Allan's 9/11

Allan’s 9/11

by E.R. Yatscoff

Allan Krantz stepped out of the airport taxi and looked at the beige stucco bungalow, eager to pick up the truck. Three weeks ago, he’d placed a down payment on it and headed back to the remote northern camp. Seeing no blue Chevy truck nearby, his brow furrowed as he walked up the driveway.

Old Tomas, neighborhood grouch, sat beside an aluminum boat in the shade of the open garage. Tomas looked like some faded biker with his straggly gray hair, a substantial crop of stubble on his cheeks, and gold studs in each earlobe. He wore jeans and a t-shirt with OLD GUYS RULE emblazoned on it. A black and white border collie rested on the concrete beside him.

Yeah right, thought Allan as he approached, more like BORN TO BE MILD.

“Oh…ah, Mr. Krapz, right?” asked Old Tomas, squinting.

“Krant-z. Where’s my truck?” Alan scratched his stubble. He’d spent over two weeks up at the James Bay diamond mine, ground down by fourteen-hour shifts and the monotony of camp life.

“Ain’t here,” said Tomas, grinning, revealing yellowed teeth.

“Do I have to pick it up somewhere, or what?” He flipped his Tigers ball hat on and off several times.

Tomas sat forward in the lawn chair and raised his brow. “You were s’posed ta be here three days ago.”

Allan shook his head. “I got held up, couldn’t get home. Long story. I put a down payment on it.”

“How long am I gonna wait? Maybe you died. Another guy came yesterday with cash on the barrel--every cent”

Allan put out his hands. “I’m supposed to do what, now?”

Tomas shrugged.

Allan’s face twisted. “Stupid old fart. You tell that guy it’s my truck.”

Allan took a menacing step toward Tomas, causing him to lean back against his lawn chair.

“Whoa pal, I’ll get your money!” said Old Tomas, eyes wide.

In a flash, Zuma tye dog, launched up and clamped its jaws into Allan’s forearm.

“Yeow-w-w-!” screamed Allan, reeling back, his arm roaring in pain.

Tomas stood. “Zuma, no!” Tomas slapped the dog’s head and the animal released its grip.

“What the hell you sic ‘em on me for?” said Allan, letting out a string of curses, cradling his wounded forearm. “Are you nuts?”

“I didn’t…he never bites anyone!” protested Tomas.

“Except me, right?” Allan’s forearm felt like a sledgehammer pounded it. He looked at the bleeding wound and the four puncture marks. “I’ll be back,” said Allan, cursing as he walked home.

He cleaned the wound with an antiseptic topical ointment and dressed it in gauze. The dog’s teeth had penetrated deep into his muscle tissue; the pain spiking when he moved two fingers. He rummaged around his med box and found some outdated painkillers that would have to do for now. He glanced at the kitchen wall clock. Ten hours to go for a long-awaited trip to Mexico where the guys from work were already headed for some serious R&R to party hearty. No problem getting meds down there.

*

Not wanting any hassles, Allan made sure he wore long sleeves on the flight. The arm felt a bit numb and was beginning to swell up, but that was to be expected. It sure was throbbing, just on the edge of the pain meds.

In Mexico, he cabbed to a pharmacia for dressings and pantomimed a dog bite, “el perro” and bared his teeth to the señorita behind the counter. She laughed and provided him with a vial of white tablets. It was a long cab ride to a small village on the Pacific coast somewhere north of Manzanillo.

*

The cab dropped him at the small hotel a two-story squat building, well-stocked with beer and tequila and buddies, with a full panorama of the Pacific. Heaven on earth. He told the tale of his truck and the dog to his pals and they vowed to ‘go get’ the old man and kill that vicious creature. They called the mad dog ‘Cujo’ after Stephen King’s horror dog.

After a heavy bout of drinking that afternoon and evening, he awoke hungover and tired of all the comments and medical advice regarding his arm. He bought two long-sleeved t-shirts at a small grocery store. Allan was diligent in changing his dressings and taking the super-duper meds. The next few days became a blur of Corona's and Seadoos and cannonballs in the hotel pool.

One morning, with his head throbbing in time with his hangover, he couldn’t find his meds. He bumped his forearm into a doorjamb and screamed. He looked at his swollen forearm and lifted the gauze dressing. He turned up his nose at the stench, like rotten meat.

