One Hand On The Podium

by John E. Harper

  “It seems,” Rebecca Ray said. “Tony Bix is out of town on business at this time and has not been reached for comment. Doctors expect Mrs. Bix to recover fully. All efforts to save the infant were in vain. This would have been the first baby for the Bix family. Friends of the family say Peggy Bix is extremely shaken from the loss. She is to be released in a few days.”

  “After this station break, we’ll be back with the weather. It was a gloomy day today, and Sam will let you know what’s in store for us the rest of the week.”

  Tony stared blankly at the television screen. Michelle went over to him and put one arm around him and squeezed his hand with the other. “Help me up Michelle,” he asked her, not really sure what would be the right thing to do next. As she lifted him by the arm, he cried out in pain. “Oh, that fucking hurts.”

  The area between his legs was very painful. The nurse had told him there would be quite a bit of discomfort but certainly not the kind of pain he was having.

  As he carefully got up from the couch he made sure not to let go of the blanket.

  “Here Tony, give me the blanket. You can’t walk with it wrapped around you like that,” she said as she grabbed the blanket but he held it tightly.

  Michelle quickly jerked it away, as though she were a magician whipping a table cloth off a table out from under fine china.

  “Don’t! Don’t, damn it, Michelle!” Tony begged.

  Michelle let out a slight scream and panic filled her face as she looked down between his legs, not believing what she was seeing. “What’s the matter? What the— ?”

  Tony immediately looked down at himself and began to panic too. He was covered with blood. His underwear were completely soaked with a horrifying dark red stain. His yellow shirt had also soaked up some of the blood too. “What’s going on?”

  Tony looked at Michelle with desperation, hoping she had an answer. “I don’t know, Tony. What did they do to you? You only had a mole removed. Did you get stitches? What did the doctor tell you?” she begged him for a answer.

  “Yeah, I got stitches. I didn’t get a mole removed damnit. It’s from the vasectomy. That’s what I did today. I got a fucking vasectomy.”

  “A vasectomy?”

  “Yes, but I thought I did everything right. I’m not sure. Let’s see, Michelle, I’m really bleeding badly.” Tony looked back down as he could feel the blood running down his leg.

  “Lie back down,” Michelle instructed. “I better take a look at your stitches.”

  “No way. I’m not letting you.”

  “Sit down, Tony!” she demanded. “Something’s wrong here.”

  He carefully did as he was told.

  Gently she pulled elastic band of his underwear away from his blood-soaked pubic hair. Tony winced, even though nothing Michelle did added to the pain he was already experiencing. She looked at each side of his testicles, grimaced, then allowed the elastic support to go back in place.

  “Well?” Tony asked her, not really wanting to know.

  “Well,” she matter-of-factly stated. “It looks as if the stitches on your left side have broken open. You better call a doctor. That is so gross, Tony.”

  “Damn it! Why the fuck is this happening to me? Get me my briefcase. There’s an emergency number the nurse gave me. Damn it! Give me my cell phone.”

  Michelle sprung back to her feet, handed Tony his phone then walked over to his briefcase, opened it and looked inside.

  “Give it to me. Give it to me!” he shouted.

  “I will, I will. Don’t yell at me.”

  “Here it is. Okay, let’s see now, 618-777-1008.” He dialed the number and looked up at the ceiling as he took a deep breath to calm himself.

  “Hello. Hello. My name is Tony Bix. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was in your office the other day for a vasectomy and I’m having a real problem here.”

  “Oh, yes,” came the familiar voice of the nurse who’d earlier helped him through his procedure with the doctor. “Yes, we just saw the report on the news about your wife’s miscarriage. We are so sorry.”

  “Thank you. Yes, thank you.”

  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bix?”

  “I’m bleeding all over the place. My friend checked the stitches and she thinks one side opened up.”

  “I know one side opened up. I saw it.” Michelle said in a quiet tone as she bit her finger nails.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes. Very sore.”

