A crying man sits in a wheelchair at the end of his driveway. His legs are missing in action. Another man leans against the police cruiser. People rubberneck from their porches. Some stare. Some pretend to walk to their mailboxes. The officer on the scene never makes direct eye contact with the man in the wheelchair, instead focuses all his attention on the shirtless man leaning against his car. Caught in the officer's gaze, the shirtless man begins to ramble about concern for his soon to be ex-lover. He is concerned his soon to be ex-lover may take his own life. He doesn't want to break the almost ex-lover's heart nor does he want to leave him alone with twenty semi-feral cats and one semi-automatic rifle. He is not qualified for this level of commitment. He has a promising career as the new manager at Ruby Tuesdays uptown to consider. He needs to focus on his work. He does not have time to address the collateral damage of one Desert Storm vet with PTSD and no legs. He still needs to hire wait staff and a second bartender and get them trained before the grand opening. He can't afford to have his clothes smelling like cat piss. This was not the tour of duty he signed up for. He sure as hell didn't read the fine print. Nobody said anything about his clothes smelling like cat piss.
6 June 2013