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Lou Gehrig's disease (ALS) is a debilitating disease in which the scariest part is that the victim's mind remains sound—he just can't express any of his thoughts. This is the story of one such frustrated
person.
The man lay on the bed in the corner room of the house and listened to the arrival of a couple of would-be writers, who had come here just like they visited the houses of long dead poets, perhaps in hopes that talent was a tangible thing that would rub off on them if they stood in the right place.
"Morons," he thought. "If they want to write they should just do it and not waste time sightseeing."
They were coming closer, for he could hear their conversation with his nurse.
Clara.
"Oh is this where he stays? It's such a bright and sunny room!"
"Oh look at the cute little baby," he thought. "Don't they know I'm still a person—one that hears and sees? No, I guess they're too dumb for that. Look at the knockers on that redhead. Two years ago I would have shown her what they were for. Damn!"
"We hear that he wrote his last book in this room. Is that true?" This was the girl's boyfriend speaking.
"No," thought the man, "that is not true. I wrote most of it in Murphy's Bar while I drank boilermakers and tried to get a hummer from Murphy's wife. Look at you. You must think you're the re-incarnation of Don Juan. You probably think a hummer is an insect. No wonder the red-head has such a hungry look in her eyes."
"Oh, and this shelf holds his books. How nice that he can see them."
"Here, I'm over here. Don't talk to Clara as if I didn't exist."
"I really enjoyed Wild Card. I wish I could have told him."
"You can! Just look over here and tell me. I'm not dead—I just can't talk."
"He was such a great men. I wish there was something I could do for him."
"There is. Sit on my face. Damn, how can you people be so stupid?"
"Oh, could we see the gardens? He wrote so lovingly about them>"
"No, wait, say something to me."
It was too late. Chatting with Clara all the time, the visitors left the room.
"Wait, wait..." The man desperately wanted to communicate, to express to somebody that his mind still worked overtime, just like it always had.
Finally, with a supreme effort, the man did the impossible and raised his middle finger to the departing trio. And somewhere deep inside, unseen by any living eyes, he smiled.
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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