Reconciliation 18

Chicago, Illinois

June 21, 1957

“Wha’ the f***,” Stan said.

“Ya smell like puke!”

Ignoring him,

yanking the door open,

tossing the keys to the Ford onto the young man’s lap,

“Get the f*** out’a here!

An’ if I ever see the two’a ya here again…”

The young man did not hear what the cop would do to them

if ever he did see them there again, because…

It was a well-known fact that this young man

 was not,

nor had ever been an athletic kind of person.

Matter of fact,

a paraplegic in a

 square wheeled wheelchair going uphill,

with the brake on yet,

would probably beat him in a race,

but…

Sprinting over the sandy,

hard packed soil,

across the west end of the asphalt covered parking lot…

“Hi!”

Pulling the door open,

“Scoot over!”

Throwing himself onto the seat,

The young man jammed the key into the ignition,

turned the motor on and,

peeling rubber,

drove out of the Montrose Beach parking lot.

Three minutes later,

pulling to the curb,

turning the motor off,

taking a deep breath,

looking at his wife,

taking hold of her hand.

“Baby, I’m so sorry about that!

You okay?

Did he do anything to you?”

“Nah!” She said.

“He tried and I’m kind’a shook up,

but I’m okay.”

“Oh, God! Thank you, God!”

“When that bastard came back,”

The young woman giggled,

“he tried to screw me.”

The nervous giggle changing to nervous laughter.

“But I sure taught him!”

Now raucous laughter…

“Yeah!”

…Which was joined by her husband’s

also raucous laughter that continued,

until,

“Remind me,”

the young man said, catching his breath,

“to never try screwing you if you don’t wann’a be screwed!”

Trying to stop laughing,

“Yeah,”

The young woman said,

making a stab at sounding serious,

“or I’ll puke all over you, too!”

End