A crutch on which to walk. That was all he needed. Here in this bare room in a strange city, all that surrounded him were bricks and empty orange crates. How did he get here? The process still was not clear. He waited every day for parcels containing the rest of his belongings, but though promised when he left, they had not arrived. It came back to him: the farewells, the hurried last-minute errands, the drive to the bus station. The three day long trip, now merged into one long recollection of jouncing around a bus seat, stopping at Petro-Canada Diners.
Now the room. He had found a room easily enough, it seemed, or someone had found it for him. At any rate, he was decanted into a room, totally defenseless, without his crutch even, a way to walk, to move himself around.
Empty tins of beans. The lady across the hall had brought food for him, she had begun to ask when he would start doing his own shopping. He said soon, I just have to wait for a few things from home. The cans inside were dry and crusted, and none remained left to open with the flimsy opener. He would have to do something or else face starvation, become a pile of bones to join the other bits of debris on the wooden apartment floor.
Something to make into a crutch. He looked around him. Not much. There were the bare pipes which lead into the radiator. If he could break them free, one of them might work as a support. Of course if he had the strength to break free a steam pipe, he would have no need of a crutch. Nothing else presented itself.
Wait a minute. He had not checked the closets. With awkward use of hands he propelled himself along the floor. The long coat he wore dragged and indeed covered his legs, so it looked like he had no legs at all but was simply a man cut in half, coattails trailing. He pulled himself along, hoping there were not protruding nail heads on which to catch the fabric. The knob on the closet door seemed quite a ways up, so he had to prop himself up on the adjacent wall, his back to the wall and reach over and catch the knob before toppling over. This he did and turned it with a creak, leaned back so that the door would open although it took him with it, so he ended up on his side in front of the open closet. Empty. Or so it seemed. In one corner there was leaned a broom. A cheap one, with plastic bristles clogged with dust. Held together with staples. This was the crutch he needed, if it would only support his weight. He pulled himself into the closet and gave a swat at the bottom on the handle. The broom fell on him and landed behind with a clatter. He picked it up, placed it end downwards. Hand over hand, he raised himself up along the broomstick, till he had reached the bristles. With an effort that provoked an involuntary grunt, he pitched himself over the bristle end of the broom, so that it lodged under his arm pit. It was uncomfortable. The bristles poked through his coat and jacket and shirt until they stuck him in the delicate skin of his armpit. But he had his crutch. He was on his feet.
(c) Jack Ruttan, 1999