by Ashley Logan
Damon stands quietly, thinking. “I’ll think about meeting them. But only because I need more friends than your dumb butt and old mama’s boy Jenkins.”
“That you do. Wanna grab a burger before class?”
“Sure. Can we go to Patty’s Patties?” he says, heading for home. “Lucille makes me a burger with everything I want that still fits in my hooks.”
Looking sideways at him I nod. “How long has it taken to work that out then?”
Pulling a face, he waves me away with a stump. “Man, I may not have hands, but I still have a brain and a big fucking mouth. I gave her the dimensions I could handle, told her what I wanted in it and left her to do the math if she wanted a good tipper as a regular. It’s just good business.”
“She hot?”
“Who?”
“Lucille,” I tease.
Damon grins, trips me with his foot and pushes me over.
“I prefer your Mom.”
A wise man, he starts running before I can get up.
INSPIRED BY SCARLETT and her query about painting landscapes, I spend art class doing just that. Sketching out the shape of her largest scar, I proceed to fill the interior with a wildflower meadow. It has me completely absorbed until Jenkins runs his wheelchair into my stool, nearly toppling me over.
“You going fucking blind now Jenkins?” I say, steadying myself again as he and Damon piss themselves laughing.
Damon pats Jenkins on the shoulder with a stump and tilts his head at my painting.
“Wanna tell us what’s got you so focused, lover boy?” he asks, coming closer. “Doesn’t look like your usual centerfold material.”
Looking at my work, I exhale slowly. How are they to know it’s an ode to my favorite, oblivious model? “Just thought I’d try something different. What have you fuckers been doing?”
Leaving my seat, I follow Jenkins to his easel to look at a bitterly thin nude done in dark tones.
“Your mom’s lost a few pounds. I liked it better when her tits were full.”
Jenkins punches me in the thigh, giving me a dead leg.
“Damn, Jenkins. You’re getting too good a workout on your upper body in that chair. Watch they don’t switch you to electric when you clock the doctor next time.”
Jenkins rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Jackson. Geez. You punch a doctor one time...”
“Dude deserved it,” Damon chimes in. “Same mouth-breathing asshole took my hands. I’d have punched him too if he’d left me anything to do it with.”
“Easy, Shermansky. If the help hears you shit-stirrers winding up, he’ll start to worry,” I warn, winking at Father Franco, the after-church art teacher. He smiles back and shakes his head. Good guy. He never preaches to us about actually coming to the service beforehand, just lets us join in with the other damaged veterans who do go.
I look down at Damon’s rainbow colored foot resting on a cardboard tray. “Did you manage to get any paint on the canvas, fuck-face?”
Damon looks at his foot and scowls at me. “Like to see you do any better.”
“Let’s do it.” Dropping down, I untie my laces and shed a sock as the boys cry out for mercy and hold their noses. Ignoring them, I move to Damon’s workspace. Taking a moment to appreciate his work, I switch his canvas with a blank one, setting his on an empty stand to dry.
“Fucking talented bastard. Bet you painted with your feet like a fucking monkey before you even lost your hands. Who knew monkeys could paint that well?” Exhaling roughly, I view my challenge. “You set the bar pretty high my simian friend, but I still bet my feet will stay cleaner.”
“I back him for that,” Jenkins agrees, foraging in his pockets for his wallet.
Taking a seat in Damon’s reclining chair, I set a paintbrush between my toes.
“Pick it up with your toes too, fucking cheater.”
Sighing, I set the brush back next to his paints and do my best to grasp it with my toes. Awkward as all hell, I manage to dip it in some paint on my third attempt. Shifting in the seat, I try not to fall out as I try to get the brush to the canvas.
After much grunting, I’m covered in both sweat and paint and my canvas looks like a dog took a shit on it.
“Shit. Don’t you get cramp? That’s fucking ridiculous.”
Beaming, Damon takes a dollar bill from Jenkins and puts it in his empty shoe. “I will take your pathetic failure as the highest of compliments and respect for my amazing abilities.”