Down in the lobby, dozens of people were glued to a TV near the bar, watching in silence and awe. A few cried at some crisis unfolding.

A large middle-aged man, in obvious distress, charged up to Allan, blocking his way. He wore a red flower printed shirt and white shorts. “You a ‘Merican?”

Allan pulled a face. “Nope.”

“Damn terrorists just flew a big jet into a New York City skyscraper!” he said, gesturing with his drink to the TV and the large group rapt with the CNN broadcast.

He grabbed some toast from the five-table restaurant and headed out to the pool. His buddies were already partying and handed him a tall drink with an umbrella in it.

“Everyone toast Allan, the man with Popeye the Sailor's forearm, and his adversity to pain,” said one buddy, slightly teetering.

“That’s got to hurt Allan, you should get to a clinic,” said another.

Allan downed his drink in one gulp, jammed the umbrella in his chest shirt pocket. He examined his swollen arm and nodded. The pain squeezed his arm like a vise, and he could barely feel his fingers. He rolled up his sleeve wincing at the pain it caused. Popeye the Sailor had an anchor tattoo on his forearm, Allan had dark capillaries webbing across his forearm. He walked back into the lobby and slipped past the crowded bar to the front entrance. He spotted a cab across the street and dashed outside.

He failed to see the golf cart.

*

Allan woke on a cot with cracked plaster looking back at him from his foot, his head throbbing. The last lingering of daylight beamed into the room. What the hell? His other ankle was nearly as swollen as his forearm. He tried to sit up and discovered how exhausted he was. He touched a tender spot on his forehead and noticed his hip hurt like hell, too.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Señors! Señoras! Help! Ayuda!"

Some rattling sounds echoed out in the hallway. He attempted to get off the bed, but stumbled and fell, banged his head against the cinder block wall, and passed out.

*

When he awoke, the sun blazed into the room—a different room, this one filled with small tables and lab equipment. A hospital thought Allan. Strange anatomy charts graced the walls.

A man and a woman in lab coats stood before him.

“Where am I?” asked Allan.

The female nurse translated to the man, who responded with a knit brow. She told Allan he was hit by a golf cart “accidente” and taken to the nearest clinic, a few kilometers from his hotel.

“No doctor there, doctor there is once a week. Here is for you, a doctor now,” she explained. “This is el medico, Gutiérrez,” she said, nodding to the tall medic. “I nurse Señora Reyes.”

Gutiérrez nodded and crossed his arms.

“I feel like hell. What day is it? How long have I been here?” He thought he could smell animal feces, but maybe it was his festering arm rotting even more.

“Por favor, no speak rapido,” she said, her palm out.

He repeated his words slower and learned this was the second day since the collision. They had called the hotel and a friend of his was supposed to be here soon.

“And what happened to your arm, señor?”

“Dog bite, uh perro. In Canada,” said Allan, examining the angry red skin and more black roads on his bloated limb. “It’s really bad, right?”

“You broke ankle, too,” she said. “You have medical insurance? Credit card?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said and cursed. He hadn’t bought any foreign medical coverage. It probably won’t be too bad of a hit, all stuff’s cheap in Mexico. Anyhow, he didn’t have much choice.

“You are a young man?”

“Thirty-one,” answered Allan.

“Your young body no fight infection.” She explained the severity of the problem in both languages, while the doctor pointed to certain areas on Allan’s damaged arm. “The pastillas your pocket are painkillers, no antibioticos.”

She peeled away the gauze on his arm, revealing several deep punctures that oozed pus and clear liquid. The stench of putrefying flesh made him nauseous and reminded him of the time he left out a frozen chicken and forgot about it for two weeks. She turned her head as she dabbed on alcohol.

“Shit! That freakin’ dog.” Allan winced and closed his eyes.

On cue, a couple of dogs began to bark outside, in pained gruffs.

His buddy Jay walked in and acknowledged the doctor and nurse with a nod. He spoke to Allan briefly and tossed Allan’s wallet onto the bed, grimacing at the stinking swollen arm.

The nurse explained Allan’s condition. “Gangrena. His arm must come off.” She made a chopping motion.