  “How long did you keep the ice on them?”

  “Ice?”

  “Yes. I told you today that the ice would keep the swelling down and stop any bleeding that may occur.”

  “Oh, gosh, I guess I don’t remember you telling me that.”

  “Well, I did indeed, Mr. Bix,” she stated, talking as though she were a schoolteacher scolding a naughty pupil.

  “What do I do now?” he asked desperately.

  “Get an ice pack, and hold that on your open incision. The bleeding should eventually stop. If it doesn’t call me back, and we’ll have you come back to the office, and we’ll stitch you up again. You must take care of those wounds Mr. Bix. You could get an infection very easily.”

  “Yes, I remember that part.” Tony looked at Michelle, cupped his hand over the phone and whispered to her, “Get me an ice pack, fast!”

  As Michelle walked out of the room, he took his hand off the cell phone, “I will do that right away. I’m sorry I bothered you. I feel so stupid.”

  “Don’t feel stupid, Mr. Bix. We’re here to help. If the ice doesn’t work, call me back.”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you again,” he responded in a pitiful tone.

  “No problem,” the nurse said as she hung up.

  Michelle returned with the ice pack, a thin white towel wrapped around a bag filled with a tray full of ice cubes. Tony removed his shirt and blood-soaked support with great care, replacing them with a pair of clean underwear. Although a small amount of blood stained them, the ice pack did just as the nurse said it would.

  ***

  By eight o’clock that evening the bleeding subsided and Tony asked Michelle to give him his cell phone again.

  “Who are you going to call now?” she asked.

  “My wife!”

  “Oh, I see.” she answered with a disappointed look.

  “St. Anthony’s. Can I help you?” came the voice on the phone.

  “Yes, please. My name is Tony Bix. My wife Peggy Bix is a patient there. Can you connect me to her room?”

  “Hold on, Sir.”

  Tony watched Michelle get up and walk around the room, nervously straightening things that didn’t need straightening, as he sat waiting for his call to be put through.

  A male voice answered.

  “Hello?” Tony asked, impatiently. “Peggy?”

  “No Sir. This is Simon.”

  “Simon? Simon Moss? What the hell are you doing there? Where’s my wife? Gimme’ my damn wife Moss.”

  “Goodness gracious, Tony. You’re wife has been trying to reach you. A terrible thing has happened, my friend.”

  “Yes, yes. I heard. Put my wife on.”

  “I’m sorry, Bix. That’s probably not a good idea. Mrs. Bix is sleeping. The doctors say it’s the best thing for her right now. But then again, if you were here, you’d know that.” Moss offered, as offensively as he could.

  “I’ll get to the hospital as soon as I can, Moss,” Tony said in a panic. He then looked down at himself and his pathetic condition. “I mean I’ll be there in the morning.”

  Michelle glanced over at him, giving him one of those ‘how could you’ looks.

  Tony ended the call, turned to Michelle and offered an awkward smile. “I have to go see her.”

&nb
sp; “You’re really not in any condition to be walking anywhere. It could take you days to be healed.”

  “I’ll be better in the morning. I just need a good night’s rest.”

  “I suppose so,” she said without any emotion and sadly walked into the other room and laid on the bed. Tony fell asleep on the couch.

  ***

  The next morning Tony woke up to the smell of frying bacon. Carefully he got off the couch and walked to the kitchen. Sitting at the breakfast table was Michelle, drinking a glass of orange juice and ignoring a small plate with two pieces of bacon, one fried egg, sunny side up, and two diagonally sliced pieces of toast.

  “Could you call me a cab Michelle?”

  “What?”

  “A taxi.”

  “You don’t have to take a cab. Use my car. I don’t need it today. The keys are over there.” She pointed to a wooden plaque on the wall where half a dozen different sets of keys on hooks were. “You can bring the car back later.”

  “I’m not coming back,” he stated.

