most prime time fags and he knew that as a result he was likely to remain a lifelong bachelor with a very fine dog. Despite Doug’s very deliberate and nearly rude standoffishness, Chuck seemed to persist in trying to engage Doug in conversation, but Doug took it as a very bad sign that in the less than several dozen brief conversations they had ever had he had learned that Chuck’s watch came from a small private jeweler in Florence, that the value of his house had risen nearly $50,000 in the six short months that he had owned it, and that his dog had a fucking championship pedigree. His dog Edith Piaf was an obnoxious yippy little Pomeranian that was one of the few dogs in the entire neighborhood that was universally disliked by humans and fellow dogs alike. But despite all of the objections that Doug so readily raised, Chuck was awfully easy on the eyes. He was a full-grown man who was easy in his body and Doug couldn’t help mentally undressing him every time he saw him. He was almost stereotypically handsome, with fine strong features and dark wavy hair that was just barely starting to go gray at the temples. Doug figured that he had to be close to 40 but somehow he had managed to hold on to a firm round soccer player’s butt that his tailored suits set off particularly well. What Doug really yearned for was to see Chuck in an unguarded moment, sweaty and unshaven, hair disheveled, wet shorts clinging to his ass cheeks as he bent over to catch his breath (such, at least, was the stuff that some of Doug’s most intense fantasies were made of). Doug himself, despite being a life-long runner, had never joined a health club, and he had no desire to lift weights or take a yoga class, but he did think that if he could discover the gym where Chuck worked out it would be worth joining just to hang out in the locker room and watch him shower. As it was, while Doug was content to ogle Chuck from across the paddock and fantasize about what the man looked like standing in his underwear, each time they were in the dog run together Chuck seemed hell-bent on drifting inexorably toward Doug and initiating a conversation, and this morning Doug found himself once again inching along the fence in the opposite direction that Chuck was traveling trying to avoid yet another inane verbal encounter that all but destroyed his fantasies of the man naked. As soon as the steps of this familiar dance started Doug regretted his hasty decision to stay and he again whistled for Maxwell. He wanted to head purposively for the gate with his dog on his leash before Chuck could pin him down for a conversation about the fabulous granite kitchen counter he had just had installed or his upcoming trip to Australia. Just as Doug and Maxwell were passing through the gate he heard Chuck call his name. “Fuck,” Doug said to himself under his breath, and he kept walking. “Doug! Hang on!” Chuck was quickly closing the distance between them, and Doug paused, turning to face Chuck standing inside the fenced enclosure. “Hey Chuck. Listen, I gotta run. I have an early appointment and I’m running late already.” He turned to go without waiting for a response. “I’ll walk with you. I have an early meeting too.” Doug couldn’t believe he’d let himself be trapped again and he evaluated whether he had the balls to simply keep walking. He didn’t. “Edith! Come!!” Maxwell sat obediently at Doug’s side while they waited for Chuck to wrestle Edith Piaf into her dainty little harness. Doug took a deep breath. He thought that Edith was a pathetic excuse for a dog. As soon as he saw Chuck and his little fur ball coming through the gate, he started walking, and Chuck had to trot to catch up. “I don’t mean to be rude Chuck, but I really am in a hurry this morning.” He did mean to be rude. Chuck was on his heels. “This won’t take a minute. Listen. I’m having some guys over Friday after work. I was hoping you would join us. I want to show off my new kitchen.” Before Doug could formulate the words “I’m sorry,” Edith Piaf began to snap at Maxwell’s hind quarters. Maxwell turned and growled but kept moving forward. Edith was undeterred. “Max! Leave her alone!” Doug was trying to shorten the leash and draw Maxwell in close to his side. “Edith! Quit!” Chuck’s voice was shrill and Doug thought it sounded almost feminine. Chuck had Edith Piaf on one of those retractable leads but the tension seemed to have gone out of it and the long strap dragged on the ground. Suddenly Edith was underneath Maxwell, her sharp, high-pitched yapping mixing now with Maxwell’s angry growling and heavier, deeper snarling. There was a single moment when each man lunged, reaching for his own dog, trying to prevent the inevitable confrontation between these two wildly disproportionately sized but equally angry dogs, and it was the very same moment that the two dogs lunged for each other. It unfolded almost in slow motion and Doug could see what was about to happen but he could do nothing to stop it. As Maxwell pounced on Edith, Edith darted between Doug’s legs and Maxwell followed. Two leashes suddenly wound themselves around his legs and even as Doug tried to prevent himself from stumbling, Chuck stepped forward and his shoulder clipped Doug’s and both men lost their balance. Under other circumstances Doug would have found some humor in the angry knot of dogs and humans and leashes that lay tangled on the ground, but the absurdity of the moment was lost on him. All he could focus on was the searing pain in his leg. “Get the fuck off!” Doug was pushing on Chuck’s heavy suited body, trying to get out from under him. Doug had heard an awful, sickening, muffled snapping sound as Chuck had landed on him, and now the crushing weight of Chuck on his leg was more than he could bear. “I’m sorry! Hang on! I’m trying. Edith, get off of me!” Chuck was struggling to disentangle himself from the two leashes that had wound themselves around his legs. Finally, Chuck managed to roll onto his side and push himself up. He was furiously brushing mud from the knee of his suit pants when he noticed that Doug was still lying flat on his back. Maxwell sat quietly at Doug’s head, as if guarding him. Doug’s eyes were closed, and a sudden wave of panic seized Chuck. “Hey! Doug! Are you OK?” Doug was visibly grimacing in pain, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath, but he didn’t respond. “Doug?” Chuck dropped to his knees next to Doug and Maxwell growled at him. Finally Doug’s lips moved and he spoke in a strained, hoarse whisper. “Get help Chuck. I need help.” “Doug?!? What’s wrong??” Chuck’s heart was racing. By this time other people from the dog park were starting to drift over to see what was going on. “My leg,” Doug’s voice was measured and strained. “You broke my leg when you fell on me.” “Your leg?? Oh Jesus Doug. I’m sure it’s not broken. It can’t be broken. I know we fell pretty hard. You probably got the wind knocked out of you. Let me help you sit up.” Chuck bent low over Doug to put an arm behind his neck. “Don’t touch me!” Doug shouted, his voice now fully recovered. Maxwell stood over him barking. Chuck jumped to his feet, taken aback and visibly frightened. “Just get some help Chuck. Use your fucking cell phone to call 911. It’s the least you can do.” Doug was angry, and the shooting pain in his leg was animating his fury. Chuck stood a few feet off, ashen, one hand covering one ear and the other hand pressing his cell phone to his other ear. Quite a crowd of dog-owners and dogs had begun to form a circle around Doug and Maxwell, and to the inevitable string of questions about what had happened Doug could only mumble over and over the one thing that was most pressing in his mind: “He broke my leg. He broke my leg. He broke my leg.” It seemed to Doug that it took forever for the ambulance to arrive. There was no question in his mind that his leg was broken. He’d heard the bone break, and he had never experienced pain that was even remotely comparable to the pain that was now shooting up and down the entire length of his leg. A neighbor had thrown her coat over Doug’s chest to keep him warm, and another neighbor had rolled up her coat and put it under his head. Chuck stood off to the side, holding Edith in his arms, effectively isolated from the circle of people that surrounded Doug. It was only after Doug was in the ambulance, after he had been given a shot of morphine, after the drug had begun to dull the sharpest edge of the knife that he was able to think about anything at all besides the pain. The sharp stick of the needle in his arm had given way to a gentler burning sensation that in turn became a river of warm soothing balm that he could visualize coursing through his body. He felt as if he was floating, almost in hot bath water, and the morphine freed his mind to wander. He remembered, for instance, that he was not wearing underwear—that he had pulled his jeans on over his naked butt as he always did to walk Maxwell first thing in the morning. He imagined that at the hospital they were likely to take his pants off and he was self-conscious about the fact that he would be naked. He also realized that he did not have his wallet, did not therefore have his insurance card with him, and did not have his cell phone with him. He had left the house with only a t-shirt and jeans, his keys, and a pair of Birkenstocks. And that made him wonder what had become of his Birkenstocks. They had splinted his right leg and he had seen his bare foot as they lifted him up onto the stretcher and he wondered what they had done with his shoes. They were his favorite pair of Birkenstocks, and the thought of losing them made him sad. That was one more thing to blame Chuck for, he thought somewhat petulantly. He remembered now for the first time that Chuck had offered to take Maxwell home with him and Doug had not protested. No one else had offered, and he certainly couldn’t take Maxwell with him in the ambulance. He remembered the sound of Maxwell barking as they lifted him into the ambulance. He hoped that Maxwell would eat Edith Piaf. He realized with a sinking feeling that he did not know Chuck’s last name, or his phone number, or even, for sure, which house was his. He raised his arm to look at his watch to see whether or not they would be wondering why he hadn’t shown up at work yet, and staring at his naked wrist he