Cold November Rain

Cold November Rain

Stan Gettings stared out of the fogged-up room window into the cold November rain. Wasn’t that a song by some group a while back? Probably back when he was still drinking, some stuff still popped into his head from those days. He just couldn’t remember the context. Did he hear the song in a bar, or while driving home drunk from his favorite gin mill? Most music sounded better to him when drunk. Did he actually like the song or hate it? He could look it up on the internet but why bother, did it really make a difference. Since he quit the drink nothing seemed to matter very much. In his drinking days he had passion, it could have been sports, movies, a song, even a conversation could get him fired up. Maybe it was age and not the lack of alcohol, maybe both.

There were a lot of things he couldn’t or wouldn’t remember from those days. He had been married, he kind of remembered a wife. Helen, he thought her name was, cute little thing, he wondered what had happened to her. He hadn’t had a drink in a month now and some disturbing things were beginning to seep into his conscience. Not only did he misplace a wife he misplaced most of his life.

Come to think of it he never really had a chance. His was a typical story, his father had left before he was five. From what he’d been told about him it probably wasn’t much of a loss. His mother took it hard and was never the same. She took care of him the best she could, but she had to work so he spent most of his time on the street. Before long he stopped going to school. He and his crew spent their days hanging out, breaking into cars and houses They stole whatever they could. The crew made some money and spent it on weed and beer. Great life if you could get it, but nothing great lasts forever. The cops from the local precinct took an interest in their activities and before Stan knew it he was doing time in a juvenile facility. Facility was probably a nice word for what it was, a prison.

At eighteen he got out and went to work. Unloading trucks at the fish market wasn’t anyone’s dream position but he was able to get an apartment and had a few dollars to spend. He spent his money and time at the local gin mills. His twenties and thirties went by in an alcohol induced cloud. He must have been having a great time, why else would he have done it. Some of it he remembered, most he didn’t. He reached the point where he couldn’t be trusted to unload fish anymore. Younger, stronger drunks replaced him.

When the money ran out he tried to quit the drink. He went straight to AA. The meetings were held in the basement of St. Theresa’s Church. The most miserable bastards on the planet greeted him, he hated them immediately. If quitting the drink was going to make him that wretched, please pass him a bottle of Jameson. He took to rolling drunks, at least the ones who were in worse shape than him. He had no place to live, nothing to eat, but he could still stir up enough change for a bottle of MadDog 20/20.

A drunk driver solved most of his problems. While staggering across Glenbrook Road late one November evening a Mercedes, with a very drunk driver behind the wheel hit him so hard he was tossed twenty feet in the air. The Mercedes didn’t even slow, that is until it rear-ended a double-parked Chevy half way down the block. The cops found the drunk driver passed out behind the wheel of the Mercedes, they also had to restrain the owner of the Chevy from killing the guy who just smashed into the rear of his pride and joy. Stan was aware of none of this. He ended up as a knocked out bloody mess in the middle of Glenbrook Road. An ambulance arrived and took Stan to the emergency room of Central Hospital. Either because of the pain medication the doctors administered, or his already booze addled brain Stan remembered none of this. He woke two days later. As he came awake his first thought was that he needed a drink. He looked around the unfamiliar room and the tubes attached to various parts of his body and knew he was in a hospital. He didn’t know why he was there. A nurse must have heard him stirring and came into his room.

Stan looked up at the angel of mercy and asked her, “What the hell happened to me?”

All she would tell him was that he had been severely injured in an accident. It wasn’t her job to tell him that his right leg had been amputated at the knee. Let some high-priced talent, a doctor, give Stan the bad news. “A doctor will be in shortly to discuss your condition.” She exited as quickly as she had arrived.

Dr. Morgan was a good young surgeon, but he still needed to work off some of the rough edges on his bedside manner. “Mr. Gettings, I’m sorry but your right leg was so badly damaged I had to amputate it.” Stan reached down to where his leg should have been and felt nothing but blanket and mattress. “What the hell did you do to me? What the fuck am I going to do with one leg?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Gettings I had to take the leg to save your life.”

“What life? You think I’ll have a life with one lousy leg. I live on the street, asshole. How long do you think I’ll live out there hobbling around on a stump.” The full force of Stan’s predicament was setting in.

“Mr. Gettings, I saved your life, that’s all I can do. There are a great many prosthetic options open to you.” Dr. Morgan left the room.

