Legless
BY LEATH TONINO
1.
Chip lost both his legs. Actually, that’s not quite right. He knew where they were all along, and he also knew, at a point, that they were infected, the pneumonia gone out of control. Maybe Chip gave away both his legs? Maybe he sacrificed them? Perhaps we should look at this from the legs’ perspective, that moment just after the amputation, Left and Right still close to their old body, their old friend, their old home, but unable, having no mouth, to say goodbye.
2.
It happened in the mountains. Chip was camping solo, living out of a tent, each morning riding his bike to town, where he worked, and each evening riding back into the big woods. It’d be a lie to say he was homeless. Rather, he was houseless, willfully so, enjoying every minute of green-golden summer. Part of that enjoyment involved taking hallucinogens, mushrooms and LSD, though Chip prefers the term entheogens, which means something like “generating the divine within.” A longtime smoker, not to mention a tough guy, he paid no attention to the gobs of mucus, no attention to the rusty mucus. After a long trip, he woke unable to move. Lucky Chip, another fellow was camping downvalley, near enough to hear, over the creek’s muttering and the birds’ chirping, cries for help.
3.
He was in for two months, camping out. Squeaky floors, chemical-sad smell. It happened in the mountains? No, it happened in the hospital. Squeaky floors, chemical-sad smell.
4.
I met Chip in falling snow. It was autumn’s first storm, and my friend, who is friends with Chip, had bought some almond milk and English muffins at the store. “I’m getting stronger all the time, but the damn thing just won’t go in the slush,” he said, rolling back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the low-income apartments. “Thanks a bunch for this. Come on in. You hungry?” He showed us the Tupperwares of frozen dinner people from the church had brought over. He showed us the plant that was a gift. He showed us his comfy chair, a ratty brown thing with afghan and pillow. “I’m getting good at switching from the wheelchair to my comfy chair,” he said. After shaking Chip’s hand, I said that it was good to have met. “Yeah, man,” he replied. “Swing by whenever. I sit here meditating a lot, but I’m always glad for the interruption.”
5.
Once, years ago, I wrote a song: One leg’s good, the other’s bad. One leg’s right, the other’s wrong. All my life, stuck in the middle, limping along, limping along. Now that I’ve met Chip, well, I’m singing a slightly different song.
6.
“This dude on the blades, you know the blades? He saw me and came over and started skipping around, demonstrating, showing how cool they are. ‘Gonna be awesome,’ he kept saying. ‘You gonna be psyched.’ He was a Vietnam vet, had been on them for years. ‘Things are fucking awesome,’ he said. ‘I can run faster now than I ever could.'”
7.
Chip got his prostheses a couple weeks back, but learning how to use them is proving to be a long and challenging process. You might say that the challenge is akin to climbing a mountain without any legs. Chip would be the first to laugh at this kind of joke, that is, unless he’s been eating pot cookies all afternoon, the divine within tending to make him a bit slow on the uptake.
8.
Sometimes when I’m hiking I think of Chip and can’t stop myself from thinking of him and can’t stop myself from going farther, higher, deeper into the mountains. In alpine meadows, on rocky ridges, down in those big woods, I think of him. I think of him and can’t stop thinking of him and can’t stop myself. I hike farther and farther, twenty miles, thirty, and though it hurts, hurts bad, I keep hiking. Often I come back to town after dark and Chip’s light is on, which can only mean one thing: He fell asleep meditating in that awful ratty chair.
9.
It’s tough to take the word dance very seriously in a story, don’t you agree? The stars dancing in her eyes. The dance of life and death, joy and sorrow, music and silence, presence and void. So here at the end, the end that is only a beginning for Chip and the ghosts haunting that emptiness where Left and Right once lived like happy siblings, brother and sister, son and daughter, it’s difficult to just say it plain: Chip is learning to dance. There’s a community show this January and my friend, the one who buys almond milk and English muffins once a week, without fail, is doing the choreography. Last I heard, Chip’s dog, Ranger, is going to be involved. Did I forget to mention Ranger? He’s a German shepherd, a strong, healthy boy with legs to spare. This February. The heart of the heart of winter. Ranger and Chip are going to dance.