realized he hadn’t even slipped his watch on. He had no idea what time it was. He had no idea where he was, for that matter, or which hospital they were taking him to. He thought to ask the man in the back of the ambulance with him, but it seemed like too much effort, and the answer wouldn’t matter anyhow. He tried to bend the toes of his right foot down and a sharp pain shot through his leg and after that he tried to lie still for the rest of the ride, shutting out the pain, shutting out the stray thoughts that were running through his morphine-addled brain. It was enough to know that Chuck had broken his leg. At the hospital there seemed to be interminable waiting. Chuck spent what felt like hours lying on a gurney in the corridor of the emergency room waiting to be seen. The fact that he did not have any identification or proof of insurance with him seemed to complicate matters enormously. He finally convinced someone in green surgical scrubs to let him use her personal cell phone so that he could call his best friend Matthew who thought at first that Doug was staging some elaborate practical joke but was ultimately persuaded that Doug had indeed broken his leg and was lying in the hospital without his wallet or ID. Matthew had a set of keys to Doug’s apartment because Doug sometimes called on Matthew to let Maxwell out when he could not get home on time, and Matthew agreed to go and fetch Doug’s wallet from his apartment, which was a great relief to Doug, as he believed he would not be treated at all until he could prove who he was. Shortly after he hung up the phone, however, he was wheeled away for x-rays. As he had suspected they were intent upon taking his pants off, but rather than easing them down over his hips as he had imagined they might, he was shocked when they cut his jeans off of him, ensuring that he would have nothing to wear home, and it made him wish in the worst way that he had thought to ask Matthew to bring him underwear and a change of clothes, or at least another pair of pants. The process of getting his leg x-rayed turned out to be complicated and more painful than anything he had yet endured and he felt himself fighting the pain to such an extent that they had to hold him down and finally Doug again felt the sharp jab of a large needle in his arm and then the sweet heat of more morphine coursing through his body. This time, however, the narcotic made him feel nauseous and he mentioned that he had not yet had anything to eat and wondered if someone might bring him a small portion of a carbohydrate and a different person in a different pair of green scrubs told him that he couldn’t eat until they determined whether or not he was going to need surgery. That word cut through the morphine haze and crystallized Doug’s fear as nothing yet had. He had not thought very much about the consequences of having a broken leg, but the possibility of surgery had certainly never entered his mind. He tried to focus on other things, and rather than worrying about his own uncertain fate he chose to worry about the fact that he had abandoned Maxwell to Chuck’s untested care. Doug was resting flat on his back in a small exam room with a sheet thrown over his naked lower torso when a young doctor came into the room with a set of x-rays under his arm. Doug had no sense of the passage of time, but he felt that he had been lying alone in this room for quite a while, and despite the morphine there was a constant throbbing in his leg that kept him awake and at least partially alert. As the doctor threw the x-rays up onto a light board on the wall he delivered the bad news bluntly. “You’ve broken your tibia and your fibula about four inches below the knee.” Doug was trying desperately to remember his high school anatomy lessons to make sense of the doctor’s statement. “Two bones?” he asked lamely. “The large and the small bones in your lower leg. The good news is that there is not much displacement at all. We’re going to put you in a back-slab to immobilize the leg for now and once we get your insurance situation straightened out we’ll see about getting the surgeon in here to evaluate you. He may want to use a nail on that and he may not.” A nail? A back-slab? Doug had no idea what he was talking about but he didn’t feel he had the presence of mind to ask additional questions. Doug lay back and closed his eyes, resigned to the fact that his immediate fate was out of his hands. He was completely at the mercy of other people now and he knew it. There was nothing he could say or do that would change the immediate course that his life was now taking and he was surprised that he was so easily resigned to this complete powerlessness. He had been angry at Chuck, but now the fight had gone out of him. He wanted the pain to go away and he wanted to be home in his apartment with Maxwell and he knew that neither of those things was going to happen immediately. Soon enough, he knew, he would find out what this young doctor had meant by a back-slab and a nail. Meanwhile, Chuck was running late for work for the very first time in his life, and he was not at all sure that he was feeling well enough to make it through the day. When the ambulance had pulled away with its lights flashing, the rest of the neighbors had turned away from him and he had been left standing alone on the grass with the two dogs. Maxwell had barked and lunged as the EMTs were lifting Doug into the ambulance, but now he sat obediently at Chuck’s side, subdued. Chuck was amazed to see what he thought was a look of sadness on Maxwell’s face as the ambulance pulled away. Edith Piaf continued to run in circles and yap at Maxwell, but the bigger dog ignored her now with complete disdain. “Enough already Edith!” Chuck barked at the dog, weary also of her constant noise and mindful that she was at least partly to blame for the fiasco that had just unfolded at the gates of the dog park. The whole morning still seemed unreal to Chuck, and he kept running the events over and over in his mind like a news clip of a disaster on CNN. Had he really broken Doug’s leg? For months he had been trying to get to know Doug. His whole purpose in going to the dog park was the chance of running into him. It was just as easy to let Edith out the back door to shit and piss in the small fenced yard behind his house, and in fact he’d bought this house specifically because it had a fenced yard, albeit a tiny one, which was almost unheard of in San Francisco. But there was something about Doug that was like a magnet for Chuck, and despite Edith Piaf’s protestations, Chuck dragged her to the park twice a day in the hopes of running into Doug. There was something about Doug that Chuck found almost intoxicating—certainly addicting—but he would have been hard-pressed to say what exactly it was that made him so attractive. Certainly his long legs and his thick nearly shoulder length blond hair that he tucked behind his ears, his thin waist and tiny firm butt, all had something to do with it. If pressed, he would have had to admit that the Birkenstocks had something to do with it as well. But it was more than the extremely attractive physical package that Doug presented that drew Chuck to him. Part of the allure was that Doug seemed to be so completely comfortable in his skin. He exuded self-confidence and self-contained contentment that manifested itself as aloofness, and even sometimes as disdain, or at least that is how Chuck experienced it, though he was aware of the possibility that this disdain might be more narrowly focused specifically on him. Chuck knew that Doug was not a big fan of his, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he had done to cause the negative reaction. In fact the two men barely knew each other, which was why Chuck was able to keep the hope alive that he could somehow melt the ice and warm Doug up to something more than cold disregard. The other thing that kept his hope alive was the decidedly mixed set of signals that he received from Doug. He could almost see Doug visibly cringe every time he approached him, but at the same time, from across the street or across the dog park, he could hold Doug’s gaze for minutes at a time, and more than once he had caught Doug staring at him. The first time he had seen Doug he had been struck by his beauty, by how much he seemed to embody California itself—as a relatively recent transplant to the west coast, Chuck was forever trying to define California for himself and say what it was about the place that made it so different from New York—but he had initially concluded, or perhaps simply assumed, that Doug was straight. There was something about the way his baseball cap sat on his head that jammed Chuck’s gaydar—no gay man he’d ever met had looked like Doug—and yet when their eyes met, and held, he knew he had been fooled. That, at least, was one thing that was different about California. You couldn’t always tell who was gay, at least not with a New Yorker’s set of tools. As it was, he had been trying to interest Doug in conversation now for more than three months, and had gotten nowhere. He had finally worked up the courage to invite him over Friday for a cocktail party, and then this morning, without warning, everything had blown up in his face, and he still couldn’t quite make sense of it. They had certainly fallen hard, and he had ended up on top of Doug, but had he really broken the man’s leg? Doug had seemed convinced that his leg was broken, and the EMTs had taken him seriously, splinting his leg and easing him onto a stretcher. Chuck couldn’t imagine that it was true, and hoped that when Doug got to the hospital they would find everything intact, but if he had broken Doug’s leg, if their tangled fall had really resulted in a broken bone, then he knew that his prospects for ever winning Doug over had certainly declined precipitously. It would not be the first time in his life that he had wanted something so badly that he had inadvertently crushed it in his attempt to hold on to it. An ex-lover had once moved out on him without warning and by way of explanation had left behind a single copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mine and Men propped up on the kitchen table. What Chuck couldn’t understand, had never been able to understand, was why the things he wanted in life so often eluded him when other