“Gangrene?” Jay asked, his brow high on his forehead. unable to take his eyes from the size of his friend’s ballooned forearm and its black webbing of veins.

“Si, gangrena,” she responded.

Jay slammed his head back against the pillow. “No, no, no! That’s not gonna happen!”

“Allan, there’s no…doctor around. This clinic is a--”

“We’ll call a cab and go to the airport, get to the university hospital at home,” said Allan, sitting up, swinging out a leg.

Jay pulled up a chair to sit and pushed Alan’s leg back on the bed. He shook his head. “Can’t fly anywhere, man. Some Ay-rab terrorists crashed planes into two big skyscrapers in NYC. All North American airspace is closed.”

“For how long?” Allan asked.

“No one knows. They’re expecting another attack,” continued Jay. “You don’t have a choice here, man.”

“Like a war coming, or something? You mean…we’re stuck here? The plane can’t like, go around the States?”

Jay nodded. “The guys think it’s great, an excuse not to get back to work. The doctor here and the nurse,” Jay looked at them, “told me you lose it at the elbow or if you wait, the shoulder. You’ll still have an elbow you can…connect something to it…”

Allan slammed shut his eyes. “A hook, oh man, I’ll have a damn hook.”

“Doesn’t have to be a hook, per se, you know. They got all kinds of attachments.”

“A bottle opener or a power tool, right?”

The nurse snatched the wallet, pulled out his credit card, and left the room.

*

The Mexican meds were tremendously powerful. He barely realized they’d amputated his arm at the elbow or padded the medical bill. He wondered what they did with his arm. Or how they got him back to the hotel. Only a few of his pals were still there and they were shocked at his experience.

“You may have lost your job, too,” said one.

The credit card company somehow managed to find him at the hotel to verify the charges.

“What? No, I don’t have a pet,” he said. “How much? You’re kidding, right?”

Allan joked to his friends that he’d just bought a Mexican veterinary clinic.

*

Five days later he managed to get back to Manzanillo airport and fly home. The trip was a blur of cursing Zuma and Old Tomas. He made his way along the street to the old man’s house trying to walk smoothly with his crutch—one broken ankle and one ankle still somewhat swollen. His anger flared. The meds were making his head swim with all kinds of wacky thoughts in his addled brain.

Old Tomas sat in his lawn chair still wearing the OGR t-shirt with Zuma at rest beside him as if time stood still. Allan walked up the driveway and noted a small table beside the old man where several fish fillets lay. A yellow ice cream pail held several fish heads and entrails.

Tomas squinted at the man hobbling toward him up the driveway. “What the hell do you want now?”

Allan held up his amputated limb wrapped in gauze. “My damn arm, the arm your attack dog took!”

Zuma barked and bared its teeth.

“You’re crazy, the dog gave you a little nip and now you--”

“A little nip! I got an infection and gangrene from that filthy mutt! Got no arm, no job, and can’t even write my damn name!” He lifted his shortened limb. “They cut it off at a Mexican vet clinic!”

Old Tomas chuckled and looked at Zuma. “Hear that? A vet clinic.”

“And I still got no truck!” Allan stepped closer. “I’m gonna take everything you got and have that freakin’ Cujo put down!”

Allan swung his crutch, intending to smack the dog a good one, but Zuma launched himself up.

Allan lifted his arm to protect himself.

But there was no arm there.

Zuma flew straight up against Allan’s throat.

They went down in a flurry of thrashing and growls. Alan’s head clunked against the concrete. His body went limp. Old Tomas knocked over the table sending the fish fillets flying. He pulled Zuma off Allan and stood in shock as Allan bled out on the driveway.

He called 911 on his cell and sat.

Zuma licked his bloody chops. Tomas petted him soothingly, as sirens drew closer.

The paramedics tried for a pulse and pronounced Allan dead. One of them held up the fillet knife from the driveway.

“He took my fish knife, threatened to kill me over a truck deal,” said Old Tomas, teary-eyed. “Zuma saved me.” He looked down at the dog.

The paramedics nodded and lifted Allan’s body onto a stretcher.

Old Tomas scratched Zuma’s ear as a police car pulled up. “We’ll be okay, fella. They won’t never take you away.”