All Life's a Game

I've wanted to try my hand at stories that were a little longer. I plotted this one out and I think it's good.

It's interesting to me. I've also decided that posting once a month is for the birds. I'm going to post as often as I have something with a minumum of once a month.

Let me know what you guys think of this one.

Howard Smalls was an extremely competitive man by nature. Some thought it had to do with his lean frame and scant height of five-foot-five. Others thought it may have had something to do with sexual repression. Still others assumed that he was just naturally competitive. His children suspected that it was a mix of all three of these varying theories.

Howard remained extremely competitive for every one of his forty-four years. He played a different sport every night of the week and spent his weekends, depending on the season, playing still other sports or doubling up on his favorites. Monday nights were reserved for playing racquet-ball at the club in club-sponsored tournaments in which he always placed highly, or even sometimes won. Tuesday nights were spent playing softball in a city sponsored league. He pitched for that team every game. Wednesday nights found him captaining a bowling team in a league put on by the local bowling alley. Thursday nights were spent playing more softball, but this was for a different team in a different city. For that team, Howard played short stop. Every Friday would find Howard racing to a lush golf course in the nearby hills for a standing tee-time with a couple of teammates from his Tuesday night softball game.

Weekends in spring were spent playing baseball in a league of players thirty-five years of age or older. They wore the professional pin-stripe uniforms of the Chicago White Sox and they all took the game very seriously.
Howard played left field.

Weekends in the summer were spent on the nearest lake pursuing various water sports. Howard was proficient on water-skis, knee-boards, yachts, wave-runners and the big hang gliders that tie to the back of boats. Available weekends in the winter were spent in pursuit of excellent skiing.

Howard worked hard at a full-time job and felt he deserved all of this time devoted to sports. Sadly, his wife of seventeen years did not agree and left him. She was sick of spending every night watching her husband play sports and force their children to do the same. They split time with only two of the children for a while. The oldest, Michael, was already 18 when they split and had stopped speaking to his father anyway. They simply didn’t understand each other. Michael was interested in things like reading and writing and history and politics and art and he didn’t understand his fathers drive to compete at things as trivial as games and sports. It drove Michael, and the rest of his family for that matter, crazy that Howard would turn everything he possibly could into a game with winners and losers. Even things as simple as listening to the radio were broken down into sets of rules in order to keep track of who was winning and who was losing. Howard would keep the radio on the classic rock station all the time and insist that everyone do their best to shout the name of the singer and songwriter as quickly as possible. Whoever shouted the correct information first got a point.
Howard always shouted first.

It was silly of him to think that his children, the first of which was born in 1980, could keep up with him in a game dependant on being alive and listening to the top-forty during the seventies. Regardless, he continued to keep score. It made car trips unbearable for the whole family, but Howard remained oblivious.

Howard’s daughter, Mary, his second child, didn’t understand his obsession with competition any better than her older brother, but loved her father unconditionally, as daughters often do.

Because his first son was a bookworm and his daughter a girl, Howard was left with his youngest child, Marcus, to compete with in sports and his little games. Every trip through a parking lot became a footrace to the car, every game of monopoly was played as though real money were involved, anything involving any ounce of skill became a sport to Howard. No one thought to explain to him the absurdity of competing with a ten-year old. Then a fifteen year-old. When Marcus turned twenty it no longer seemed so objectionable to compete with him, but Marcus was still terribly annoyed by it.

After his wife had left him and the children had all either stopped speaking to him, moved out or both, Howard lived alone. All he had left was his unquenchable thirst to compete, to prove that he was the best at whatever he did. He no longer had friends, they’d all been replaced by teammates. If you weren’t a teammate of his, it wasn’t worth talking to him because all he could talk about was last night’s big game or that amazing out he got at second or that birdie he chipped in on the par five. His favorite subject was his own physical prowess and acumen in sports.

It wasn’t very fun to be around him unless you shared his passion for Howard.

After not having spoken in three months, Howard called up his youngest, most favorite son, Marcus.

“Marcus,” he said into the phone. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine. I guess.” Marcus wasn’t sure why Howard would be calling him. “Why are you calling? What’s up?”

“Well, I’m planning a little ski-trip and thought you’d might like to come…”

“Gosh, Dad…” Howard could hear the hesitancy in Marcus’ voice and it hurt him.

