I can’t believe he missed it.

The following story is mostly true as far as I remember it and as far as it goes for making a good story. Names have been changed for the sake of blurring identities. 

*

You’re out with a friend in a crowded area and she slaps you on the shoulder and points behind you excitedly. “Look! Look!” You spin around two seconds too late to see whatever it was. 

You shoulda seen it. Everyone else saw it. It was amazing. I can’t believe you missed it.

That’s how I imagine Ron will feel when he reads this bizarre story in which he’s the main character. 

*

Our house sits between a drowsy street, where retirees keep their lawns looking nice, and a farmer’s field where cows eat and poop. When the neighbourhood kids are at school just about nothing happens.

Today I’m working from home. The neighbourhood kids are at school, and nothing is happening.

There’s a knock at the door. My wife, Lydia, answers and I hear brief indiscernible muttering before she screams at me.

“Call 911!”

She disappears out the door.

As I dial the three digits, I stop in the kitchen to turn off the gas stove. Lydia’s great under pressure, but she really loses her cool when blood and ouchies are involved. She once planted her knee into our 7-year-old son's nose on the trampoline, and as blood gushed down his lips and chin she just kept screaming in his face “Ethan! Ethan! ETHAN?!” I quietly walked Ethan to the bathroom and rinsed his nose under cold water. He fully recovered an hour later.

The phone rings in my ear as I walk out the door and look across our front lawn to a body slumped next to the ditch. Grey hair. Black sweater. No movement.

Is he dead?

As I approach, I realize it’s our next-door neighbour Ron who’s laying face down in the gravel; both his hands at his side. An elderly stranger in a puffy winter coat stands nearby with bored curiosity etched across his face. It’s hardly cold enough for a heavy winter jacket like that. He must be the one who knocked on our door.

Lydia starts crying, one hand running across Ron’s back with maternal tenderness “Ron? Ron? RON?!”

I lean in and listen. His face and mouth are bloodied; sand and gravel pepper his grey beard.  He’s breathing loudly and consistently. I relax my shoulders and notice how close he is to our ditch, which holds a few inches of water this time of year. Close call.

I tell the 911 dispatcher that my neighbour has passed out but he’s breathing. She tells me to leave him lying where he is. That’s good. He’s a stocky man and I am not.

I head up Ron’s driveway and knock on the front door. His wife, Lisa, answers with that surprised and confused look one gets when one’s neighbour knocks on the door uninvited.

“Your husband is passed out in our ditch.” 

“What?” She says, looking at me blankly.

“Your husband, Ron; he’s passed out in our ditch. I’m on the phone with 911.” I glance back towards the end of the driveway where I left Ron and Lydia with Puffy Jacket Man. My face wrinkles and I squint to try and make sense of what I’m seeing.  

Lydia’s hovered over Ron, and despite his lack of consciousness, continues to repeat his name with confused and tender concern.

My goodness, she really does lose her mind in emergencies; what is she doing?

Puffy Jacket Man is staring at Lydia with shocked gratitude. She’s no longer wearing her t-shirt, and her rotund boobs threaten to release themselves from their beige motherly brassiere as she frantically continues to pat Ron’s back.

Does she think he’s cold?

Lydia later tells me that she felt bad for Ron’s poor face lying in the gravel, and the old man didn’t want to give up his puffy winter coat for a pillow, so she thought she’d whip it off and put her t-shirt under his head.

“Oh. He’s had a seizure. That’s all.” Lisa makes a tsk sound and shakes her head with pragmatic annoyance. She doesn't seem to notice my young wife is half naked, rubbing her husband on the back.

Puffy Jacket Man is still smiling at Lydia, which seems to remind her of the importance of remaining clothed during emergencies. She puts her shirt back on.

Lisa, like Ron, usually wears muted colours, and today she’s wearing a toneless pair of airy shorts and a t-shirt. Her lemon yellow crocs stand out like the bright end of a flashlight as she works her way down the driveway without a hint of panic. I seem to remember someone telling me she used to be a nurse.

She half turns towards me and says “He’s had a seizure. He’s been having them lately. He’s alright. You can cancel the ambulance.”

Lydia glares up at me “Do not cancel the ambulance” she says, as though it was my idea to leave him to die. I roll my eyes at her. I’m not going to cancel the ambulance. 

Lisa makes her way around Ron and squats behind him, patting his back like he’s a good horsey. “Alright there Ron. You’re alright.” I assume Lisa will not be removing her shirt.

John and Rhonda, another retired couple who live across the road, wander over. Rhonda has a kind face and is about two feet shorter than her husband who’s wearing mechanics coveralls. She starts to collect the mail Ron dropped and picks up his glasses. 

“I’m just going to put Ron’s things over here, Lisa”, she says. 

It occurs to me that Rhonda handles emergencies just fine; not one to take off her shirt, and not one to cancel ambulances. Rhonda is somewhere in the middle. Her husband stands a few feet from Ron looking like a butler from Downton Abbey who happens to be dressed like a mechanic. “So, how’s he likin’ that laser engraver anyway?” he asks with a tone of authority.

“Oh, I don’t know much about these things,” Lisa says with enthusiasm, continuing to pat Ron, “but he seems to be enjoying himself with it. He likes it.” 

“Well, that’s good,” says John. 

I half expect John to ask if he can have the laser engraver if Ron doesn’t pull through. 

“I had to go to the hospital once,” Puffy Jacket Man turns to me. “I’m not one for going to the hospital, but they showed up and forced me to go so I said ‘alright.’ I had cancer, you know, and I would’ve died if I hadn’t gone. They had to come into the house and down the hall to my room to get me to go. Was there for two months to deal with all of that shit. I hate going to the hospital.”

I begin to wonder if Ron can hear us. Maybe he’s in one of those comas where he can’t move but he’s still lucid and can hear and feel things. That happens all the time in the movies. He probably really likes that laser engraver and doesn’t like John talking about it when he’s not around.

“Maybe we should get some towels or something to put under his head,” Rhonda says. 

I run into the house and grab some towels that I don’t mind bloodying. Rhonda and I work together to lift Ron’s head out of the sand and shuffle the towels under his face. It’s weird touching your next-door neighbour’s face.

The ambulance arrives a few minutes later and through a medical mask the paramedic asks if Ron has any symptoms of Covid. “Fever? Headache? Chills? Dizziness?”

No. No, he’s only had a seizure and passed out from standing height onto his face. 

We all back away and gawk from a safe distance as the paramedics get Ron sitting up and onto a stretcher. He’s opened his eyes now. I smile at him and he stares back, glossy-eyed and vacant. 

He missed the whole thing.

He missed hearing his wife tell me to cancel the ambulance. He missed the fact that if he croaks, John might want his laser engraver. He missed Puffy Coat Man telling me he’s also been to the hospital. 

My unlucky neighbour missed a nice pair of jigglies swinging inches above his face. 

He shoulda seen it. Everyone else saw it. It was amazing. I can’t believe he missed it.