Handing Damon my own dollar, I laugh at Jenkins’ scowl as I clean off my foot. “I tried, man. It’s even harder than I made it look.”
“Yeah, but you’re such a fucking clean freak, I thought for sure you’d make it through spotless.”
“Me too,” I admit, still scrubbing. “You fuckers want to get a beer?”
“Can’t,” Jenkins says without emotion. “Mom’s picking me up in...” He looks at his watch and sighs. “Three and a half minutes.”
Damon and I look at each other and grin. Damon kicks Jenkins in his unfeeling shins, leaving paint smears on his sweat pants.
“You’re gonna have to miss your five o’clock breastfeed Jenkins. Me and soft-cock are leading you astray.”
Jenkins looks at the mess on his pants and stares at Damon a while. Glancing at me briefly, his face remains deadpan as he turns back to Damon. “How stray can a soft cock really go?”
Damon laughs so hard, he falls over.
I may have helped.
“What are you laughing at Shermansky?” Jenkins asks over the side of his wheelchair. “You’re the one who has to explain to my mom why there’s paint all over my new pants.”
Shaking my head, I wander back to my station to clean it up. “Hanging out with you turd-burgers is like being in kindergarten again. Get your shit cleaned up so we can go.”
Thanking Father Franco, we head for the car park.
“Shotgun!” Jenkins slows as we approach the car. “Can Bruno drive?” he asks, in a pleading tone.
“It’s my car, Motherfucker,” Damon fires back.
“You don’t have hands!” Jenkins cries, raising his own in the air and wiggling them about.
“No need to show off, asshole,” Damon retorts, waving his stumps in the air with the same gesture. “If you like, you can sit on my lap and do the steering while I work the pedals, but I gotta warn you, it’s been a while since my lap got any action.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Jenkins and licks his lips suggestively.
“Maybe I’ll sit in the back,” Jenkins says warily.
Stifling my laughter, I open the front door wide for Jenkins to maneuver into the seat. Pulling his chair away, I wheel it round back, collapse it and put it in the trunk with Damon’s reclining artist’s seat.
“So... where to?” I ask as Damon finishes attaching his prosthetic hooks and hits the start button.
“Titty bar!” they cry together as we pull out of the lot.
“Really?” I ask with a sigh. “It’s Sunday afternoon.”
I know the kind of place they want; somewhere a girl will grind against you if you pay her enough. No amount of grinding will induce any interest from my dick, and the rest of the experience is just plain sad for everyone involved.
“Foiled again! Fucking Sunday!” Damon yells out his window and shaking his hook, causing Jenkins to grab the wheel in alarm.
Damon looks at him and smiles, nodding slowly. “So you do want to share the driving.”
“Just keep your hooks on the wheel before you fuck up the only one of us who at least looks normal,” Jenkins growls.
Both sets of eyes briefly land on me before facing the front again. A subdued air settles around us.
“Come on guys. Don’t be jelly. It could be worse,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You could have broken dicks too.”
The silence is eventually broken by Damon’s snicker. “Yeah, that would suck. I’ve almost trained myself to come on demand. It’s like Jedi mind shit. Best part of my day. Got any pussy late
ly, Jenkins?”
“Other than your mom?” Jenkins asks with a slow smile. “Had a blond called Cassie last week. Great tits. It was a pity fuck, but I took it. Bitch couldn’t run fast enough when Mom called through the door to ask if she was staying for breakfast.”
Damon cracks up. “Dude. Your mom’s such a cock block. Why don’t you move out?”
“Because Mom’s a better driver than you, fuck-nuts.”
We laugh and don’t dwell on how much Jenkins needs the stability his mom offers.
Damon pulls into the parking lot behind Bob’s Big Bar and Grill. With its ample parking and ramps, it’s a safe bet for an easy-access outing. I fetch Jenkins’ chair from the trunk and set it outside his door for him as Damon slings the long strap of his bag over his shoulder and removes his hooks. Rubbing one stump into his other elbow, he makes a face. When he realizes I’m watching him, he shrugs.
