HERE I SIT

by
Scott Fraser

Parties smell different here. Once I faced heads and shoulders, aftershave, cologne and halitosis. Now I move in the realm of waste and reproduction. Urine stained trousers and revealing underwear lines, and flatulence. The bumps and protrusions that only the intimate are usually privy to inspect so closely are now thrust in my face as people sidle past my wheelchair in the livening throng.

It was glorious motorcycle accident. I was always from the school of “better to burn out than fade away” and I studied hard and graduated in style. We hit 140 as I accelerated over the brow of the hill and my front wheel began to rise beautifully before it ploughed into the soft fleshy flank of a red deer. I remember vividly the final images of what was the closing scene in the first part of my life. High definition, widescreen cinematic images accompanied by crisp sound. The sweet roar of the bike and the helmet whistle, the soundtrack behind the streaming green hedgerows and the approaching blue horizon. We hit the apex. A deer stood on the other side in the middle of the road. It turned its head and our eyes locked. Then black; silence. Le Fin.

The original production was such a success the Producers had to roll out a sequel. The opening scene was a shock. I saw the stills. A disembowelled carcass and rivers of blood that flowed down through the rough tar macadam contours and towards the stationary black pillion.

A helmeted pillion lay serenely upon the verge, as if napping under the beech trees, the loch stretching out towards lowland hills and her grotesquely twisted left leg the only sign of the preceding violence. A week later bunch of daffodils lay as the only momento mori.

They died and I awoke in pain in a hospital bed gasping for air, wailing and spluttering like the newborn child that I was. Reborn to take on the lead role in a latest tragic-comic instalment of my life.

I felt guilty but not bereaved. Two weeks were not long enough for the emotional roots to entangle my heart. I do grieve deeply, and frequently, for my legs; my well kent pins; I knew them well; from squint toes and calloused heels to sinewy calves and finely engineered knees. I miss my shins with their football pitch scars and the air rifle pellet wound from my boyhood; the lost bookmarks in the chronicle of my life.

And here I am, two feet shorter and no longer the epitome of cool. I’ve been re-labelled from Biker to Cripple. Once you got what it said on the box; all machismo and risk with a hidden soft side. I don’t know precisely what you get now. A Pandora’s box. Open at your own risk.

There is plenty of mileage still in this franchise. Somewhere there is a rich multi-layered drama with strong plot and poignant subtexts but unfortunately we are wallowing in the first half hour; the audience is loosing interest. Sequels are rarely as good as the original. If only I could find the thread, the link, the path, ha! The road! Then I could kick start this son-of-a bitch drama back to life.

If I get it together we may pull it off. The Return, our protagonist finds love and redemption while dancing around like a drunk boxer on prototype alloy and carbon fibre uprights.

Hey, I’ve still got a sense of humour! Still some hope. I need some inspiration though, preferably the kind that comes in liquid form.

Hey Richie! Richie! Where are you!

Coming through! Coming through! ‘scuse me!

Any chance a man can get a drink around here?

© Scott Fraser
Reproduced with permission