people, with far less effort, seemed to so easily gather about themselves the things they most enjoyed in life. The move to the west coast had been a risk for him, and he was an unlikely risk-taker, but his 40th birthday had come hard, and he had been frightened to his core by the dual prospects of his own mortality and also the lonely run up toward death with no one at his side. He had seen the job offer in California as a chance to start over, to reinvent himself, and to find a home in a new community of men who didn’t know about his past, didn’t bring with them to the dinner table the biases and prejudices that 20 years of gay life in Manhattan and Fire Island had ingrained in them. Surprisingly, the job had turned out to be one that he liked, and one that he was good at. He was able to bring a New York edge to his San Francisco firm that gave them a leg up in this market, and at the same time his own New York aggressiveness had been tempered in a positive way by the very different sensibilities of his West Coast colleagues. On top of that he managed to find the perfect house, the perfect gym, and a spot in the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus with all of the friendships and camaraderie that came with membership in that elite group, but in the nearly six months since he’d arrived and first moved into temporary quarters, he had not met a single man with whom he had been able to put together a second date. And now this morning he felt as if he had finally crushed the last life out of the one real romantic interest his imagination had been able to animate night after night as he jerked off alone in his big, empty, perfectly restored Victorian house on Golden Gate Park. He could not imagine any circumstances under which he might finally win the heart and soul of a man whose leg he had just broken, a man who seemed to have had little patience for him even before their unfortunate collision. And this thought depressed Chuck so thoroughly that he didn’t know if he had the energy to walk back to his house. The thought of going in to work was almost more than he could bear, but he knew that the alternative of staying home and going back to bed would only plunge him further into a black hole from which he might not be able to extricate himself. What he really wanted to do was follow the ambulance to the hospital, follow Doug into the emergency room, hold his hand while they waited for the doctor to see him, comfort him as they waited for someone to give him something to ease his pain, but he was pretty sure that Doug would not welcome his presence, and in fact might have him thrown out of the hospital, might even in his current rage suggest to the security guard at the door that this man who had broken his leg in the park this morning had now followed him into the hospital to further harass him, might mount a convincing argument that Chuck was in fact stalking him, might even seek to involve the police and bring some sort of assault charges against him. Chuck tended toward the apocalyptic when he was stressed, and it was easy for him to talk himself into complete certainty about the worst possible outcome of his own actions and this morning was no exception. He knew it would be a mistake to try to go to the hospital, and in point of fact he didn’t even know which hospital they were taking Doug to, though he knew he could probably figure it out with a few phone calls. The only thing he could do was wait, was to take care of Maxwell until Doug came home or sent someone else to fetch the dog from him, was to hope that his leg was not in fact broken and that if it was broken that it was not a serious fracture, and that in any event Doug might somehow be willing to accept Chuck’s heartfelt apology that his awkward invitation to come for drinks had had the unlikeliest of all possible outcomes. Chuck did not in fact feel as though he had broken Doug’s leg, but he did feel responsible for participating in a series of events that had led to a sudden and unexpected colliding of forces, and that in some indirect but proximal way he at least shared responsibility for Doug’s current injured status, and he felt that whether Doug wanted him to or not, he must in some way make this up to Doug. Still standing dumbly in the park staring off in the direction that the ambulance had taken, Chuck finally roused himself from his stupor and walked both dogs back to the house. He put Maxwell in the front bedroom with a big bowl of water and a bowl of dry dog food and closed the door. He knew that Max was a smart and gentle dog. He had seen him interact in a most gentlemanly way with the other dogs in the park, but he also knew that Edith was a little bitch and would delight in torturing Maxwell all day long if he left them together in the same space, and as much to shelter Maxwell from Edith as to protect Edit from Maxwell, he felt the closed door was best. He hesitated to blame Edith for this morning’s bad outcome, but he couldn’t help resenting her just a bit for her contribution to the fiasco. Certainly if Edith had not gone for Maxwell’s flank, Doug would not now be en route to the hospital. Unable to think of anything else constructive to do with his day, Chuck finally headed to the office, certain that his ability to concentrate on work would be minimal, but hopeful that work would be a safe place for him to spend the day. If nothing else the commerce with his colleagues might keep him from the terrifying prospect of spending the day alone with himself. Despite his best efforts to concentrate on work, he couldn’t stop himself from trying to imagine what might be happening at the hospital. What was happening at the hospital was that Matthew was arguing with a nurse at the ER registration desk trying to convince her that Doug was waiting for him to bring his wallet and proof of insurance. She kept telling him that he would have to take a seat and wait. In an exam room in the back, Doug was finding out what a back-slab was. An orthopedic technician was taking a thick slab of cold wet plaster and molding it to the bottom of his foot and to the back of his leg up to the back of his knee. He could see that it was more or less half a cast, or at least it kind of looked like the back half of a cast. The technician explained that this was only meant to temporarily immobilize the fracture site until he was seen by a surgeon. After the surface of the plaster had begun to dry, the technician took a thick roll of white cotton gauze and wrapped it around the plaster slab and his foot and leg, and then set the whole thing to rest on a large foam rubber wedge that kept Doug’s leg elevated while the plaster continued to dry. Doug could feel the plaster hardening on the sole of his foot and the back of his leg, and there was a weird warm sensation against his skin as well. Doug was still naked from the waist down, which no one seemed to mind but him. His crotch was draped with a sheet but he was acutely self-conscious of the fact that he was lying there without any pants or underwear. While Doug lay drying a nurse came in and told him that a gentleman named Matthew was out in the waiting room and was insisting on seeing him. She asked if it was OK to send him back, and Doug assured her that it was, telling her that it was Matthew who was bringing his proof of insurance. He was embarrassed for Matthew to see him like this, but he was more anxious to see a friendly face than he was embarrassed, and he grinned sheepishly when Matthew walked into the room a few minutes later. “What the hell happened to you?” Matthew asked as soon as he was inside the curtained exam room with Doug. “A guy named Chuck broke my leg,” Doug recounted peevishly. “Who the hell is Chuck?” “He’s a neighbor of mine.” “And this guy attacked you?” Matthew was incredulous. “No. He fell on me outside the dog park. I think he was hitting on me. It’s a long story.” “Yikes. Sounds like very rough trade to me.” “No. He’s just an idiot. Gorgeous, but an idiot.” “So what happens now?” “I don’t know. I broke two bones in my leg. They just put this half-slab thing on to keep everything from moving and they want me to see a surgeon but they won’t do anything more until I show them proof of insurance.” “Which I have with me.” “Thank god. Thank you Matthew. I feel terrible about making you leave work.” “It’s not a problem. You broke your fucking leg. It’s the least I can do. By the way this note was taped to your door.” He handed Doug a handwritten note that said simply: I am really sorry. I have your dog. Call me. And then there was a phone number scrawled at the bottom. “Fucking Chuck.” “This is the guy who broke your leg? He has Maxwell?” “I told you it’s a long story. I don’t want to talk about it.” “What happened to your pants?” “They cut them off.” “Yikes again.” “I know. I should have asked you to bring me something to wear.” Just then an orderly came in and said that they needed the exam room. He was pushing a wheelchair and proposed to move Doug into it but Doug insisted he was not getting off the table unless this guy could bring him something to wear. The orderly returned with a thin blue cotton hospital-issue bathrobe which he helped Doug into. As this guy pulled back the sheet Matthew couldn’t help but see that Doug was completely naked beneath it except for his t-shirt and the back-slab and Doug felt his face go red. When he swung his leg over the table he felt a surge of pain that took his breath away and he thought he might pass out. Matthew stood by with a desperately worried look on his face while the orderly tried to comfort Doug. Once Doug had regained his breath, the orderly helped ease Doug down into the chair and carefully raised his bandaged leg up onto the metal support that stuck out in front of the chair. “That fucking hurt like hell,” he said under his breath. “This sucks. Where are you taking me?” “Back out to registration. They need your insurance information.” The orderly wheeled him back out into the waiting area and up to one of the registration counters where a woman with very large breasts took his insurance card and started typing into a computer without saying a word. Matthew stood off to the side as if he were uncertain what his role was here. When the insurance lady was finally done typing she handed Doug back his card, still mute. “What