“You know driving makes my fingers itchy.”
The fact that he no longer has fingers is enough for me to get a chill down my spine. I can’t even begin to imagine the weird phantom shit he has to put up with. Nodding, I follow Jenkins as he rolls into the bar.
Damon and I slide into either side of a booth as Jenkins parks himself at the end of the table. A pretty waitress stops by with a menu and tries not to stare as she smiles politely. She takes our order and both Jenkins and Damon watch her ass as she rushes away.
Returning soon, she sets our beers on the table and pauses. Her eyes linger on Damon’s stumps and I can actually see her trying to work out how he’ll pick it up. “Do you need a straw?” she asks, trying to be helpful, I’m sure.
“Thanks, I got it.” Using both stumps, he raises the glass and takes a big gulp before setting it gently back down. Ignoring her completely, he nudges Jenkins’ beer toward him. “That’ll be all, Miss. Thank you,” he says when she doesn’t leave immediately. As if suddenly remembering herself, she blushes and scurries away again.
“So what’s new?” Jenkins asks, downing half his glass. “Man it’s great not having to be the sober driver,” he says, grinning at Damon as he drains the rest. Burping, he reaches out to stop the waitress on her way past. “Another please. And keep ‘em coming.”
Damon narrows his eyes at Jenkins and takes another small sip. “What’s new? I tell you what’s old. You not sorting your shit out and getting a special car to lug your slack ass around and pick up your share of the sober driving, that’s what.”
“Girls, girls, you’re both special. I’ll tell you something new,” I say, interrupting their bickering. “It moved.”
They look at me with blank expressions as a fresh beer is placed in front of Jenkins. He barely acknowledges the waitress and she doesn’t linger this time.
“What moved?”
“Gilbertson’s pet shop. What do you think moved?!”
Damon’s eyes widen. “Does this have anything to do with what happened last night?”
Jenkins looks between us. “What happened last night? Spill!”
I shake my head. “Nothing happened.”
“Nothing?” Damon scoots forward and gestures at me. “This guy finally found his balls and told Blondie that he likes her.”
Jenkins sits back in his chair and looks me up and down. “Did she throw herself at you?”
I choke a little on my beer and cough as I shake my head. “Hardly. She can’t stand me.”
“You said she almost kissed you!” Damon cries. “You lied to me?”
Frowning, I shake my head again. “She almost did, but I did what I always do when she starts acting pleasant.”
Jenkins looks at Damon. “You ran away didn’t you, chicken-fuck.”
“At the time, it seemed more appropriate than insulting her,” I confess shamefully. “When I got home, she’d waited up for me anyway. She feels something for me.”
“She said that?” Damon asks, skeptical.
“Not exactly,” I admit, trying to put the feeling between us into words. “She felt something between us, a spark or whatever, but she was more... intrigued by it than interested in pursuing it. Like I said, I’m not really on her radar as likable.”
“Because you’re a dick to her all the time, and because you’re a lame-ass chicken shit.”
I don’t bother to disagree with Jenkins. He makes a fair point. “Anyway. That’s not when the miracle occurred; it happened after all that. I couldn’t sleep so I was doing some sketching-”
“Of her?” Damon interrupts.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I hesitate before answering.
“Yeah.”
“Ooh la la! And?”
I shrug and smile. “And he moved. Just once and not a lot, but he moved. And I felt it.”
All three of us lean back in our chairs in reverence.
Damon is the first to speak. “Dude that fucking rocks! How long has it been?”
“Almost six years.”
He releases a long, slow whistle and shakes his head as he turns to Jenkins. “Six fucking years. Can you imagine?”
Jenkins slowly shakes his head in response. “The fact that my dick still brings me pleasure is what’s kept me alive. Six years,” he whispers, still shaking his head. “Did you try to keep the little bugger standing?”
“Firstly, he’s not little. Second, I did what I could for the guy, but he never actually made it to standing. It might have just been some involuntary spasm, but I’ve had dick-all happening down there since my injury, so I’m taking it as a win.”