  Tony stared at Michelle, but was not thinking of her. Peggy was all he had on his mind. Michelle put her fork down on the table. “Well, bring it back tomorrow. That would be fine.”

  “I’m not coming back tomorrow.”

  Michelle laughed nervously, “You sound like you’re not coming back at all.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’re not coming back?” she asked desperately.

  “It’s over Michelle,” he stated directly.

  “What do you mean, over?” she trembled.

  “I can’t see you anymore,” he softly spoke.

  “What—?” she’d heard him but asked anyway. “This can’t be happening to me.”

  “I can’t see you anymore. I’ve got a wife to go to. This was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” she angrily shouted as she began to cry.

  “Yes. This affair. This, this arrangement, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Is that all this has been to you, an arrangement?” she cried.

  “Well, I don’t want to get into that. I just have to leave. I don’t want to argue. Are you going to call me a cab?”

  She looked at him hatefully, “Call your own fucking cab!” With that, she scooted her chair out away from the table, tossed her glass of orange juice into the sink, shattering it to pieces.

  “You’re being ignorant!” Tony told her.

  “I know. That’s typical of me, isn’t it?” she sarcastically replied.

  “Cut the shit Michelle.”

  “Oh, fuck you! You’ll regret this, Tony,” she sobbed. She ran into her bedroom, shut the door and cried.

  Tony immediately walked back into the living room to call a cab. Before he left, he wrote a note on a piece of paper, which he then left on the kitchen table next to the cold plate of bacon and eggs. The note read:

  “Dear Michelle,

  These past weeks have been fantastic. The sex was amazing. You were amazing. Everything was amazing. I can’t give you what you want though. I’m sorry I have to say good-bye now, but I think it’s the right thing to do. I have to go to my wife. She needs me. I’m very sorry if I hurt you.

  Thanks for all you’ve done for the campaign,

  Always,

  Tony.”

  ***

  Weeks later, all eyes were on the big Moss-Bix debate.

  “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I am Rebecca Ray. This is the night the two congressional candidates for the seat in the Third Congressional District come together to debate the issues. We are only three weeks away from election-day, and this race has started to heat up. Accusations from both sides have dominated the race, with neither one being a clear winner as of yet. Maybe tonight after this debate, a leader will emerge. Let me introduce our panel of questioners. Here from the print media, is Sam Andrews. From this television station, General Manager, Steven Wagner. And finally, from radio station KPLT, is Chief News Editor, Tom Patricks.”

  A round of applause erupted then died out. A well-dressed crowd of over two-hundred had gathered at the television studio to watch the live-televised debate. A small stage was built for the two debaters, a moderator and the panel of questioners. On the stage, to the left, sat reporter Rebecca Ray. On the opposite side sat the three panelists. Sitting in the middle of the stage were two podiums, about twenty feet apart, facing the audience, who sat on steel bleachers erected for the event.

  The two stationary cameras were perched at the edge of each side of the stage. All the parties involved were within arms-length of a microphone.

  Rebecca Ray continued, “Representing the Democratic Party, let me introduce to you, the City Public Defender, Tony Bix.”

  A round of applause followed as Tony walked onto the small stage from behind a plywood backdrop, then up to the podium on the left, closest to Rebecca Ray.

  “And representing the Republicans, a former colonel in the Air Force, many times decorated for his heroism in Vietnam as a fighter pilot—.”

  Tony shook his head, while wearing a sarcastic grin, as he looked into the camera. Rebecca continued, “—Mr. Simon Moss.”

  Simon made his way to the podium as the applause roared from the audience. He gave the crowd a wave and a toothy smile.

  “I will first explain the rules. The first candidate will receive a question from one of the panelists, starting with Sam Andrews. Mr. Andrews will ask one question and be allowed a follow up. The candidate will have three minutes to answer. After the question has been answered, the other candidate will be allowed a rebuttal with a time limitation of two minutes. We will follow this procedure for the first forty-five minutes, then each candidate will have the opportunity to ask the other one question. Following the final station break, we will come back and allow Mr. Bix and Mr. Moss three minutes each for a final closing statement. I would ask that the audience hold their applause until the end of the debate and so, without further delay, let’s begin with our first question from Sam Andrews for Mr. Bix.” She looked over to the panel and nodded her go ahead.

