Yellow Mama E zine

                                                                   K.O.

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by Craig Kirchner

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          His eyes were heavy. He would nod and catch himself. This went on for at least an hour after lunch, which was filling but greasy. Had he been in his room, in bed, this would have been solid sleep, with a dream of the old days, the fans cheering and that feeling of dominant power when you knew you really connected. As it was the two-minute nods were adding up to a nap, but not a rewarding one. He loved the sun on his face, but nothing compared to his travels to the past. The best cars and the best clothes.           He loved to dance.

         He was sitting in a wooden Adirondack chair on the front lawn just behind the sign – Springfield Hospital. This identifying that you are entering a purgatory of inaction and meaningless time set aside for those that are deemed unworthy of spending time with others – normal others. You could spend all the time you wanted playing checkers with fellow patients who didn’t know red from black.

        His chin hit his chest and his eyes jerked open to see what looked like a limousine driving up the long driveway and stopping under the portico at the front door. Out of the front seat gets a goateed gentleman with a grey suit, looks to be middle-aged and a middleweight, probably a doctor. The driver gets out, walks around to carefully open the back door and assist the doctor with their passenger. The doctor looks cautious. The driver has a billy-club in his right hand. They begin to coax out the new arrival and it seems a bit awkward as though he may have been lying across the backseat of the car.          The first thing to notice is he’s handcuffed, about six foot one or two. He is big, goes two hundred pounds, and long arms with an incredible reach and strong hands that look like they might break those cuffs. They escort him to the front door, and he seems unwilling but shows no resistance. He seems alert enough to have noticed the billy-club.

        There were infrequent new patient arrivals. The hospital was at full capacity, and someone had to die or be sent home to open a slot for a newbie. While no one goes home, there are frequent deaths and about once a month a car pulls up - but being handcuffed is new - maybe he has an anger issue like they had told George he had.      George switches to Deja-vu, daydream mode, remembering sitting here two weeks ago when Rose and Bob brought Craig and yes, Elizabeth up the driveway and right past him to the front door in Bob’s black chevy. Robert dropped off the family, and as they walked into the reception area, he parked the car, never noticing George watching them arrive for their monthly visit, less than one hundred feet away. Rosemary, the only child, was always glad to see George. Elizabeth had the same reserved and resolved look she’d had for the last five years since he had been committed. Robert, Craig’s Dad, looked bored through the whole hour visit. Craig was apprehensive and shy. He was four, small boned, smart as a whip and therefore weary of institutions and the institutionalized. He eventually sat in George’s lap and immediately noticed the size and power of Grandad’s hands. George still squeezed the lacrosse ball all morning as he had done his whole career and Craig seemed as much in awe as a four-year-old could of the power holding his waist.

       That night about mid-night, Anthony and Julius, the two night-guards bust into George’s room talking about a serious situation with the newbie and they need George’s help. As they walk to the North Ward, they explain that they tried to get him to stay in his room and go to bed. The newbie, his name is Walter, says he will go where he pleases and will beat them within an inch of their life if they touch him or say otherwise. He’s sitting in the dark at the end of the ward in the area reserved for guest visits. He’s not causing any real trouble or damaging anything yet, but he’s sticking to his story, and we need him to get off the ward and go to sleep.

        George’s question to Julius was simple. “What do you want me to do?”

        Their answer was just as simple. “Make him go to bed. He swears he’ll destroy us if we get near him, and we believe him, but he can’t hurt you.”

        As they approach the spacious room at the end of the building Anthony extends his hand to turn on the lights. George grabs his hand – “better in the dark,” and he proceeds toward the far corner of the room, leaving the guards gaping at the end of the hall.

        “Don’t come in here,” says Walter. “I’m warning you, I’m not ready.”

        “Got to guy, left my soda can on that table you’re leaning on, and I can’t sleep if I don’t have my soda.”

        As Walter’s hands search in vain for the can that isn’t there, George moves directly in front of him. As the newbie attempts to jump up George puts his hand on the top of Walter’s head and with a pressure that Walter had never felt before suggests politely that he sit back down.

       George wasted no time with small talk, “What is it going to take to make you ready?”

       Walter had a whole new respect for the situation but was not afraid of George who was a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter.

       “Hey fella,” barks Walter.

       “George, my name is George.”

       “Well George whatever your name is.”

       “George Chaney,” says George. “Well, hey George Chaney,” and a light goes on for Walter and then a pause.

       “George K.O. Chaney?” George laughs, “That’s what Chaplin calls me.”

       “Well, I’m not looking for any trouble with you, but I have this lifestyle, see, that doesn’t have me going to bed at ten, or because some little guy in a white suit says so. I’m a heavy-weight fighter and I’m either in bed at six in training or there’s no fight for a while and I’m up till daybreak with the women. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

         George smiles, “Yeah, I know - but you think you’re ready? I can have Julius pull the sheets down if that will make you feel special, no mint on the pillow, no back rub, no mirror in the ceiling……… but we can talk tomorrow.”

         “Sure, I’ll look forward to that,” and Walter walks across the guest room and asks Anthony where that bedroom is. As they walk down the hall Walter looks at Anthony and Julius and says, “They didn’t tell me he was here, he has more knockouts than anyone on the planet.”

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        Craig Kirchner lives in Jacksonville, loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. Craig's writing has been published in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, The Modern Artist, Yellow Mama, and dozens and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. Craig can be found on Bluesky.

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           It's well known that an artist becomes more popular by dying, so our pal Steve Cartwright is typing his bio with one hand while pummeling his head with a frozen mackerel with the other. Stop, Steve! Death by mackerel is no way to go! He (Steve, not the mackerel) has a collection of spooky toons, Suddenly Halloween!, available at Amazon.com.    He's done art for several magazines, newspapers, websites, commercial and governmental clients, books, and scribbling - but mostly drooling - on tavern napkins. He also creates art pro bono for several animal rescue groups. He was awarded the 2004 James Award for his cover art for Champagne Shivers. He recently illustrated the Cimarron Review, Stories for Children, and Still Crazy magazine covers. Take a gander ( or a goose ) at his online gallery: www.angelfire.com/sc2/cartoonsbycartwright . And please hurry with your response - that mackerel's killin' your pal, Steve Cartwright.