do I do now?” he asked, confused. “Wait over there,” she said, pointing out toward the black plastic chairs that filled the waiting area. “Someone will be with you.” Doug couldn’t imagine that he was really supposed to sit in a wheelchair in the waiting room in a bathrobe with a piece of plaster stuck to the back of his broken leg and wait for someone to come out and find him, but that seemed to be what she was telling him. Matthew wheeled Doug carefully over to a quiet spot away from the door and sat down in a black chair next to the wheelchair. Doug slumped in the wheelchair, his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I have a broken leg. This really sucks. I haven’t fucking eaten anything all day. What time is it anyhow?” “12:30” “Jesus. I’m starving.” “I could go get you something to eat.” “They said I shouldn’t eat in case I need surgery. How the hell long am I supposed to go without eating? Fucking Chuck.” “Are you, um, in much pain?” “It throbs. When it first happened? Worst pain I ever felt in my life. Then when they did the x-rays, moving my leg around, even worse. They’ve given me two shots. Morphine I think. That helps. But I can feel it…throbbing…and sometimes a shooting, stabbing pain…like when I sat up in there.” “Yeah. I could tell. Um, not to pry, but, no underwear either? Did they cut that off?” He was smiling. Matthew was trying to make light. “Oh shut up. I told you it was a long fucking story. I want to go home. I want to see Maxwell. I want to fucking kill Chuck.” “He sounds like a nightmare.” “He’s hot. But he’s an idiot.” “You sleep with him?” “No! He’s a moron! He broke my fucking leg trying to invite me for a drink.” “Sounds like he could use some coaching on the pick-up thing.” “Listen, you should go back to work. I don’t know how long this is going to take.” “I’m alright. I told them I might not be back today. You shouldn’t be here alone. Is there anybody else you want me to call?” “Oh fuck! Can you call work for me? I totally forgot. Fucking morphine.” There was a big NO CELL PHONES sign in the waiting room, so Matthew stepped outside to call the school district for Doug, and when he got back, Doug was sitting with a woman in a red smock. They seemed to be engaged in an intent conversation so he waited on the side until she got up and left. “Who was she?” he asked, sitting down in the corner chair next to Doug’s wheelchair. “She’s a patient advocate. She was explaining my options.” Doug was holding a stack of papers she had left with him. “Which are?” “Not good. Basically, I’m fucked. It sounds like they can’t really do anything more for me here.” “No shit? Where the hell else are you supposed to go when you break your leg besides the hospital?” “Well it turns out they don’t really treat broken bones in the emergency room…they just sort of make sure you’re not dying and then pass you off to someone else.” “That does suck.” “I know. Somehow I thought they would just take care of things here. The good news is that even though my leg is busted I’m free to go home if I want to.” “Like right now?” “I guess so. If I want to. This back-slab thing they put on my leg is supposed to keep things from moving around until I can see a real doctor. I’m supposed to make an appointment to see an orthopedic surgeon to figure out what to do next.” “How are you supposed to figure out how to do that? What do you just call them up and say ‘I’d like to make an appointment for a broken leg.’?” “Basically. They have two of them on staff here at the hospital, but as you might imagine, they are both tied up doing surgery. If they were to go ahead and admit me to the hospital, one of them could maybe see me tomorrow, maybe the next day, and if I need surgery, they could maybe do it here later in the week.” “Maybe?” “Well I don’t have any bones sticking out through my skin so I guess I am not an emergency. I guess they see shit a lot worse than this all the time. The problem is that even though my insurance would pay for me to stay here overnight while they figure out if they can see me, they don’t have a bed available.” “So basically they’re trying to get rid of you.” “Sort of. This woman said I could hang out here and wait for a bed, but that there was no guarantee one would become available.” “Nice.” “I know.” “Well can they refer you to anyone? What are you supposed to do just pick a surgeon out of the phone book?” “She said I could go downstairs and make an appointment at the outpatient orthopedic clinic here at the hospital for later in the week, or I could make an appointment anywhere else I wanted. She said the best thing might be to call my primary care physician and ask him what to do. She said his practice might have an orthopedic practice they are affiliated with and that might be the fastest way to get in to see somebody.” “You have a primary care doc you like?” “Yeah. Peter Duran. He’s over by the University of San Francisco. I’ve only seen him twice since I moved here but he seems pretty good.” “Is he gay?” “Yeah. I don’t have the patience to see a straight doctor. He’s young. Pretty smart I guess. I just see him for my annual physical and HIV test.” “Maybe we should call his office.” “If I want to go, I have to have an exit interview and then they’ll give me my x-rays to take with me. This woman said they’ll write a prescription for some paid meds and I can get crutches or a wheelchair or both from the pharmacy downstairs.” “You can’t exactly go outside like that,” Matthew said, pointing to Doug’s bathrobe that was starting to come open. “No shit. I told her I didn’t have any pants to wear home and she said we could buy a pair of surgical scrubs at the medical supply store around the corner. And that’s pretty much it.” “So what do you want to do?” “I sure as hell don’t want to hang out here forever waiting for them to find a bed. What do you think I should do?” “I think we should take you down to the cafeteria to get you something to eat. I think we should jump on the phone with your primary care doc and see what he says, and then I think we should get you the hell out of here. You can stay at my place if you have to for a day or two…Joe and I don’t leave for Italy until Friday.” “I completely forgot you were going to Italy.” “Let’s go eat.” “You’re the best.” “I know I am. And I want to hear more about this guy Chuck.” “You suck.” “Let’s go eat.” Matthew wheeled Doug down to the cafeteria and he sat there in his flimsy blue hospital bathrobe with his plaster back-slab sticking out in front of him and he wolfed down a tuna sandwich and half a box of Oreos. Surrounded by other sick people and other wheelchairs and worried family members, Doug seemed completely unselfconscious now about his half-naked state. He used Matthew’s cell phone to call his doctor’s office, and they quickly referred him to a private orthopedic practice in the same neighborhood that, amazingly enough, said they could see him late that afternoon. Relieved to have a plan, they went back to the emergency room to pick up the x-rays and the prescription. Getting the paperwork squared away took almost another hour, and the nurse practitioner who did the exit interview stressed to Doug that the back-slab was only meant to provide temporary immobilization of the fracture site, like a splint, and that he should basically plan to be flat on his back with his leg up until he could be seen by a surgeon. Matthew, meanwhile, went out of the hospital and around the corner to try to buy Doug a pair of surgical scrubs. After a few wrong turns, he was ultimately successful, and when Doug was finally discharged, Matthew wheeled him and his x-rays into the men’s washroom so he could put the pants on. Both men were surprised to discover that the simple act of getting into the baggy green pants was a lot harder than it looked. The plaster slab that covered the bottom of Doug’s foot and the back of his leg was thick and angular at the corners and it held his foot at a right angle to his leg, all of which made it tough to get the pant leg up over the plaster. Matthew was scared to death of hurting Doug and he took it very slowly, kneeling on the floor of the restroom and pulling the green cotton up over Doug’s bandaged leg slowly and carefully. Doug had to put his arm around Matthew’s neck to ease his naked butt up out of the chair so that Matthew could scoot the pants over his hips and up around his waist. As gentle as Matthew was, every movement hurt Doug and he grimaced, certain that he could feel the bones moving in his leg each time he shifted his weight. Matthew was mindful that Doug’s morphine had probably long since worn off and that their next stop had to be the pharmacy downstairs. Since his insurance would cover it, Doug opted for both a wheelchair and crutches from the pharmacy, and he swallowed two big pain pills before they even left the pharmacy. Neither Matthew nor Doug owned a car, and they took a taxi back to Matthew’s apartment to wait until it was time to go to the clinic. Both Doug and Matthew figured out pretty quickly that in his newly disabled state, Doug needed Matthew’s help for completing even the smallest tasks, including taking a leak. Maneuvering Doug out of the wheelchair and into the taxicab was difficult and painful for Doug, who sat in the back with his bandaged leg propped up on the seat while Matthew rode shotgun with the driver up front. Once they arrived, using the crutches for the first time to navigate the five short steps up into Matthew’s apartment was harrowing for both men, and Doug began to despair as he thought about the three long flights of stairs up to his own apartment. Thoughts of his apartment turned quickly to thoughts of Maxwell, and it dawned on him that no matter what the surgeon would have to say when they met with him later in the day, Doug was not going to be able to take care of Maxwell on his own for quite a while, and that realization, more than anything else that had happened so far, plunged him into a deep depression. Just inside the door, Matthew helped Doug ease himself down onto the couch and carefully helped Doug lift his injured leg up onto a pile of throw pillows. Doug lay down flat on his back, his leg elevated, and covered his eyes with the crook of his arm. He was exhausted, and he had a pounding headache. His leg was throbbing and his mood was sour. Matthew went to