Broken Fox
Sweet Meryl! As fate would have it, or perhaps too much pink wine, our latest chapter of Rugged Fox begins exactly where we left off. Except now it is four years later, and at 37-years-of-age, for what Rugged lacks in hair, he makes up in killer dance moves.
It is Friday night at the Cross Swords, a local gay bar on Davie Street, and the Fox has returned to the same spotlight he once bared it all. This time, however, instead of departing the stage to the sound of roaring applause, he plummets off it in deafening silence.
Somewhere between 11:37pm and 1:16am, the approximate time of the incident.
“DID YOU JUST SEE THAT?” a bystander on the dance floor screams out having witnessed the fall.
“So, I said to him, like ugh! You are such a creep!” a pair of twentysomethings step over the downed ginger.
“Is that Rugged Fox?” an older man from the bar yonder squints through his glasses. Taking a sip from his Budweiser, he mutters, “that balding bitch.”
“WHYYY!!!” Rugged screams, clutching on to his right foot. For a moment, he seems to think he is Nancy Kerrigan and the year is 1994.
“RUGGY!”, his gorgeous friend and dancing partner Mrs. Robinson calls out. Descending quickly from the steps beside the stage, she runs up and drops to her knees beside him. “My sweet love! What happened?”
“I AM GOING TO GET THE BASTARD THAT DID THIS TO ME!” Rugged snaps. “HE MUST PAY!”
Confused, to say the least, Mrs. Robinson helps the injured Fox back up to a chair at a table.
Performing “I was a bartender in Toronto once” triage, she applies her icy cocktail to the side of his ankle.
“Sweetheart, we need to get you out of here, the optics are not good.”
…
10:36am, Saturday, the following morning.
“It can’t be that serious, I probably just sprained my ankle,” a What’s App message pops up on Wanda’s iPhone.
Every morning since March 2020, Rugged and Wanda have been checking in with each other on the daily.
“I think you should get an X-Ray,” Wanda types.
In disbelief, Rugged lies in bed staring at his injured foot which has now doubled in size. What he fails to tell Wanda, is that he awoke in the middle of the night believing this had all been a bad dream. That was, of course, until he took one step out of bed and yelped. For hours now, he has been desperately icing his foot to get the swelling down. Having nearly run out of large cubes, he debates using frozen chicken strips instead.
“I will be fine,” Rugged thumbs his phone’s keyboard, before tapping delete.
“”
“…”
“”
“…”
Wanda peers anxiously down at the chat window. She translates each disappearing bubble of dots into Morse Code and then writes:
“I am taking you to St. Paul’s. I will be there in fifteen.”
“He reminds me of a gentleman caller I hosted one night. As a matter of fact, he is the gentleman caller.”
…
A Sunday morning in late August, three days after the surgery, and five weeks before the injury at the Cross Swords.
“I brought you a few things,” Rugged adjusts the seal on his mask, and hands Mama Fox the latest copy of People magazine and a stuffed porcupine from the gift shop. “They have a name, just check the tag.”
Lying on a hospital bed on the 10th floor of St. Paul’s Hospital, Mama Fox is too low to see the view out her window. Stretching before the glass, a late summer sun lights up the skyline of apartments, hotels, and glass towers that line the southern blocks of the West End. In the distance, squished in between strips of concrete and brick, you can make out bits of the ocean; like blue puzzle pieces missing from a set.
“How are you feeling?” the redhead asks, adjusting the Kleenex box and juice cups on her tray table to make room for the new gifts.
“Oh, you know,” the narcotics speak, “I am finding the pain comes and goes.”
After nearly a decade of chronic pain, and delayed surgery dates due to the pandemic, Mama Fox has finally had her right ankle replaced. For the next six weeks, she will be unable to weight bear at all. Having flown in from the prairies with Papa Fox, Rugged has found them a place to stay at an Air BnB a block away from his Den. In one more day, she will be released.
…
1:07pm, Saturday afternoon, approximately 12 to 14 hours after Rugged falls of the stage.
“Are you Rugged Fox?” a handsome male nurse arrives with a wheelchair before me.
He reminds me of a gentleman caller I hosted one night. As a matter of fact, he is the gentleman caller. Following the brief exchange of a knowing glance, I cross my fingers our late-night encounter was good, because now I find myself in the submissive position.
“Yes, that is me!” I reply confidently, while feigning ignorance about everything else.
“My name is Patrick. I am here to take you for an X-Ray.”
Patrick, I now recall, flashing back to what lies underneath his scrubs…
“I will hold your backpack!” Wanda asserts from the waiting room chair beside me; knowing exactly what is going on.
As I am wheeled around the emergency department at St. Paul’s, I am in a state of shock. It was only a month ago since I pushed my mom in a wheelchair down the ramp out of this exact same hospital. Only 24 hours since I rolled her down to her favourite coffee shop for a latte. How did I end up here?
This cannot be happening, I pinch myself.
…
Two hours and 13 minutes later.
“The X-Ray looks great!” the Doctor-on-call returns to me.
“That is wonderful news!” I pump my first into the air.
“It is clear you broke your foot.”
“WHYYY!!!”
To be continued.
Author’s note: Jeepers folks, I must extend my apologies for my delayed absence! I remember when “The Good Wife” aired for the first the time on television, and how upset I became when the season breaks seemed to stretch longer and longer each year. So long as I strive to deliver you quality over quantity, I hope you will forgive me the spaces in between. That said, I kind of wish it didn’t take a broken foot to get me back at a keyboard.