Stan sat there stewing. Why didn’t they just let him die. It wouldn’t have been a great loss to anyone. He couldn’t afford a new leg. Come to think of it he couldn’t afford to be in this bed. If he wasn’t in such pain and had two legs he would sneak out of the hospital and not even see his bill. He needed a drink and he needed it now. He looked up at the bottle that was feeding him painkiller through the tube attached to his arm. If only he could switch the bottle with a bottle of Scotch.

Two days later a yuppie looking guy with a briefcase walked into his room. Before he could say a word, Stan informed him, “You’re in the wrong room dude.”

“No, I don’t believe I am, Mr. Gettings.”

“Well what are you here for, to give me a bill? I got enough troubles.”

“No not at all Mr. Gettings, I’m here to make all your troubles go away.”

“So, you’re my fairy godmother.”

The attorney smiled, “No, actually I’m an attorney representing Mr. Timothy Sutton.”

“Who the hell is that.” Stan just wanted the pest to go away.

“Sorry to say, but Mr. Sutton is responsible for your being in here.”

“The son of a bitch who ran me down. You got a lot of nerve being here. If I could get up I’d kick your yuppie ass with the only leg I have left thanks to your client. Get out of here.”

“I will Mr. Gettings, but first I want to help you get through some of your suffering. I’m here to make you a very substantial monetary offer. My client feels terrible about the whole affair.”

Stan sat up straighter in his bed “So your telling me your client got caught. I think I’ll get a lawyer.”
“That is your right Mr. Gettings. If you do retain counsel my client will do everything in his power to protect himself and his holdings. Mr. Sutton is a very wealthy and influential man. Why do you think the police haven’t been here to interview you? Let me answer that for you, he made a phone call to the mayor and the NYPD was no longer involved in the matter. Even if your lawsuit ever sees the light of day it will be at least four or five years before a trial.”

Stan thought it over. He should at least listen to the guy’s offer. He was in no condition to get picky all of a sudden, “Ok, make your offer.”

“My client has authorized me to make a very substantial offer. First, he has agreed to pay for any hospital bills you have incurred due to the accident. He has also agreed to pay for a prosthetic leg and any therapy associated with the leg.” The lawyer stopped to catch his breath.

“Sounds ok so far. What about my pain and suffering? I should get some compensation for that.”

“Of course, Mr. Gettings. I am authorized to offer you a cash settlement of one hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Sutton is able to offer you this money tax free.”

Stan started to sweat. A hundred grand could buy a lot of whiskey. A little voice in the back of his head told him he could get more. “You know a hundred thousand is a lot of money. I lost my leg though… I can’t work now. I need more than a hundred thousand. I need at least two hundred thousand.”

The lawyer looked at Stan and smiled. “Listen Mr. Gettings we’ve done a great deal of research on you and know you haven’t worked in years. We know you’re an alcoholic living on the streets. We are not unsympathetic to your circumstances but Mr. Sutton is no fool either. I will make a final offer of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If you refuse the offer I will be leaving and I suggest you retain council.”

Stan at least knew enough not to overplay his hand. He agreed to settle with Mr. Sutton. He signed papers relieving Mr. Sutton of any further responsibility. Of course, Stan wanted a drink to celebrate and of course he couldn’t have one in the hospital. He was transferred to the rehabilitation unit of the hospital. He was fitted for a state of the art prosthetic leg. It took some doing but with the help of the amazing staff at the rehab he almost felt whole again. He also started to workout, nothing serious just some light weightlifting and time on the treadmill. He felt better than he had since he was a kid. He still wanted a drink but not as badly.

All told he’d spent two months at Central Hospital. He had a cashier’s check for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. All of his bills were paid in full, life wasn’t bad for Stan at the moment. First things first, he headed for the bar around the corner. He walked from the bright sunshine into the smoke filled dingy interior of the Boar’s Head Salon. He recognized a few of the regulars, none so much as raised their head from the bar or offered any greeting, just like old times. The smell of the bar and the patrons was turning his stomach. He sat at the stool closest to the door and ordered a boilermaker. He lifted the whiskey to his lips and waited for the euphoric burning sensation of the brown liquid to travel from his throat to his gut. He didn’t tip back the shot glass, instead he placed it back on the bar. He stood up, threw a fiver on the bar, turned on his heels, and stepped back into the sunlight, Stan didn’t want that kind of life anymore, he was done with it. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he wasn’t going to waste the rest of his life. God and a speeding Mercedes had given him another chance, all he could do was try to make the best of it.