the kitchen to bring him some water, and by the time he got back, Doug was fast asleep. Staring at Doug sleeping on his couch, his blond hair fanned out on the dark cushions, his long legs splayed out in the green of the brand new surgical scrubs, the thick square plaster slab extending out beyond the end of his right foot, Matthew wondered whether he should cancel his trip to Italy. In the course of their short trip home from the hospital he had figured out that Doug was not going to be able to care for himself. Matthew let Doug sleep until just before it was time to go for his appointment at the ortho clinic. While Doug was sleeping, he called his boyfriend Joe at work to let him know what was going on, and Joe offered to come home early from work with his car and drive them over to the clinic. Matthew was grateful for the help. It made him anxious to be responsible for Doug on his own. He was worried that Doug would fall or somehow get into trouble and that he would not know how to help him. When Joe got home Matthew met him on the street and told him that he was not sure they should go to Italy. Joe was predictably angry, and disappointed, as they had been planning the trip together for a long time. He took a deep breath and said that they should wait and see what the doctor said, and Matthew agreed, though in his heart he couldn’t imagine leaving the country with Doug laid up like this and alone. Matthew had to wake Doug, who was still sleeping soundly at five o’clock. Their appointment was for six-thirty, and Matthew wanted to leave plenty of time to get there through rush-hour traffic. The pain medicine had really knocked Doug out, and he was disoriented and confused when Matthew woke him. It took him a few minutes to figure out where he was, and to remember why he was on Matthew’s couch with his leg in a plaster splint. Matthew helped him sit up and when he swung his broken leg over the edge of the couch to the floor, the wave of pain that flooded through his body was overwhelming. He collapsed into Matthew, moaning, the color draining from his face. “Oh god, my leg,” he groaned, clutching at Matthew’s shoulder. “I’m gonna be sick.” “Joe!” Matthew screamed. “I need your help!” Joe came running into the room. “Grab a garbage can. He’s gonna heave.” Doug had broken out in a sweat and he was retching, trying not to vomit. Joe shoved a plastic bathroom trash can in front of him just as he brought up his lunch of tuna fish and Oreos. “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Doug mumbled as he tried to catch his breath. “Jesus. My leg hurts. This sucks. I feel awful. And I gotta take a leak.” “You’re gonna be OK Doug. Take it easy,” Matthew said, rubbing his shoulder. “We’re gonna take care of you.” With Matthew on one side and Joe on the other, they helped Doug to the bathroom, practically carrying him, and helped him balance on one foot while he peed. Then they sat him down on the closed lid of the toilet and Matthew helped him clean him up. He hadn’t showered since the day before and he was starting to feel a bit grimy, and frankly, Matthew told him, he was starting to smell a bit gamey as well. Matthew pulled Doug’s t-shirt up over his head and handed him a warm wet soapy washcloth so he could wash his face and under his arms. Matthew opened a fresh toothbrush and gave it to Doug so that he could brush his teeth, leaning gingerly over the sink. Doug was still unshaven, and his hair hadn’t been washed, but he felt a bit fresher. Joe brought him a glass of cold seltzer water to help settle his stomach, and together they decided that he should hold off on taking any more pain medication until they had been to the doctor in case that was what made him sick. Matthew gave him one of his clean t-shirts to wear, and then together the two men helped Doug out to the car, easing him into the backseat so he could prop his leg up. Joe and Matthew piled the crutches and the collapsed wheelchair into the trunk of Joe’s car, and then they both climbed into the front seat, Matthew holding the big manila envelope with Doug’s x-rays on his lap while Joe drove. Traffic was heavy, and it took them almost forty-five minutes to get across town to the clinic. Doug was still feeling pretty nauseous and didn’t feel up to crutching, so Joe pulled up right in front of the clinic and they pulled the wheelchair out of the trunk and helped Doug out of the car and into the chair. Matthew wheeled Doug in through the clinic doors while Joe drove off in search of a parking space. Amazingly they were on time, and more surprising still, the doctor called Doug back after only about a ten minute wait. Doug was gone before Joe even arrived back from parking the car. He had brought the crutches with him in case Doug needed them, and he and Matthew sat in the waiting area for an hour with no news. They were both starving, and finally they decided that Joe should venture out and see if he could find some sandwiches or takeout to bring back while Matthew continued to wait. He returned about thirty minutes later with some Thai food that they ate with plastic utensils in the waiting area with the brand new pair of crutches leaning on a chair next to them. It was about eight forty-five when a nurse finally wheeled Doug back out into the waiting room, and both Joe and Matthew were startled to see the thick white plaster cast that covered Doug’s long leg from his foot all the way up to his hip. The cast had a slight bend in the knee, and Doug’s foot was extended in a relaxed position, rather than at the ninety-degree angle the plaster splint had held it in. The cast ended about two-thirds of the way down his foot and his long bare toes were completely exposed. The heavy cast was supported by the metal leg support of the wheelchair, and it stuck awkwardly out in front of Doug like a ram-rod. “Holy shit,” Matthew whispered under his breath, trying feebly to smile. Joe had stood up as soon as Doug had emerged though the swinging doors. “Wow. That’s, um, quite a cast.” “I know. It was this or surgery, and I opted for the mega-cast. Let’s get out of here.” Doug signed the paperwork and they left, Joe holding the door and carrying the crutches, and Matthew pushing Doug in the wheelchair. The car was parked about five blocks away, but the neighborhood was flat and they decided to walk. On the way to the car, Doug filled them in on everything the doctor had said. He had had to choose between scheduling surgery during which the doctor would have used a pin (the nail they had talked about in the emergency room) to hold the two pieces of his tibia together, or this cast. The surgeon had told him that his fibula would heal fine on its own, but that his tibia was broken all the way through, and without hardware or a big heavy cast to hold the two pieces of bone completely immobile, the tibia would not heal properly aligned. The surgery would have put him back on his feet in about four weeks, but the pin would have stayed in his leg for the rest of his life. With the more conservative treatment with the cast, he would be laid up for twelve weeks or more, but the choice had been easy for Doug. He believed in surgery only as a last resort. The two pieces of tibia had been slightly misaligned, and Doug recounted how the doctor had manipulated them into place, a process that had felt to Doug as if he was actually cutting his leg off, and he had wondered if amputation might actually have been less painful. Then the doctor had carefully built up this plaster cast around his leg to hold the bones in place, and had finally placed him under a sort of heat lamp to harden the cast. He explained that the cast would take twenty-four hours to fully dry, but that it was dry enough now to make it safe for him to go home. It took both Joe and Matthew to ease Doug up out of the wheelchair and into the backseat of Joe’s car, and the new cast was much harder to maneuver than the plaster splint had been. It was big and heavy and truly inflexible. Doug’s legs were long, and the cast amounted to a very long column of white plaster which felt cold and damp in their hands. Once the three of them were finally in the car and Joe was releasing the emergency break Doug said “I’d like to go home, to my place.” They tried to talk him out of it, tried to convince him that he would be better off in their first floor apartment with their help than in his third floor walk-up, but he was stubbornly insistent, and they reluctantly agreed to take him home, exchanging silent worried glances in the dark front seat. Doug’s apartment was actually close, and it took them only a few minutes to get there. Getting Doug up the stairs to his apartment was another matter entirely. He took the three flights slowly on his crutches, with both Joe and Matthew behind him to prevent him from toppling over backwards. He had to hold the heavy cast out behind him in order not to bang it on the steps. It was heavy to hold up, and his thigh muscles ached and cramped and burned as he struggled not to let his foot touch down on the steps. Carrying himself and his cast up the steps with the crutches was much harder work than he had imagined, and he had to rest frequently to catch his breath and rest his hands. When they finally reached the top of the three flights of stairs, Doug was panting and pale. Matthew fumbled with the keys and opened the door as quickly as he could, and Doug headed straight for his bed, sitting down heavily and handing the crutches to Matthew. Joe helped lift Doug’s heavy cast up onto the bed and onto a pile of pillows Matthew had prepared, and Doug fell back onto the mattress exhausted. Matthew thought Doug would fall asleep almost immediately, but much to his surprise, Doug asked Matthew for the note that Chuck had left on the door and when he handed it to him, Doug leaned over and picked up the phone and began dialing. He held the phone to his ear for a long time and then screamed into the phone “I want my fucking dog!” and slammed down the receiver. “Sorry,” he said, turning to Matthew, “I got his answering machine. I want Maxwell.” Matthew couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Doug,” he said gently. “How are you going to manage with Maxwell? You can’t even…you can’t even get up and down the stairs by yourself. I don’t even know if you can get to the bathroom. If this guy