Sol.: Low Blows — Part II

October 7th, 2010

Editor’s Note I: To fully appreciate this post, make sure you read Low Blows — Part I….

After a few minutes of anxiously awaiting her arrival, the paramedics brought her through our ER doors.

The medic, who had been in the battle, hobbled in behind the gurney, red faced and sweating.

The old lady was still cursing at him mockingly. “I whipped your ass, boy. You god damned cracker,” she screamed, turning her head to face the medic.

When I saw her, it clicked. I’m not sure why it hadn’t come to me earlier. It was Susie “Low Blows.”

Susie “Low Blows” is a little old black lady who frequently comes to our ER. She is confused because she is suffering from the early stages of dementia.

Susie got her nickname because she kicks and grabs at penises and testicles whenever she becomes agitated. It’s some sort of defense mechanism.

The medics rolled Susie to her room, passing ER staff on the way.

“Well, if it ain’t our old friend Susie “Low Blows,” a doc said chuckling, “make sure you cover up the ballchinians, boys.”

Everyone laughed except the male staff.

She was one tough old lady….

“Shit, it’s Susie,” I mumbled to no one in particular. We have a complicated past.

Susie and I had battled at least three times before that I could remember. Each time I left the fight with scratches on my arms or bite marks on my hands.

Luckily, she’d never got a hold of my “ballchinians,” as the good doctor put it.

This time around, our exchange started off as usual.

“Susie, we’re going to need to change you into a gown, o.k.?” I said.

“Kiss my ass,” she barked. “You ain’t putting your hands on me….”

“Susie, you gotta calm down. I’m just doing my job. You know the routine.”

“No. Damned bastard. You filthy son-of-a-bitch….”

I cautiously approached, one hand extended towards her, the other covering my boys.

Susie is old, but she’s quick. She can cover the space between herself and your ballchinians as quickly as a rattle snake jumping out of a bush. And I’m told her grip is like a pit bull’s.

I approached her.

“Susie, let me do my job,” I said, moving forward. “I’m just trying to help….”

“Boy, you ain’t going to do nothing….”

“Susie, stop it. I have to get you changed.”

I moved a step closer. I thought to myself: “This is ridiculous. She’s an old lady.” But I kept my guard up. I was within her reach. I had to be careful.

“Sol.,” a voiced called out.

“What? I’m busy,” I screamed back, not turning my head.

“Where are you?”

“Room nineteen….”

“Where?”

“Room 19,” I screamed, annoyed, but still maintaining eye contact with Susie.

“Where?”

“Are you kidding me?” I roared, turning my head to see who was calling me, “I’m in room 19. I said I’m—SSSSHHHHHIIIIITTTTT!!!!!!! Fuckin Susie!!!”

Dropped my guard for an instant, and she got me good….

By Sol.

Editor’s Note II: Sol. wants all his Third City readers to know he’s almost fully recovered….

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