Foodge tried to relax in the Emergency Department bed, but, clearly they were designed to discourage both, relaxation, and any desire to stay on the med for more than a couple of hours. He was waiting for the doctors to read the CT scan of his head, but, by the sound of the conversation, weren’t looking at his. “Fair bit of brain shrinkage.”
“No focal signs, but could have dementia.”
“Sometimes see this sort of pattern in older alcoholic males, but, seems OK for a sixty two year old.”
“Look at the date of birth, he’s only forty two.”
Forty-two, thought Foodge, I’m forty-two. Sounds bad for the poor old fellow. A young doctor, wearing green ‘scrubs’, who, to Foodge looked more like a mechanic’s apprentice than an Emergency Physician, pulled the curtain back.
“Mr Foodge, I’ve reviewed your CT with one of my colleagues. We think you’re OK to go home, as long as you stay with someone, do you have any family?”
“No…err…actually, yes.” Foodge had a bright smile on his bruised and battered face. He realised that the Pig’s Arms was his second home, and that Merv and Granny would keep an eye on him. Wes had driven him to the hospital, in Merv’s Bedford truck, straight after the incident, and had hung around to see if Foodge was OK (this wasn’t strictly true, Wes has spied a pretty emergency nurse, and was trying to invite her out for a drink).
“Who’s your local doctor, Mr Foodge, so I can send a discharge summary out?”
“Doctor Hewson, near the Pig’s Arms Hotel.”
“I think you might be telling porkies there, sir, as he’s been deregistered for some years, you know, after the ‘trouble’?’ The doctor winked conspiratorially. “How about I send the letter out to the new medical centre on the main road, and you can make an appointment this week?”
The doctor closed the curtains so that Foodge could remove the backless gown and struggle back into his, now, torn trousers and jacket, and picked up the flattened, felt disc that had once been a new black Fedora. He hobbled passed the nurses’ station, picked up a copy of the discharge letter and into the waiting room where young Wes was happily typing his number into the aforementioned nurse’s mobile phone. “Ah, Foodge, you OK? Uncle Merv said to bring you back to the pub, if that’s OK with you? Do you want me to swing by your joint, to pick up some toiletries, or whatever?”
Foodge shook his head, and immediately wished he hadn’t as all the hangovers of a lifetime came back for drum practice. “No.” He whispered.
Like all of the events at the Pigs Arms, there’s a story to it. It was early evening and Foodge had carefully parked his Zephyr in the area behind the pub, and felt quite lucky, as he’d managed to park in a single parking spot, between the shed and the chicken coop (it was really the parking spot that was reserved for Granny, but she preferred Merv’s truck), and was whistling away, looking forward to a debriefing with Wes, who was still on the surf gang case, as well as a cleansing ale, or three. Out of the shadows stepped a figure which deftly pulled the back of Foodge’s jacket down, pinning his arms behind him as a second figure punched him in the eye, whilst a third started Flamenco practice on Foodge’s ribs. He remembered someone yelling to ‘kick him hard in the guts!’ almost at the same time as a familiar voice yelled, “Get outa ‘ere you flamin’ dingoes!” Merv appeared and helped Foodge into the Main Bar, where Granny started applying first aid.
“Must’ve been six of them, big blokes, they were.” Mumbled Foodge, as Granny dabbed blood away from his right eye.
“No, Foodge, three. Three teen-agers, in fact. Our local identity beaten up by three kids.” Merv shook his head. “ They’re the little buggers who hang around the back of pubs trying to con someone into buying them some beers.” Merv was interrupted by Janet’s screams (The sight of blood had set her off, again), followed by the cries of the twins.
Merv and Granny had insisted that Foodge go to hospital to have his ‘noggin’ checked out, so Wes, being ‘nearly a doctor’, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t yet a nurse, was allocated the job of escorting Foodge to and from hospital.
Foodge returned to the pub to find that Merv had made up a room next to Wes’ on the third floor. He ended up spending two nights, which is about the same time that it took for the headaches to settle. Foodge was intended to pay mere lip service to the doctor’s request that he go to the new medical centre, but Granny physically dragged him there (it was in the same shopping complex as Aldo’s). Foodge had assumed that the doctor would find that he was the fittest forty two year old he’d ever seen. Unfortunately the truth was somewhat different; overweight, hypertensive with abnormal liver enzymes and hypercholesterolaemia. The doctor’s advice was less beer and wedges, more leafy greens and exercise. Merv decided that he was just the right person to sort Foodge out with ‘boxin’ lessons’!
One week later found Foodge in front of the Pig’s Arms at 06:00 a.m, waiting for Merv. Foodge had only ever seen six in the morning from the other side, having been up all night ‘on a case’, or, more often, drinking. Merv, Granny and Wes all burst from the front door of the pub, all in running shorts, T-shirts and joggers. “Who’s car are we taking?” Foodge looked around.
Merv laughed. “Car! We’re runnin’, it’s only five clicks”
I won’t describe the journey, but, let’s just say that it wasn’t a ‘run’. They arrived at ‘Doc Morton’s’ gym, which, like all boxing gyms, stank of sweat and dust. There was the usual boxing ring in the middle, weight lifting area in one corner, punching bags in the other, with the other two corners clear for skipping, etc. Merv and Wes headed over to the weights where they started on some squats whilst Granny tried to teach Foodge how to skip. She terminated the experience after he’d fallen for the fifth time. Merv and Wes decided that the best way to learn was for him to watch them spar, with Granny giving running commentary, which started with simple things like, ‘Merv’s got a great right-left-right combo’ and, ‘note how he punches from the waist, uses his whole body’ but quickly degraded to “Give it to ‘im, Wes.” “Get orff the ropes.” “Hit him harder!!!”
Merv put Foodge in the ring with Wes and tried to teach a basic move which involved stepping out of the way of a punch, then countering with a right to the mid-section and a left to the side of the head as the he stepped past the opponent. Unfortunately Foodge got his left and right mixed up for the first four attempts, so walked straight into Wes’ fist. The fifth time he literally tripped over his own feet, landing heavily on the canvas.
“OK Foodge, that’s enough for today, ready to run home?”
Foodge shook his head, pulled out his iPhone and called for a taxi. Training was over for the day!