Chuck will keep Maxwell at least for a few days…until you get more confident with the crutches.” “No way. I’m not leaving Maxwell with him. I’ll manage.” “Doug. You can’t manage. Not yet. Listen, Joe could take Maxwell back to our place, and I could stay here for a few days, to help you out.” Matthew had not run this plan by Joe, who was down at the car getting the wheelchair out of the trunk, but he couldn’t see any other plan that would work, unless they could get Doug to agree to come to their house with Maxwell. He knew Joe hated dogs. “You guys are going to Italy,” Doug said simply. “Listen Doug, we talked about that. Joe and I…Joe and I are gonna postpone our trip…” “You are not. Not on my account. I’m serious Matthew. You will not postpone your trip on my account.” “Well we’ve got twenty-four hours before we have to make a decision. Let’s see how you make out.” Matthew was trying to speak soothingly to Doug, who was clearly agitated. “How about if I stay here tonight to help out and then we can see how you are doing tomorrow before we decide anything.” “No! You guys have done enough. More than enough. I can get myself to the bathroom and back. It’s only a few feet from the bed. I’ll be fine. You should go home and sleep in your own bed. Come see me in the morning if you want. You have the key. You can let yourself in. If I need anything I’ll call you. I promise. I would actually…I would rather be alone…I’m beat…he gave me…the doctor gave me some different pain medicine…a sample…to try and see if I can tolerate it better…and something to help me sleep. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to pass out here in bed with my leg up. You guys should go home and get a good night’s sleep in your own bed. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a phone right here by the bed, and my cell phone. Really. Go.” “Doug you haven’t even eaten anything. How are you gonna feed yourself?” “OK. Make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich…make two…pour me a glass of milk…leave them here by the bed…I will be fine…then come by in the morning and check on me. Really. I mean it.” “Fuck.” Joe was just coming back into the apartment, panting from carrying the wheelchair up three flights. “This fucker is heavier than it looks.” He set the chair down just inside the door and popped it open and then plopped his own ass down into it. “I’ve never sat in a wheelchair before.” He wheeled himself over to the side of Doug’s bed. “How’s the patient?” he inquired. “Doug says he’s fine. I offered to stay with him but he wants to stay by himself. I’m gonna make him some sandwiches.” Matthew looked at Joe meaningfully, trying to communicate that this wasn’t his first choice. “Well I guess you’ve got to learn to manage like this, huh?” Joe said, turning back to Doug. “You know you can call us. At any time. Day or night.” “Joe, I’m not comfortable leaving him here alone.” Matthew had raised his voice. “We can get him one of those alarms in case he falls. ‘HELP. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!’” Joe was mimicking the television commercial in a high-pitched falsetto. “Guys,” Doug said from the bed. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. It’s just a broken leg. I’ll be fine. I’m just going to sleep. I really, really appreciate all you’ve done. Really. Above and beyond the call of duty. A man could ask for no better friends than the two of you. But you should go home and sleep. You both have to work tomorrow. I will have the day off as it turns out.” “What about Maxwell?” Matthew asked kind of peevishly. Then he turned to Joe. “He wants the dog back here too.” “You’re killing me Matthew. I’ll get Chuck to bring him over. We’ll manage.” There was a sharp edge to Doug’s voice that was new. He had clearly made up his mind and the two of them were not going to talk him out of anything. Matthew finished making he sandwiches and left them by the bed. They both kissed Doug goodnight and then, reluctantly, left him on his own. Matthew promised to stop by on his way to work in the morning, and Doug promised to call if he needed anything. Joe and Matthew left reluctantly, and Doug fell asleep almost immediately. He was startled out of a sound sleep about an hour later when the buzzer from the front door went off. He was jolted awake, and instinctively went to throw his legs over the side of the bed before the weight of the cast held him back. Remembering, again, that his leg was broken, he reached for his crutches and carefully stood up. He gingerly inched his way over to the front window and opened it, and then shouted down to the porch “Who is it?” “It’s Chuck,” a familiar voice shouted back at him. “I have Maxwell.” “Where the hell have you been with my dog?” “I had a chorus rehearsal. I just got home and got your message. I actually didn’t think you would be home tonight.” “Hang on. I’m gonna throw down my keys.” Doug crutched over to the table where he ate, the table that collected his mail and his keys and his sunglasses and anything else that was in his hands when he made it to the top of the stairs. He grabbed his keys and hooked the metal ring they were on over his thumb so that he could crutch back to the window. “Here!” Doug yelled, throwing the keys out to Chuck. “It’s the brass colored key. Bring him up. Don’t let him run up the stairs.” Doug’s heart was pounding. He couldn’t believe how anxious he was to see Maxwell, as if that would finally make everything all right. After about a minute and a half, Doug could hear them on the steps. He crutched over to the door of his apartment and unlatched it so they could come in, and then he crutched over to the side of the bed and sat down. He didn’t want to be standing up when Maxwell came in. Maxwell loved to put his paws on Doug’s shoulders and lick his face and he didn’t want to risk getting knocked over when Maxwell came bounding in, anxious to see him. Doug lifted his casted leg up onto the bed and sat there with one bare foot on the floor, waiting. His apartment was small, a studio really, and his bed sat at one end of a big open room that made up both his bedroom and his living room, and in fact his only room besides the kitchen and the bathroom. Chuck pushed the door open and stood in the entryway holding Maxwell on the leash. “Let him go,” Doug commanded, and as he expected, Maxwell came bounding over to the bed, but rather than jumping up as he usually did, he sat beside the bed and gently leaned into Doug’s face, licking him effusively, almost as if he knew that if he jumped on the bed he might hurt Doug. “Jesus. Look at you.” Chuck was leaning on the doorframe in the entryway, as if he might fall over. “You broke my leg.” Doug hurled these words accusingly. “Christ Doug. I didn’t mean to. We got tangled up with the dogs and I fell on you. I’m sorry. Shit, I am so sorry this happened.” Chuck was wearing pressed khaki trousers and a pink Polo shirt. “You coming in or what? Shut the fucking door.” Doug could barely control his anger. Chuck stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “Thanks for keeping Maxwell.” Doug’s voice was still gruff, but he was trying to lighten up. He was breathing deeply. “Did Maxwell eat Edith Piaf?” He was trying to be funny, but he could tell the line fell flat. “They don’t…they don’t get along. I kept them separated.” “Good call.” Doug was petting the top of Maxwell’s head over and over again, and Maxwell lowered his head down into Doug’s lap, resting it there. “I didn’t…I didn’t know what you feed him…I gave him the dry food I feed my dog. He wolfed it down.” Chuck was standing awkwardly by the table, staring at Doug. “Thanks. He’ll eat almost anything. I use Eukaneuba. Just the dry. No people food.” “Is it…is it bad?” Chuck ventured. “What? My leg? Look at it!” “Jesus, I didn’t…I don’t know what I expected, but that cast is so big.” “Yeah it’s bad. You broke two bones. My tibia and my fibula. I’m gonna be laid up like this for at least twelve weeks. No weight on it at all. They were gonna do surgery.” “Surgery. Shit.” “I refused. I didn’t want hardware in my leg for the rest of my life.” “How far…how far up does that cast go?” “How far? It goes all the fucking way up my leg!” Doug tugged on the pant leg of his green surgical scrubs and pulled it up over his knee, exposing the huge expanse of white plaster. “Shit, Doug, I am so sorry. I can’t believe this happened. If there is anything I can do…anything…to help out.” “You’ve kind of done enough, don’t you think?” Doug’s anger was bubbling over again, even as he tried to stay calm. “I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry. I don’t know what more I can do. I should go.” Chuck turned and reached for the door handle. “I’ll tell you what more you can do. You can make sure Maxwell gets out three times a day. I’m obviously not going to be able to take him out. You can show up here every fucking morning before work and you can take him to the dog park, and you can show up every fucking day on your lunch hour and take him out again, and then you can show up every fucking day after work and go running with him, and you can do that until I am back on my feet again. That, Chuck, is the least you can fucking do. And you can do it without Edith fucking Piaf tagging along!” “Sure. I mean sure.” Chuck was stumbling over his words. “I can take Maxwell out in the morning. Every day. That’s not a problem. But at lunch…I don’t usually get away at lunch…” “Well now you’re going to fucking have to aren’t you? Because I sure as shit can’t take him out at lunch, can I?” “Well…I can try to get home…” “You can do more than try. You can fucking show up here every day at 12:15 until I get this cast off my leg. You broke my fucking leg Chuck.” “OK. I’ll do the lunch hour dog walk. Every day. And after work. I can take him out after work. But I don’t…I don’t run…I’m not a runner.” “Well then I guess you’re going to have to fucking learn to run, aren’t you? Maxwell gets to run every night after work. That’s my commitment to him, and I can’t exactly run with this on my leg can I?” “Doug, I can’t just start running, just like that…” “What the fuck do you do at the gym? You’re in good shape. Running is not that hard. You just put one foot in front of the other one. Starting tomorrow.” “OK. I can try.” “Thanks.” The fight had gone out of Doug. “Maxwell