  The newspaperman glanced at his list of questions, then moved his face toward the microphone. “Mr. Bix?”

  Tony acknowledged him with an attentive look.

  “It is known that you are a champion for the cause for prisoner rehabilitation. Can you explain what prisoner rehabilitation means to you? When should a criminal serve time in jail?”

  Tony paused for a second then looked straight into the camera. “I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Andrews. It seems that everyone, including my opponent, has been making statements that I am for giving rapists and murderers a chance at these rehabilitation programs. That’s just plain nonsense. My concern is not only for the victims, but also I’m fighting for complete prison reform, which means big changes are needed. And the biggest, most important concern right now is overcrowding. Warehousing minor offenders with serious criminals is not how we want to do business in our city or state. I never said anything about allowing dangerous criminals out onto the streets. I live in the city too with my wife. Why would I tollerate that?”

  Rebecca Ray spoke, “Mr. Andrews, do you have a follow up question?”

  “Yes! Tell us, Mr. Bix, where does the money come from to pay for such programs?”

  “Well, first of all, let me make clear the fact that this program was implemented on a trial basis. The city of St. Louis is giving me six months to monitor all of the cases and see what kind of cost savings, if any, are incurred.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bix,” Rebecca Ray said. “Now, Mr. Moss, you have two minutes to respond.”

  Simon leaned closer to the microphone, then spoke in a confident manner with just a touch of arrogance.

  “I think it is a sin that we have sent a message to all the punks, thugs a
nd hoodlums running the streets of our fine South Side, telling them that they can get away with stealing, fighting, disturbing the peace and other acts that interfere with the good citizens living a quiet peaceful life.” Moss smiled and paused. “Now Mr. Bix is there to protect them from going to jail. Justice is not being served and won’t be until Mr. Bix and his ridiculous rehab programs are gone.”

  The small crowd broke into applause and cheers.

  “Excuse me, excuse me—,” Miss Ray interrupted. “Please save your applause for later. You will use up the contestants valuable time. Please.”

  The room was quickly silent.

  “Alright, our next question is from Steven Wagner to Mr. Moss.”

  “Mr. Moss, we’ve heard that you brought a fighter plane from Europe, the one you flew in Vietnam, to erect as a monument to all the St. Louisans killed in that war. Explain why you want to do this and why a plaque with your face carved on it will be mounted on the plane itself? Don’t you find this a bit self-serving? And who is going to foot the bill for it? Why does this city need another monument when they are laying off workers and schools are closing?”

  “Well, Mr. Wagner, that’s more than one question, but I’ll try to answer all of them. First of all, let me remind you that this city hasn’t forgotten the men who died in Vietnam. I can never forget that time and I don’t want others to forget either. Secondly, I paid for transporting the plane here from England. The only thing I won’t be able to do is erect the monument anywhere I want, so when I get to Congress,” the crowd broke in again, his supporters roaring their approval. “when I get to Congress, I plan to introduce a bill that would allocate a small piece of land for just that purpose at the foot of the Eads Bridge, near the Arch grounds. And finally, why am I putting my likeness on a plaque to be displayed? Well, you can call that self-serving if you like, but my only goal was to have a plaque with a soldier on it and some words dedicating the monument to all those who fought. Let me tell you how that happened. I went to a local artist who needed a model to sculpt the mold for the plaque, and he said I might as well do it myself since I was a soldier. I agreed, but it was not my intention to glorify myself. I guarantee that! Oh, yes, let me add I resent your questioning my honor or my heroism, which I might say, has been well documented. I love my country, just like you, Mr. Wagner. Just check my war records. Has anyone bothered to do that?”