“Come on, Marcus…” He was pleading. Marcus knew it.

“I don’t know, Dad. I’ve got work. You know I work on the weekends. I don’t know how they’ll react if I just up and take off to go skiing.”

“They’ll understand. Tell them you’ve got to slalom race your old man.”

“When?” Marcus didn’t want to give in, but he didn’t always know how to tell his father no.

“Next weekend.”

“Where?”

“Aspen. We’re skiing Aspen.” Howard’s voice grew giddy at the thought of skiing Aspen.

“I don’t think I can afford that, Dad.” Marcus thought for the briefest of moments that this line could work.

“You know that’s not a problem. I’ll take care of it. I’ve worked for twenty-five years to be able to do what I want and to take along whoever I want to do it with.” He was proud of this fact. He spoke of his hard work as often as his sports plays that, for him, may as well have been aired on the ten-o’clock news.

“Listen. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk to my boss and see if I can swing it.”

“You’ve got to, Mark. This might be the best skiing of our lives.”

“Well, I better get back to work, Dad.”

“Goodbye then, son.” Howard said this with no heart in his voice, merely the coming thrill of amazing snow, powder so smooth, Olympic athletes would kill to ski on it. “I hope to see you next week then. I’ll buy us some new skis.”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

Howard reiterated, hoping to get Marcus’ enthusiasm to match his, “It’ll be my treat.”

“That sounds great, but I really have to go now.”

“Of course, of course.”

They both hung up their phones and got back to what they were doing. Howard, to plan his dream trip, Marcus to his job.

* * *

For the next week, like all the other weeks since his wife and children left him, Howard ate alone at a different restaurant every day for lunch. For dinner every evening, he spent his time at various pizza parlors and bars and grills with his teammates.

On Sunday, he called Marcus again.

“Marcus?”

“Dad.”

“How are you doing?” It was less of a question that Howard posed, it more of a way of just saying hello.

“Just working.” Marcus was indeed working. He was a technical support technician for a major technology firm. Which is another way of saying he spent his days telling stupid people how to turn their computers on over the phone.

“How’s work coming along?” Howard wasn’t really interested. After years of having to interact with people that he counted as ‘loved’ ones, he’d learned that he had to feign at least some small amount of interest in their lives.

That way, they’d be more receptive to his glory stories later.

“It’s coming.” Marcus wasn’t stupid and knew this was the routine. Why bother telling him how he was doing and how work was coming if it was just going to go in one ear and right out the other?

“That’s great. Great…” Howard repeated that last word to prepare himself to tell a story and Marcus knew that, too. “You should have been there at the racquet club last night, Marcus. I played Egon Thompson and I beat him.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“He’s a pro. It was tough. I had to give it everything I had but I beat him. Best two out of three.”

“That’s great, Dad.” Marcus was certainly distant. He was listening more than enough for Howard, though.
“He beat me the first game, but I wore him out. I came back from behind. You should be proud of your old man. Against the odds, he always comes back from behind.”

“I’m proud, Dad. Sure.”

“I won a new gym bag. I think I’ll pack my new ski-gear in it. You’ll be able to see it on the trip.” The enthusiasm in his voice was so over the top he could have got work voicing over cartoons.

“Awesome.” The lack of conviction in Marcus’ voice didn’t faze Howard one bit.

“But that’s not why I called you, son.” Howard knew that was only half-true. “I called you to make sure you’ll be able to use those tickets I bought for Aspen. If you can’t make it, I was thinking I might call up Michael…”

“Dad, Michael hasn’t spoken to you in five years. What makes you think you could call him up and ask to take him skiing?”

“Nothing. But it’s all the more reason you need to come with me. Besides, you’d be a much better race partner.”

“Yeah… Race partner…”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about Michael. How’s he doing?” Marcus was taken aback. Howard was rare on caring anything for sports. Maybe he did have a heart, but Marcus doubted it.

“Michael?”

“Yeah. How is Michael. I heard he had a kid.” Although he had no contact with his son and had never even met his grandson, Howard was quite proud that he was a grandfather and was still as active in competition as he was. He told his teammates quite often.

“Yeah. A son. You knew about that. He just turned two a couple of months ago. Michael and I went and saw a movie on Friday night. He’s good. He’s doing real good.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Yeah.”

