Some Are Sicker Than Others by Andrew Seaward Page A

would help relieve the inflammation, the only problem being he’d never get to run again. The most he’d be able to do is walk and climb a staircase and maybe… maybe take in some light biking. Bastards. What the hell was Cheryl thinking letting Larry behind the wheel of that golf cart? What was she doing thinking a mentally challenged kid could drive a four-wheeled cart? She wasn’t thinking—that was the problem. She was so caught up with her stupid little Blackberry that she couldn’t even shut up for two seconds, let alone keep an eye on the damn kid. If she would’ve just shut the thing off and watched him like she was supposed to, the kid would’ve never put that thing in drive and smashed into his hip. He’d still be able to compete for the qualifiers in January. He’d still have a shot at making the final cut for the Boston marathon. But now look at him. He was nothing…he was nobody…he could barely even make it down the stairs, let alone run a four-minute mile. Everything he’d worked for; all those meets and competitions, all that training and preparation gone; gone, because of his wife’s stupidity; gone, because she didn’t care about anyone but herself.
    He shook his head and looked over at Larry, at the look of concentration in the kid’s happy, little eyes. The page of his coloring book was nearly all finished—a mad swirl of greens, blues, and magenta, none of which stayed within the solid, black lines. Oh well, at least he was staying on the page of the coloring book and not on the table or the kitchen tile.
    He grabbed his knife and smeared some more cream cheese on his bagel then shoved it in his mouth and took a giant-sized bite. As he chomped it down, Cheryl flipped on the garbage disposal, which felt like an oil derrick pumping into his brain. He couldn’t put up with this. He had to say something. Anymore of this shit and he was gonna have a nervous breakdown. He put down his knife and looked up at Cheryl, pushing his plate aside.
    “Do you mind?” he asked, as nicely as possible, hoping this wouldn’t turn into an all out bitch-fest.
    Cheryl pretended like she didn’t hear him and continued stacking her dishes into a neat little pile.
    “What’s the point of having a dishwasher if you’re just going to wash them in the sink?”
    Cheryl hesitated for just a split second then turned on the faucet and started rinsing the plates.
    “Fine,” Dave said, “pretend like I’m not here. All I’m asking for is a little god damn peace and quiet.”
    Cheryl grabbed a handful of silverware and slammed it down into the sink. She ripped off her gloves, rolled them into a tight ball of yellow latex, and hurled them through the air right at Dave’s face. Dave flinched as an afterthought, jerked his hand forward, and the cup of coffee went flying all over Larry’s freshly colored page. The kid paused for a moment to process what was happening, then looked down at the table and then back up Dave. His lips curled up into his nostrils and his face scrunched together like the face of a puppy St. Bernard. He started to wail and beat his chubby fists against the table as the coffee dripped from the table onto the floor.
    “Oh that’s just great,” Dave said, as he shot up from the table and grabbed a wad of napkins from the silver napkin holder. “Now, look what you did.”
    “What I did?” Cheryl said, stepping away from the counter. “You’re the one who started it.”
    Dave knelt beside Larry, put his hand on the kid’s shoulder, and started sopping up the coffee from the page of his book. “It’s alright Larry,” he said, “everything’s gonna be okay. It’s just a little coffee. It’ll come out. See?” He held up the wad of napkins to show Larry, but the kid continued to bawl his eyes out. “God damnit!” Dave slammed his fist down against the table so hard that it shook the family portrait hanging on the wall. “Can you please do something?” he said, looking up at