Damon studies me with interest. “You think it was coincidence?”
I shrug.
Appraising me a moment longer, he plumps his lips in a raspberry. “Nah, you were in it.”
“In what?” Jenkins asks, confused.
“In it,” Damon repeats. “The zone. That mindful Zen place he goes when he’s working on his artwork and he becomes the paintbrush or whatever. He was doing a nude, genius.” Turning back to me he winks. “Which bit were you doing when he moved?”
Feeling my cheeks heat, I wonder if they can see my blush as I mumble my answer.
“Speak up,” Damon says, kicking my shin under the table. “You were what?”
I clear my throat and turn my beer glass in circles. “Rubbing her nipples.”
Jenkins laughs. “You sick fuck.”
“For shading,” I add in my defense.
Damon joins Jenkins in laughter and I drink my beer.
“Thanks for taking me out for a laugh, guys,” Jenkins says as we pay the check and get ready to go. “I needed it this week.”
“Why? Your mom not giving you head anymore?” Damon doesn’t jump out of the way fast enough and Jenkins thumps his ass. Hopping around in a circle, Damon moans about his dead ass and what kind of weirdo even punches a guy in the ass.
“I’ll beat your ass to a pulp if I need to,” Jenkins says, straight-faced as he rolls out to the car. I follow, and Damon hobbles along behind.
We drive along in silence, but Damon and I have an eyeball conversation in the rear-view mirror, in which he nominates me to figure out how to get back to the issue.
“So what was so shitty about this week?” I ask Jenkins. “Did they say you could walk the whole time, but they just forgot to tell you?”
Laughing quietly, Jenkins sighs and looks out the window. “Mandy’s getting married. On Friday.”
The car slows slightly. “And that bitch didn’t invite me?” Damon says, quickly recovering the speed he lost to hide the depth of disappointment he’s clearly feeling for his friend.
“Don’t call her a bitch,” Jenkins says through tight lips.
“She was meant to marry you, but was too selfish to accommodate a wheelchair. I’m calling bitch, and rightfully so - right Jackson?”
Watching Jenkins, I approach the fine line of pushing him too far.
“I’m not sure what you call someone who says they love you, but ditches you at the first hurdle. There are probably better names, but they
all have the same general sting that I don’t think Bradley is appreciating right now, Shermansky.”
“See,” Damon says to Jenkins as he pulls into his driveway. “Jackson says she’s a bitch too. You’re lucky she’s out of your life. You deserve better.”
We watch as Jenkins’ hands curl into fists and slowly release again. “Thanks for taking me out,” he says in a purposely calm voice as his mother comes out to the porch and waves.
Damon waves back as exuberantly as one can with no hands. “FYI, your mom looks hot in sweats. You guys get a discount for matching sets?”
Jenkins’ fist appears again and hammers Damon’s leg hard enough to make him yelp and dance in his seat.
“Get the fuck out of my car before you turn me into a cripple like you!” he says, half laughing, half crying as he rubs his leg with his forearm.
Jenkins is smiling again when I park his chair next to him. Lifting himself into position, he intentionally runs over my foot as he backs up.
“Whoops. Sorry Jackson. Good luck with your cock. Don’t wear it out,” he says with a laugh as he wheels himself toward the porch. “See you assholes next week!”
Smiling, I take Jenkins’ seat in the front and look at Damon. “You did that on purpose.”
“The guy needed to vent. Better he thump me than his poor old mother,” he says, shifting into reverse and looking over his shoulder. Pulling out to the street, he yells out his window, “Seeya next week, ya lucky bastard!”
We drive along and Damon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Tell ya what though. Jenkins has fists like a wrecking ball. Can you please rub the knot forming on my thigh right now? I can’t do what needs to be done without hands.”
Eying him warily I look at his leg. “Seriously?”
Shifting awkwardly again, he elbows his thigh and grimaces. “Everything I have is too pointy and localized. Please? It’s seizing up.”
Sighing, I place a tentative hand on his thigh and can feel the bunched muscle beneath it. “Geez, he really got you.”