“So. About our little trip to Colorado. You’re answer’s yes, isn’t it? Because it has to be.”

Marcus sighed, then, “Yeah. I talked to my boss. I have enough paid-time off to go for a weekend.”

“Splendid.”

“Yeah. It’ll be a hoot.”

“Free up some time tomorrow, we’ll get some new skis and boots. Only the best for us, eh, son?”

“Only the best, Dad.” Marcus said that with no life in his voice, but it was good enough for Howard who cared only about the trip and how much he himself would enjoy it. Marcus’ level of enjoyment or lack thereof was entirely inconsequential.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Meet me at the Big Five over on Brookhurst at noon. I’ll take a long lunch break and we’ll get our skis and then head over to Norm’s for lunch.” Howard was twice as excited now as he was when the conversation began.

He’s know have a racing partner he could show up the entire trip.

“Sure thing, Dad. Big Five. Brookhurst. Noon. Uh-huh.”

“You got it.”

“Okay, bye then, Dad.”

“Buh-bye.”

Howard hung up his phone and all he could think about was his trip. It would be beautiful.

Marcus hung up his phone and all he could think about was his father’s trip. It would be torturous.

* * *

The sporting goods store, Big Five, was filled with every sort of item you would need to compete in any sport or kill any animal including the license to do it. One aisle was devoted to baseball, another softball, past that were aisles for basketball, football, racquet-ball, volley-ball, lacrosse, hockey, rugby, horseshoes and on and on and on. Any kind of sport you could think of had its very own section.

In the back of this sports Mecca, against the rear wall, were racks and racks of skis and their boots and bindings. Hanging neatly on closet bars in front of them were every kind of winter coat and ski-pant you could imagine.

Howard was in Heaven.

With a spring in his step, Howard sauntered toward the ski-section of the store. He tried his best to look and feel at home.

He would inspect some odd bit of sports equipment, think about buying it, then move on, heading ever toward the back of the store.

“I might be needing a new glove…” He was quickly sidetracked, looking for a new mitt for his softball games.

During his search for a new mitt, he would look to the doors at the front of the store every few moments , hoping Marcus would be walking through them. Checking his watch, Marcus realized it was still a little too early.

It was only a quarter to twelve.

After deciding he didn’t need a new mitt, aluminum bat, cleats or more softballs, he found his way to the part of the store where they re-strung racquet-ball racquets. A clerk from the store, wearing a blue polo shirt with a large “5” emblazoned on it, was standing behind the intricate re-stringing machine. He appeared quite official, going over figures of sort or another with the aid of a clipboard.

Howard looked toward the door and then his watch one more time before approaching the clerk about racquet strings.

No sign of Marcus. Still five minutes left until noon.

“Do you guys carry any of those new strings that Ektalon put out?” Howard tried hard to impress clerks in sporting goods stores. It was a bad habit of his.

“Excuse me, sir?” The clerk was confused. Racquets weren’t his department. His line was fishing tackle and ammunition.

“The new strings. They’ve got Kevlar and a new space age material in them. They’re supposed to increase the bounce power on your impact.” Howard was dying to get his hands on some of those strings, but he knew they wouldn’t be available in sporting goods stores until sometime in spring. He had all of the ads for it printed out from his computer and tacked to the corkboard behind his desk.

“I actually don’t know.” The clerk looked around, hoping someone from the racquet department would be close at hand, but no luck. “I’m just doing the inventory.” The clerk raised his clipboard and tapped it with his pencil to illustrate his point.

“I see,” was all Howard could say.

“I’d be happy to get someone from this department to help you out.”

“No. It won’t be a big deal. My swing impact doesn’t need much more bounce. I beat Egon Thompson in a tournament on Saturday night. Two out of three. So, I guess I’m doing okay without the strings so far.”

“Sure.” The poor clerk didn’t know Egon Thompson from Adam, all he wanted was to finish his shift and get the hell out of there so he could go fishing.

“Well, my son, Marcus, is a pretty fair player, too. He should be here any minute now. We’re going skiing this weekend.”

The clerk replied, trying to sound the least patronizing as possible, “That sounds like it will be a lot of fun.”

Both Howard and the clerk took a desperate glance at the massive glass doors leading into the store, hoping that Marcus would come through them.

No sign of Marcus.

“Oh it will be.” Howard sounded pleased already, but then he added, “I can assure you that.”

