Clinton St. Quarterly, Vol. 9 No. 4 | Winter 1987 (Seattle) /// Issue 22 of 24 /// Master# 70 of 73

that I haven’t cried because of the pain!” he says to me. I am walking beside him as he wheels himself around in the wheelchair. We are going down to the X- ray unit, and he seems really upset about needing a pair of glasses. The ones he was wearing were broken or lost in the accident. “Walt, there’s a spare pair in Mary’s and my apartment. Go there and look for ’em, will ya? Break into the apartment if you have to! But get ’em!” He sounds shrill. Is he jittery coming off the morphine? He explains—without the glasses, being unable to see—is like drowning in the ocean. “ I feel like a cripple,” he confides. “ I’ve never been sick, confined in a hospital before.” Neither have I. I understand, I empathize. Little does he know how obsessed I have been with his welfare. It has become an all-consuming chore! Oh, maybe he senses it. I can’t lose him! For Marjorie’s sake, for my own. It would be too awful. Even though he’s not truly my son, he seems like one. I need a son to love, protect, and cherish. I go to their apartment, climb up on the roof. Try the windows. Only one is open, three or four feet out. I would have to leap to it, or use a rope to get inside. Stephen needs his glasses; he’s freaking out. I talk with the lady who lives in the apartment below. She’s a real bitch! She has a key, but won’t open the door until I speak with the landlord. I try calling him. Ten times. No answer! I say “ Fuck it! Go with gloves, rope, a hangover—try to rig a way to swing over—it’s not easy. I re-tie the rope three or four times. I dangle off the roof, trying to hook my leg over the window sill. Finally I get inside. It’s the next morning. I told Steve Iwould bring him his glasses by one-thirty. I search everywhere in the apartment, like a thief. A voyeur. I go though his clothes, Marjorie’s. The memories well up. I find letters, memorabilia, old leather suitcases, objects from India and the Goodwill store. Junk jewelry. Through all the drawers, all the rooms, I scrounge. No glasses. I start over again. I’m upset, and my nose starts bleeding slightly. I get tissue from the bathroom. It smells like the hospital! That smell. That deathly erotic odor? Is that a sign? Under the plant, which rests upon old apple crates, I spy records and other stored things. This is the place I haven’t looked. The last place! I l ift the plant o ff—sure enough! There are Steve’s glasses. Is the nasty woman downstairs, listening to me rummaging around, about to cal! the police? At the hospital, the nurses are bathing Stephen when I arrive. Glad to have his glasses, he thanks me joyfully. We laugh at what a good detective I’d make. “ No one else could have found them but you,” he tells me proudly. Doing well, he will move out of intensive care today. At two in the afternoon. His friend Daniel, Daniel’s brother, and I go with him to the other ward. Steve and Daniel chat about music and guitars. The day is sunny. Out the hospital windows snow-covered mountains are visible. The houses of North Portland. “ I might get out of the hospital by New Year’s day!” Steve exclaims happily. What a contrast all of this is! How life changes, from tragedy to a miracle. A young man with a broken body, on a black rainy night, was brought to this hospital a week ago. Not expected to live! Today he sits up in a wheelchair, talking animatedly with his friends, in the sunshine. Strong and full of life, he’s showing off his scars and stitches. I love him! My prayers were answered. Life has redeemed one of its darkest and most inexplicable moments. This Christmas of 1979 has been the bleakest, most intense, and rewarding I have know. ife has redeemed one of its darkest and most inexplicable moments. This Christmas of 1979 has been the bleakest, most intense, and rewarding I have l^nown. We must remember to maintain hope, love, and faith. This is the message. If there is a cosmic lesson—when I visited him the day after the accident, Iwas stunned. I thought I was watching a young man die. Steve told me that he had wild, bizarre dreams. Friends and people he knew were rushing past him. He was almost flying. That’s how close he came to death. Praise God! Poet Walt Curtis lives in Portland. His story in the last issue of CSQ was “Oregon Boy Buried at Kremlin Wall,” on the life and times of John Reed. Clinton St. Quarterly—Winter, 1987 29

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