The boxes that were once meticulously stacked now form a staccato wall of printed cardboard in slick glossy plastic. One, in particular, is emblazoned with a photograph of a diminutive truck chassis attached to a foursome of immense monster-truck wheels. He is mesmerized by it. He winces as the pain he had escaped earlier starts to insinuate itself around the edges of his Vicodin-induced euphoria. It’s remarkable that he’s here at all, and I can’t help but puzzle over the alacrity with which he agreed to drive out with me.
I know about that kind of pain, the kind that follows you around like an oppressive rain cloud. At its worst it incapacitates you, turning you into a piteous useless mass. At its best you can almost forget it, but even when you’ve numbed it down with pills and distractions you feel its presence lurking at the periphery.
I’d like to say something witty to get him to laugh. I think a moment of levity might inhibit his pain, however briefly. But everything I think to say only inadequately conveys the gestalt of my intended message. I am as helpless with my sympathy as I imagine he is against his pain. Perhaps there’s nothing I can say or do to get him to feel better.
His hand moves towards the box and his fingers lightly caress the glossy plastic. His grimace melts into a distant smile, as if the slick texture evoked some distant memory of long lost friends and broken toys. And at that moment it occurs to me that there isn’t anything I can do for him that the box with the monster truck and the immense wheels hasn’t already done.
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