“Well, I’d better get back to work then. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with…”

“I sure will…” Howard was lost in the thoughts of his racquet-ball game and where Marcus could possibly be, but quickly remembered the clerk as soon as he turned back to his clipboard. Then he asked, “Say, what department did you say you were in?”

“I’m in fishing tackle and ammunition.”

“You don’t say? I once caught a seventeen pound fish just off the lake. Biggest thing you ever saw. Best barbecue I ever had.” Howard got lost thinking about the fish and his barbecue.

“I bet.” The clerk was trying to back up now, to make his break for it.

“Yeah. That was some great fishing…”

The clerk was nodding in agreement, hoping to placate Howard enough to leave him alone when a beeping noise originating from Howard’s wrist began sounding.

‘”Oh, it’s noon…” Howard checked his watch, confirmed the fact it was noon, and turned its alarm off. “My son should be here any second now.”

“Uh-huh.” The clerk didn’t know if Howard was still talking to him or not, but better safe than sorry.

Howard turned to the door, hoping to spot Marcus.

“There he is,” he commented to himself. The fishing tackle and ammunition clerk had quickly fled to another part of the store as soon as Howard turned his back.

Indeed, Marcus had entered the store. He had a mop of blonde hair and a few months worth of growth on his chin although his upper lip and cheeks were clean shaven. He was a stark contrast in wardrobe to Howard. Howard wore a baseball jersey and dusty jeans. Marcus was attired in a button-up shirt and khakis. He also wore a hat that looked like it belonged more to a kid selling newspapers in the twenties than on someone working with computers.

“Marcus!” Howard called him over, motioning with his arms in an exaggerated fashion.

Marcus covered the distance between them and they shook hands. “Dad.”

“It’s good to see you, son.” He put his free hand on Marcus’ shoulder, examining his build. This is as close as Howard ever got to hugging his children.

“Yeah. I guess it’s been a while.” Marcus was more concerned with getting the skis and getting the hell out of there than with having some type of reunion with his father.

“Too long. Too long.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s take a look at some skis.”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

Together, they went to the back of the store where all of the ski equipment was located. “Only the best for us, son. Only the best. We’re gonna have a hell of a trip. The skiing is going to be great.”

“Sure, Dad. Only the best.” Marcus did his best to believe it, but he never would.

Marcus and Howard began browsing skis, boots and bindings. Howard did so with a much more discerning eye. Checking the price of each pair of skis, he’d become disinterested in a pair if the price was too low. ‘Most expensive’ was synonymous with ‘best’ in Howard’s mind.

Marcus merely looked for skis that looked as though they would work well for him.

“How about these skis, son? Nice K-2’s? Awful expensive. I’ll bet their honey’s on the slopes…”

A knowledgeable employee whose name tag assured all that his name was ‘Kirk,’ overheard this statement and interjected: “Actually, those skis aren’t that great.”

Shocked, Howard turned to see Kirk standing behind him. “Why is that?”

“Well, they’ve got problems turning. If you’re looking for something that will get you straight down the mountain, they’d be fine I suppose…”

“That’s how I learned to ski. None of that snow plow stuff. That’s for kids. I learned back, twenty, thirty years ago. My brother taught me. He taught me to go straight down the mountain. Forty, fifty, sometimes sixty miles an hour. Straight down the mountain is exactly what I’m looking for, so long as their fast.”

“Hmmm…” Kirk nodded, humoring Howard only because he was paid on a commission.

“And my boy here?” Howard cocked his head back in Marcus’ direction. “I taught him to ski the same way. Straight down the mountain.”

Having not paid much attention, Marcus’ ears perked up when he noticed his father motioning to him, “What?”

No one paid him any mind. “Is this the best ski for that kind of skiing?”

“Well, I ski about three times a week during the season and last season I was on those. The skiing was pretty good. But I switched over to this ski,” Kirk put one hand on Howard’s back and the other on a ski whose name was Alpine Slider. “This pair of ski’s was fast and fun like you couldn’t imagine.”

“Hmmm…” Marcus watched Howard rub his chin and take a step back from the salesman. Then Howard began, “I don’t know. When I went skiing last, I heard the Alpine Slider’s were definitely not known for their speed..”

This bold and false statement made Kirk aware how clueless Howard actually was.