will appreciate it. I…I will appreciate it.” “Well I should go. If I’m gonna be running…I guess I should sleep.” “Ring the buzzer in the morning. I’ll throw the keys down.” “OK. Oh, here, I almost forgot.” Chuck handed him a plastic grocery bag he had been carrying. “What’s that?” Doug asked, surprised. “Your Birkenstocks. They got left behind when they loaded you into that ambulance. I thought…I thought you’d want them.” “Thanks.” Doug was completely unprepared for such an act of kindness from Chuck. “Thanks a lot.” “I’ll see you in the morning.” Chuck turned and headed for the door. “OK. See you in the morning.” Doug was surprised that he was sorry to see Chuck go. Maybe Matthew had been right. Maybe he wasn’t ready to be alone with his broken leg. His leg was starting to get that achy throbbing feeling again, and reluctantly, he took two of the new pain pills the doctor had given him. He lay down on the bed with his casted leg up on two pillows and Maxwell climbed into the bed and stretched out next to him. At first sleep seemed not to come, and Doug lay awake worrying about how indeed he was going to manage in this third floor apartment on his own with a broken leg, but then the next thing he knew, the front door buzzer was going and it was daylight and when he turned to look at the clock, it was 6:30. It was Chuck at the front door for Maxwell. Doug threw the keys down and Chuck came up the stairs. He was wearing one of the dark tailored business suits that Doug so often saw him in at the dog park. Doug leaned heavily on his crutches, his hair standing up. He was keenly aware that he had not showered or shaved or washed his hair in two days, and that he must look like hell. He was particularly self-conscious about looking like hell in front of someone who was so put together, and worse, he couldn’t actually visualize how he might manage to clean himself up with this cast on his leg and these crutches under his arms. “I brought you a newspaper, and some coffee,” Chuck announced, as he breezed into the apartment. “You ready to go Maxwell?” The dog greeted Chuck warmly, wagging his tail and trying to lick Chuck’s hand as he fastened the leash to his collar. “I appreciate this Chuck. And the coffee…thanks.” “It’s the least I can do.” He attempted a smile as he said this, trying to be light with his irony, but worrying that it was too heavy-handed to throw Doug’s words back at him so early in the morning. “How do you feel?” “Like I’ve been hit by a truck, actually.” “Well that’s sort of what you look like as well.” Chuck meant the cast, but Doug assumed he was making fun of his lack of grooming, and his face flushed. “Yeah, well, I just climbed out of bed. I’ll try to get myself put together by lunch.” “That’s not what I meant…I meant your broken leg…never mind. Come on Maxwell, let’s go.” The two of them headed down the stairs, and Doug was left standing alone leaning on his crutches watching them go. He needed to use the bathroom, and wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to navigate that challenge. He crutched into the small bathroom and surveyed the toilet. He concluded that he would have to leave the door open, as there would not be room to sit down on the toilet with his cast stretched out in front of him if the door was shut. He was worried about Chuck coming back and finding him with his pants down around his ankles. He carefully maneuvered himself around in the bathroom so that he was standing with the toilet behind him, and then he leaned his crutches against the wall, balancing on one foot. He untied the drawstring on his green scrubs and let them fall to the floor, and then he gingerly lowered his ass to the toilet. He nearly lost his balance and fell, but reached out and grabbed the edge of the sink to steady himself at the last minute. His ass came down hard on the toilet seat, and his cast came high enough up his thigh that the edge of it pressed against the toilet seat and dug into his ass. It also caused his cast to stick straight out in front of him. He had to kick his left leg free of the scrubs entirely in order to be able to separate his legs and balance with his left foot. It was only after he had moved his bowels and he was sitting there staring at the crumpled scrub pants hanging off the end of his cast that he realized there was no way he was going to be able to pull them back up. Standing up from the toilet on one foot turned out to be almost as hard as sitting down, and Doug struggled to steady himself with the crutches. Just then he heard the front door open downstairs. “Fuck,” Doug said to himself, not certain what he should do. He was now bare ass naked and Chuck was about to come up the stairs. He crutched over to the apartment door and yelled down the stairs “You don’t have to come up…just send Maxwell up …you can keep the keys until lunch time.” There was an edge of desperation to Doug’s voice. “Are you OK?” Chuck called up the stairs. “I’m fine…I’m fine…I’m just…heading back to bed…didn’t sleep all that well…” Doug was hiding behind the door, trying to stay out of Chuck’s line of vision. A moment later, he heard Chuck on the stairs. “Fuck,” he said again under his breath. He raced for the bed with his crutches, thinking he might be able to cover himself with the sheet before Chuck and Maxwell got to the top of the stairs, but he had only just lowered himself down on the bed by the time the door opened and Chuck walked in. Doug desperately pulled at the sheet to cover his crotch. “I’m sorry,” Chuck said, realizing that Doug was naked. “I didn’t mean to…” “If you want to know I couldn’t pull my fucking pants up after I took a shit!” Doug’s embarrassment and humiliation exploded in anger. “Doug, it’s OK. Really.” Chuck took a deep breath without moving. “I’ve seen men without their pants on. Let me help you.” Chuck had unleashed Maxwell and now walked over to the bathroom door where Doug’s pants lay in a heap. He bent over and picked them up. “Really Chuck, I can manage.” Doug was acutely aware that the bathroom might still smell from his recent dump. “Let me just help you with these pants, and then I’ll go. Maxwell had a good romp with his pals this morning.” Chuck knelt down next to the bed and threaded Doug’s casted leg through one of the pant legs and then held the other one open for Doug to stick his leg into. Doug reached down and grabbed the waistband from Chuck’s hands and pulled the pants up over his legs as far as he could, but he couldn’t get them over his hips without standing up, which meant releasing the sheet that he clutched to cover his cock and balls. “Here,” Chuck said, putting an arm around Doug’s back, “just pick your butt up off the mattress and I can pull these up for you,” as if helping a naked man with a broken leg get dressed was the most natural thing in the world. “Thanks,” Doug said, sheepishly, mortified by his predicament but humbled by the ease and grace that Chuck brought to this awkward situation. “Thanks a lot.” “It’s the least I can do.” Chuck smiled warmly, and there wasn’t a trace of irony in his voice. “I have to go. But I’ll be back at lunch. Here, drink your coffee. And take this.” Chuck had reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It’s my cell number. Call me if you need anything.” “Thanks. Really Chuck. Thanks.” “No Problem.” Chuck smiled broadly at Doug, and then turned and walked out the door. Doug lay back in the bed and sighed. He realized that it was going to be a long fucking twelve weeks. About half an hour later, Matthew let himself into the apartment. Doug had fallen back asleep, and Matthew was surprised to see Maxwell on the bed with him. The dog jumped down to greet Matthew and Doug stirred, blinking against the bright morning sunshine that now streamed in through his windows. “Good morning sleepy head,” Matthew teased. “How’d you sleep?” “Not bad I guess.” “Maxwell’s back.” Matthew was stroking the back of Maxwell’s neck. “Yeah. Chuck brought him back after you left last night.” “You want me to run him over to the dog park for you?” “He’s already been out.” “He’s already been out? How did you manage that?” “Chuck took him.” “Chuck took him? Fucking Chuck?” “Yeah. And he brought me coffee. Go figure.” “Go figure indeed. I want to meet this man.” “Trust me. He’s no big deal. It’s the least he can do. Considering.” “Considering what?” “Considering that the man broke my fucking leg yesterday!” “Oh. Right.” Matthew was smiling at Doug’s steam. He could see that he was feeling better. “So what can I do for you this morning, handsome, since the dog has already been walked and you’ve already had your morning coffee delivered.” “You can help me shower. I must smell like a sewer.” “Sure. What do you recommend?” “They gave me that rubber cast protector. You gotta help me pull that up over my cast. And set that stool from the kitchen in the shower. He said I should sit down in the shower.” Pulling the rubber protector up over the cast was hard work. The rubber gasket that formed the seal against the water was tight against the plaster and it took a serious coordinated effort between the two of them to get it all the way up. Doug winced as the rubber lip pulled on the short hairs of his inner thigh. Matthew set the stool inside the shower stall and ran the water and then helped Doug sit down, taking his crutches from him. