Mr. Young's Blood (Republished to One)

"So," I say to my sweet faced neighbor, Sandy, as she hands me another paper towel, "where is Chris, tonight?"

"He's with his dad in North Carolina."

"Coming back soon?"

"Next weekend. Gotta' get ready for school.  I wish we had more peroxide."

Stooping and wiping, I'm trying not to get any of the bleach-based disinfectant on my favorite pink pants.  Or blood.  I've only worn them three times, and everyone loves them.  They should.  My butt looks like Barbie's beach ball, and I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to sustain this elaborate spandex illusion.  Sandy notices, too.

"Where'd you get those pants?  They're so cute!"

"Steinmart.  I almost bought the turquoise ones, but I thought pink would be more fun for Kathy Griffin's show."

"How was it?"

"Un-frickin-believable!  I was fifth row center, so close I could see her spit.  I don't know how we're going to get this out of those cushions."

"I brought Oxyclean.  It should work.  I can't remember the last show I went to. I hope they can fix these."

Sandy is examining Mr. Young's glasses.  Apparently, they had taken the initial impact and now their wire frames were weirdly warped.  When he collapsed, two hours earlier, he must have fallen forward, and that would explain his broken nose.  I wonder aloud if he'll have black eyes.  Sandy delicately swabs the bloody nose pads and answers with authority.  "Oh gawd, yes.  The tissue around the eyes is extremely sensitive.  He's going to look like he just returned from Iraq."

"Poor guy.  Anything happen over there today?"

"Probably.  Something always seems to be happening over there.  I've stopped watching the news.  I think I should just let these things soak."

I tackle the kitchen chairs, and become fascinated by the effect of Sandy's Oxyclean.  I douse the stains and, just like the commercial, the bubbles hungrily consume the scarlet residue like microscopic mosquitoes. 

"Wow, this stuff is incredible!  I wonder if it works on cat stains."

"Why do you think I bought it?"

"This definitely goes on the shopping list.  So, how will Mr. Young get back from the hospital?"

"They'll call me.  I think they'll keep him overnight--just to monitor his blood sugar.  I can't believe he didn't break his hip.  I'm going to finish the bathroom."

Alone now, I'm almost done with the floor, and find odd spots on the cabinet door, the dishwasher, and the empty wine carafe.  The insulin has been returned to the refrigerator, but Mr. Young's meters and monitors weren't spared the ugly deluge.  After cleaning them, I replace them on his table where I hope he'll find them soon.  I don't want to waste the rest of the stain remover on his cheap rug--it's already turning brown. 

"Hey Sandy!  Why don't we just soak the rug in the tub?  Cold water."

"Good idea.  This towel should go in there, too.  May as well throw in some detergent.  Couldn't hurt."

While on our knees at the bathtub, Sandy and I watch the water dilute Mr. Young's blood.  We each scrub separate stains trying to get them started, and it seems to work.  Her hands are more delicate than mine, but she is ruthless. 

"I don't think he has any family.  I hope he gets Medic-alert.  It's sad when old folks are all alone."

"He's lucky you were home, Sandy."

"I thought about him when I got home from work, and the next thing I know, he's standing outside my door trying not to bleed on my doormat.  Asks if I can take him to the emergency room."

We leave the rug, rags, and towel in the tub and then inspect our work.  Wishing we had one of those CSI blood lights, we double-check the hallway.  After we're convinced we've done our best, Sandy and I collect our stuff.  We lock Mr. Young's apartment and accompany each other to the dumpster.  The heavy twilight air is pungent with gardenia and an approaching thunderstorm.  I ask Sandy if there's anything else I can do.

"Nah.  Thanks for the company.  What a mess that was.  I'm putting in an Avon order tomorrow.  You want anything?"

"Not this time, Sandy.  I'm good to go." 

She walks back to her apartment, three doors down, and though I can't hear it, her phone must be ringing.   I've never seen Sandy run before--I always thought angels flew.