It was also painfully obvious that Howard revered himself as a know-it-all god of all things sports; a god on skis, barreling down the mountain, doling out forgiveness for everyone else being less than him as only he could. “That was the first model they produced this year. They recalled those. I can assure you, this is a fast pair of skis.”

“Is there a ‘but?’ I feel like there’s going to be a ‘but.’”

“The ‘but’ is that unfortunately, these skis are a might pricier than those K-2’s you’ve had your eye on.”

“Money is no object. I want the fastest skis. I’m going to be racing them and I don’t want a pair of skis that aren’t fast.”

Standing behind Howard, Marcus rolled his eyes. Sometimes he wondered how this man could have fathered him.

This was certainly one of those times.

“Racing?” Kirk was nodding and smiling as only commission-based salesmen know how to, “downhill or over moguls?”

“Who knows. Both, I’m sure. We’re going to aspen. So, yeah. I’d bet both.”

“Well, if money is no object, then this is the ski for you.”

“Hrmmm…” Howard stroked his chin again.

Marcus put his face in his hands, nodding in frustration at his fathers idiocy and gullibility. He sighed with annoyance when his father said, “We’ll take two pairs.”

“I knew you’d come around.” From nowhere, Kirk materialized a sales slip.

“Only the best for me and my boy. Only the best.”

“Now, we’ll just have to get some boots and bindings and we can get to work putting them together for you.”

“Splendid.”

Marcus and Howard spent the next twenty-five minutes trying on various boots and their accompanying bindings. All the while, Kirk had to listen to preposterous story after preposterous story of Howard’s exploits. Marcus could say nothing, it would only make things worse for both he and Kirk.

After Howard settled on the most expensive boots and bindings he could find, Kirk said, “Now, our team will put everything together but I need to ask how you want them set.”

Howard wondered, but let Marcus ask for fear of embarrassment, “Set?”

“Well, there’s basically three settings we do here. Beginner, intermediate and expert…”

Without thinking, Howard blurted, “Expert.”

“Are you sure?”

Being more level-headed and grounded, Marcus asked the obvious, “What’s the difference?”

“Basically, it’s how tight they go. The more you fall, the looser you want them because the nasty spills will make your skis pop off so you don’t break your leg. The tighter they are, the harder it is for them to fall off and the greater the chance of breaking your leg during a bad spill, but you have more control and speed.”

“I’m sticking with expert.” Howard would not back down.

“What about you?” Kirk said, pointing to Marcus.

“Well, I’ve been skiing plenty, so I won’t go with beginner and I’m not crazy, so I’ll go with intermediate.”

Then to Howard, “And you’re sure about the expert? I’d hate to feel responsible for you breaking your leg or something. I’ve seen it happen before, it’s not a pleasant thing.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be all right. I haven’t fallen on pair of skis in… God…” He really did have to think about it for a moment, he wasn’t just pausing for effect. He lied about it anyway, though: “Close to a decade.”

Howard had fallen a dozen times or more that he could remember as recently as last season.

“Okay. You’re the boss.” Kirk made the proper notations on his sales slip and handed them a copy. “Just bring this up to the front and they’ll be ready for pick-up tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

Howard took the receipt and never once flinched at the price.

Marcus caught a glimpse of the price of his boots alone and cringed.

Howard paid for the skis and drove straight to Norm’s to eat lunch with Marcus.

Marcus was glad when it was all over as he’d been regaled by the same war stories of his fathers a hundred times over. And Howard wasn’t what you’d call a listener. He didn’t really pay much attention to anything anyone else had to say.

As they came out of the parking lot to say their goodbyes, all Howard had to say was this: “Remember, we leave on Friday night. We’ll ski until Sunday.”

“All right.”

“I’ll pick you up and we’ll head to the airport. God, son. This is going to be great.” Then he added this as Marcus was getting into his car, “Only the best for us, boy.”

He nodded in fake agreement. “Uh-huh.”

* * *

They arrived on Friday night and they were driven to their hotel in a mini-van from the airport. Their brand new Alpine Sliders were strapped to the roof. The driver of the Hotel shuttle was forced to hear Howard’s story about Egon Thompson and the time he’d out-skied Robert Redford on the slopes of Sundance and was disappointed when Howard neglected to offer him a tip.