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a tub.” “I know. I’d be screwed,” Doug called out from the shower, enjoying the hot water and the soap and the feel of the shampoo in his hair. “This feels so good you have no idea.” Afterwards, when Doug had rinsed, Matthew handed Doug a towel to dry off, but in the end had to help him dry himself. Pulling the rubber sheathe off the cast was almost as hard as pulling it on had been. Finally, Matthew handed Doug his crutches and helped him stand up carefully on the slippery surface of the shower floor, and Doug crutched out of the bathroom, naked, clean, and relatively happy. He elected to wear underwear for the first time in two days, and chose a pair of shorts rather than trying to find long pants that would fit over the cast, and a clean t-shirt. Matthew helped him pull his underwear and shorts up over the cast. Doug could see clearly that he was not going to be able to handle the getting dressed and getting undressed thing by himself and that was discouraging. Finally, clean and dry and dressed, Doug told Matthew he should go, as it was getting late and he knew Matthew had a full day of work ahead of him. “You want me to swing by at lunchtime?” Matthew asked. “You don’t have to. Chuck is going to come by and walk Maxwell.” “I see.” “Don’t give me that ‘I see’ shit. He broke my leg, he can walk the dog.” “OK. I’m glad he’s willing to help out.” “You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t want to leave me your keys…your keys to my apartment…would you?” “You’re taking my keys back?” “Not taking. Borrowing. Just until I can get another set made. For Chuck. If he’s going to be coming and going to walk the dog. Otherwise I have to keep throwing my keys out the window to him.” “Sure. Here’s my keys. For fucking Chuck.” Matthew was smiling at him sardonically. “Thanks Matthew. You’re a pal. You know I love you, right?” “I do. Call me if you need anything. I gotta go to work.” By this time Chuck had already been at work for several hours. He found that he was having trouble concentrating, but for completely different reasons than the previous day. The morning had started well, and in fact Chuck had found himself surprisingly energized by his brief visit with Doug and Maxwell. His alarm had been set half an hour earlier than usual to allow time to get both dogs walked before work, and he was surprised at how easy the new routine was to accomplish. He had been badly shaken the previous evening when he saw Doug in his cast for the first time. He was shocked at how thoroughly Doug’s appearance had changed in less than eighteen hours. From a tall and handsome free-standing man, Doug had been transformed into a person who could barely move from the bed to the door and back. Chuck had thought that he looked tired and drawn, in addition to being very angry, and that the pain from his broken leg seemed to be visible on his face. Chuck felt that Doug was truly suffering and that it was his fault. He was horrified by the reality of Doug’s broken leg. The cast and the crutches and the wheelchair and the hospital pants and even the plastic hospital bracelet still on his wrist made very real what for most of the day had been completely unreal to him. He remembered their fall to the ground vividly, and the feeling of his body being tangled up with Doug’s, but he struggled to understand that he was responsible for injuring him so severely, and in some ways he wished it were his own leg that had been broken instead of Doug’s, but he knew that he would be a tyrant of a patient, and that he had almost no tolerance for pain. He had dreaded facing Doug’s anger again when he returned in the morning, but Doug had seemed subdued, his anger beaten down maybe by the pain or maybe by the medications Chuck assumed he must be taking. Chuck had been fully prepared for Doug to begin yelling at him again, but he hadn’t. And then, catching him with his pants down! Chuck felt awful about that. He knew that Doug must have felt humiliated, but it brought home for Chuck in a way that nothing else had so far how completely Doug had been disabled by this accident. With that cast on his leg he really was not able to dress himself. It had been a startling realization for Chuck, as it must have been for Doug as well. It was the beginning of a series of realizations for Chuck that continued to cascade through his brain all morning. Doug certainly was going to be out of work for a while. If he couldn’t even get his pants on, Chuck tried to imagine how he would bathe. He knew it pained Doug not to be able to take Maxwell out or to go running, but Chuck wondered how Doug would even manage to get to a grocery store, or, even if he had food delivered, cook for himself with those crutches under his arms. He tried to imagine what it would be like to not be able to walk. He tried to picture himself with a cast like that on his leg, and he could not. The more he thought about it he wondered how Doug had even managed to get up to the third floor apartment at all, and whether his friends had carried him, and he realized that Doug could not easily get back down the stairs, and certainly could not get down them in a hurry, and he had a moment of panic when he realized that if there were a fire, Doug almost certainly would not be able to get out in time. Chuck was surprised by his growing sense of urgency about making sure that Doug was OK. He had to fight the temptation to call him. He would see him at noon when he went home to walk Maxwell, and surely nothing could happen to him between now and then. But Chuck continued to dwell on Doug. In a wild flight of fancy he wondered if he could convince Doug to move in with him until he recovered. Chuck had a large first floor guest room with a private bath. It would be a way to try to make amends, but he felt certain that Doug would laugh at his offer, or worse, throw him out and revoke even his dog-walking privilege. At least for now he would get to see Doug three times a day, every day. He felt guilty knowing that he would get so much pleasure out of that when Doug was suffering so, but he wasn’t willing to jeopardize it. There was something so vulnerable about Doug now that his leg was broken that was so completely different from the confidence and self-reliance that had always marked Doug’s exterior demeanor that Chuck found himself more hopelessly obsessed by him than ever. Not that he would have ever planned to break Doug’s leg. Chuck was spooked by the idea that he had somehow, through some strange and powerful subconscious action, actually caused Doug’s injury through an act of will, but he knew that wasn’t true. He wished nothing more than that this had never happened. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help feeling that the fact that he and Doug had now been thrown together in this way seemed somehow very much like the active hand of fate. He looked at his watch. It was only ten o’clock. He had another hour and a half to fill before he could even reasonably think about leaving to go home and walk the dog for Doug. Meanwhile, Doug was restless. After Matthew left he had tried to go back to sleep, but found that he wasn’t tired, or at least he wasn’t able to find the escape that the idea of sleep had promised. His leg definitely still hurt, and despite the new pain medication, which only served to dull the sharpest part of the pain, the throbbing and the ache were enough to keep him awake. He tried reading, but found he couldn’t concentrate, and he also had trouble getting comfortable. He found that his back and shoulders were extremely sore, in part, he assumed, from the fall in the park that had broken his leg, but also in part from the effort of hauling himself up three flights of stairs on his crutches the night before. His hands were also very sore, confirming his crutching injury theory, and his abductor muscle along the top of his thigh smarted from the effort of holding his cast off the ground while he climbed to his apartment. That had been the final torture of an excruciatingly painful and frustrating day, and he dreaded having to navigate those stairs on crutches again. He hauled himself out of bed and tried sitting in the wheelchair, with his leg up, to watch television, but that too became annoying. The canvas mesh seat on the chair made his butt numb and the daytime programming made him want to kill himself. Also, the bend in the knee of the cast made it awkward to rest it comfortably on the metal leg support of the wheelchair, and yet if he set his heel down on the ground, the throbbing seemed to increase dramatically. The sun was out and there was a tiny deck off the back of his apartment and he thought he would try to sit out there if he could. After experimenting with several different arrangements, he ultimately he found that the he could sit on the deck chair out there with his cast propped up on an overturned milk crate without too much discomfort. He had been stumped initially by the problem of figuring out how he could carry anything with him to the porch since it took both hands on his crutches at all time to move from one place to another, but he fished an old day-pack from the floor of the front closet with the end of his crutch and was able to stick his laptop inside it along with a bottle of water and move himself outside onto the deck. He experienced this relocation as a huge accomplishment, the first little baby step toward reclaiming some sense of independence. The stairs still intimidated him, and he felt a bit trapped up on the third floor, but being able to sit outside, even on his little rickety deck, and figuring out that he could take anything that he could jam into his pack with him out to the porch gave him a sense of freedom that he had not experienced in a long time. In a weird way, it was like the exhilaration he’d felt when he first came out of the closet. Suddenly, something that had seemed insurmountable had been conquered, and in the end it hadn’t even been that difficult. His wireless signal was strong enough that he was able to sit on the porch with his laptop and connect to the Internet, and he contented himself with email and surfing the web to pass the time, while Maxwell lay at his feet. The fresh air felt good and the breeze on his exposed toes sticking out of the end of his cast was particularly refreshing. The cast was not necessarily uncomfortable, but his leg was warm inside the plaster and being outside was a relief. He cruised all his usual sites and eventually ended up at gay.com, as he always did, thinking maybe he could work up a wank with one of his online pals, but his thoughts kept turning to Chuck in the most distracting way. Chuck was an ass, there was no doubt about that, but there had been something incredibly intimate about Chuck helping him into his pants this morning. The man had broken his leg, it was true, and he was both a boor and a bore, but he was handsome as they come. From the first time they met, Doug had found it easy to fantasize about Chuck; it was the thought of having to talk to him afterwards that had always put a damper on his ardor. He looked at his watch. It was only 10:30. It would be at least an hour and a half before Chuck came back to walk Maxwell again. ... continued... Part 2 Home New / Continuing Stories Completed Stories Links