Howard went into the Hotel, leaving Marcus to carry the skis.

“Sorry about him. He’s always like this. He’s got a one-track mind.” Marcus apologized sincerely to the driver.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“This is for you.” Marcus handed the driver a five-dollar bill. “Thanks for putting up with ‘im.”

“Any time. Any time.”

Marcus picked up the skis and headed for their room.

He was none too pleased to discover that his father had reserved a single. “Why would I get a room with two beds? There’s plenty of floor around here.”

That’s what Howard said for every visit to a Hotel he’d made with his children for the last twenty years. It never ceased to befuddle and infuriate them. Particularly now. “If I would have known you were going to do that, Dad, I would have paid for my own room or at least another bed.”

“No. It’s not a big deal. Besides, you’ve always preferred the floor anyhow.”

Marcus shook his head and dropped the skis to the floor. It wasn’t worth arguing about. He tried to go to sleep then, but he couldn’t. Howard spent most of the evening and well into the night flipping through various news networks looking for all of the latest sports scores. “I’ve got a pool going at work. You understand.”

Morning arrived quickly and they got all of their new equipment on and to the slopes without a hitch.

The ride up the mountain was cold and made their lips chap. Sliding his goggles down over his eyes and looking out over the snowy landscape from the ski-lift, Howard remarked, “I said only the best for us, son. And this is the best.”

Howard took a deep breath, trying to acclimate himself to the thin mountain air.

Marcus looked around, taking the scenery in for himself. He had to admit, it was beautiful. “I have to admit, it is beautiful.”

Side by side, they slid down to the first slope they saw. It was a mighty bowl, heading straight down. It was clearly marked as a black diamond by a sign at its ledge. Marcus noticed Howard readying himself, “Don’t you think we should cut our teeth on something’ a little easier, Dad?”

“Oh, come on…”

“I’m just saying, a black diamond right out of the gate on new skis? We might want to take the intermediate runs down to the bunny slope, just to get the feel of ‘em.”

“I’ll race you down. This slope. Right now. First one down wins. Loser buys lunch.”

Marcus swore to himself under his breath and then relented, “Fine…” With a deep breath, “Loser buys lunch…”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Then, with no warning, Howard said, “Okay, one-two-three-GO!”

Before Marcus had even a moment to process the start of the race, Howard was off like a shot, down the snowy bowl. Soon he was merely a blur.

“Mother of God.”

Marcus pushed off with his poles, praying to God he didn’t break his crazy neck.

Much to his surprise, Marcus was gaining on Howard. Expertly, he swerved to avoid moguls, but never managed to get closer than fifteen feet from his father. The wind blasted by them, drying their exposed skin and turning their noses red.

“Wooh-hooh!” Howard exclaimed.

Determined to beat him, not wanting to buy lunch, Marcus tried gaining momentum by pushing himself harder with his poles, but everyone knows that doesn’t work. It looked as though Howard was going to win, “You’re going to have to try harder than that, boy!”

Howard turned his head, to see how much distance Marcus had made up, but didn’t notice that the ski-run was nearing a sharp fork in the path.

He sped headlong into the trees.

Hearing the painful crash , Marcus shuddered and slowed to a halt to see if he could help, but there was nothing he could do.

In fact, it seemed as though this had brought their ski trip to a grinding halt.

* * *

Howard was none too pleased to be in a hospital gown and confined to a wheelchair and a cast around his broken leg.

“How you feeling, Dad?” Marcus had raced down the mountain to find the ski-patrol so they might collect his father. They did likewise and rushed him to the nearest hospital.

Marcus was still wearing his ski attire.

“I’ve had better days.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“Well, the pain isn’t so bad.”

“Hmmm…”

“We’ll just rent a van so you can drive me home.”

“They’re going to let you go already?”

“Yeah. They’ve set the bone and I’m on pain killers. I didn’t have a concussion, so they don’t need to observe me for anything.”

Howard balanced his wheelchair into a wheelie.

“Oh.”

“Did you spot any more wheelchairs on the way in here, son?”

“It’s a hospital, Dad. Of course I did. Why? Is there something wrong with the one you’ve got?”

“I don’t need another one.”

Marcus was confused.

“It’s for you. You’re gonna get a wheelchair and race me outta here. I bet even with a busted leg and on pain-meds I could wheel my ass outta here faster than you can.”