From a Far Place

June 1st, 2009

By T.R. Healy

His head inclined, staring idly at his watch, Komives sat near the end of
a middle row in the hospital conference room. Behind him, in a voice as blunt
as a slap across the face, he heard some guy complain that the meeting tonight
was a complete waste of time.

"They think we don't know what we did was wrong? Of course we
do. We're not children."

"No, we're not," the woman beside him chimed in wearily.

"I've got a client I'm suppose to have dinner with at eight."

"I was told the meeting shouldn't take more than thirty minutes."

"That's what people having meetings always say and before you know it an hour's gone by."

"The court order you here?"

"You don't think I'd be here otherwise, do you?" he snapped, shuffling his feet.

"I suppose not."

"I had one too many beers after work one night and banged a fender into a traffic sign and you'd have thought I plowed someone down in a crosswalk the way the judge went after me. I'm 'a high risk
driver,' she said, and if I didn't attend this meeting I'd have to pick up trash along the highway for two weeks."

Komives smiled to himself, suspecting that many of the people here believed they had only one drink too many despite the high amount of alcohol in their systems. And he suspected they didn't want to be here anymore than the guy behind him. He knew he didn't. Again, he looked at his watch. Six minutes to the hour. Reluctantly he got up, shoving down the sleeve of his corduroy jacket, and walked toward the front of the conference room.

"Where have you been?" Dr. Seligman demanded, his thick hornrim glasses perched on top of his bald head.

"Out in the audience."

"What were you doing out there for Christ's sake?"

"Waiting," he said, smiling again. He enjoyed making the obnoxious surgeon squirm a little.

"You should've been up here. I didn't know if you were going to show up."

"I always show up, doc."

Seligman, frowning, abruptly turned and marched over to the lectern and rapped a knuckle against the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, I'd like to introduce you to our speaker this evening, a former patient of mine, Mr. Kevin Komives."

All Komives remembered from his accident was the signal at the busy westside intersection turning green. The arrow, even almost a year and a half later, seemed as bright as the sun that was out that afternoon. Later, from others who were there, he learned that a speeding car, squirreling out of a
parking lot, ignored the stop light and broadsided him almost as soon as he entered the intersection. The blood-alcohol level of the driver of the car was nearly twice the permissible limit.

The next thing he remembered was waking up in a hospital room and seeing the round red face of Seligman who told him he was like someone who fell off a wall and would have be put back together one piece at a time. At first, he assumed the surgeon had mistaken him for another patient, sure that all he had suffered were a few nicks and bruises.

"Obviously, the accident wasn't my fault," Komives began after Seligman introduced him to the sparse audience. "I didn't run the light, the bastard who hit me did, but I wasn't wearing a seat belt.
And, believe me, I paid the price for that big time."

He paused and took a sip of water.

"I was pretty messed up, all right. Both my arms were broken, one of my wrists too. So was my left knee. And my kidneys were so shook up I pissed blood for almost a month. Worst of all, though, was what happened when I went through the windshield."

Pausing again, he removed his jacket and handed it to Seligman, who sat beside the lectern, then unbuttoned his shirt and draped it over his left arm. Someone in the front row gasped. Ignoring her, he stepped from behind the lectern so that everyone in the audience could see the wicked scar that
meandered down the length of his bony chest.

"I call it my own little Amazon the way it winds across my chest," he said, slowly tracing a finger along the scar. "You'd think as banged up as I was I wouldn't have survived but I did. Thanks to
the doc here, who stitched me up, I was able to get back on my feet."

Seligman, beaming, bowed his head as Komives wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Several in the audience began to applaud, which brightened the surgeon's smile.

"I believe it went well tonight," Seligman observed to Komives after the presentation. "Don't you?"

He shrugged disinterestedly. "About the same as usual I thought."

"No, I believe the people tonight really were interested in what you had to say. You could see it in their eyes. What happened to you could have been done by anyone of them when they were behind the wheel of their cars. They understood that, I'm sure."

Not replying, Komives took another swig from his water bottle.

"I don't know if I told you but we've got a presentation scheduled at Good Sam next Wednesday."

"You told me, doc."

"I thought so but I just wanted to make sure."

Komives nodded.

"Again, it's at seven o'clock. So if you need a ride, you let me know."

"I won't."

"We don't want to be late like tonight."

"I wasn't late."

"No, maybe not, but you cut it pretty close."

"I was there in plenty of time. It's not my fault you didn't see me."

"How could I when you were sitting out in the audience?"

"You should've opened your eyes a little wider."

Seligman sighed. "Next Wednesday then at seven o'clock."

"I'm not a child, doc."

"I know that."

"Then why do you treat me like one?"

"I didn't know I did."

"You do all the time. You know you do."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"So am I."

Quickly, after swallowing the rest of his water, he brushed past the surgeon and stalked out of the room. He wished somehow he didn't have to see the arrogant man ever again, but he knew he
would be back in another conference room with him next Wednesday. He had to because, for the past three months, he was the principal attraction of the presentations Seligman put on for
high risk drivers throughout the county. Often they were required to attend them as part of their sentence so Seligman tried to make them as vivid and compelling as possible, recruiting some of his most battered patients who were involved in traffic accidents. Because he was such a reserved person he declined to participate in the presentations until Seligman promised to forgive
some of the medical costs not covered by his insurance if he did. So, out of necessity, he agreed, not realizing the spectacle he would become. Often he felt like a creature in a sideshow, turning
around and around so everyone would be sure to see all of his ghastly scars while Seligman sat behind him, nodding approvingly.

Despite what the surgeon claimed, Komives knew he had not been put back together. Certainly his fractures had mended, all his cuts and bruises had disappeared, but he was a shadow of the person he was before the accident.

Always he had been a very composed person who seldom raised his voice but now he had a hair-trigger temper that would erupt over the slightest disturbance. One afternoon, at dinner at his mother's house, he was reprimanded by her for almost knocking over her wine glass and he became incensed and picked up the glass and smashed it on the floor. Then, out of control, he smashed his dinner plate and his wine glass and whatever else he could reach before he calmed down
and came to his senses.

"You are not who you were," his mother told him the next day when he called to apologize for his outburst. "You're not the same son. I had two sons. Now it's like I have three."

Half listening to the people around him, Komives looked at his watch. Eight minutes, eight short minutes, then he was back in the limelight. He cringed, wishing he could remain in the audience. That was where he belonged not behind some lectern making believe he had recovered from his near fatal
collision. He hadn't and doubted if he ever would. He was nothing more than an organ grinder's monkey, he believed, performing his charade to bolster the reputation of his reputed savior.

It was two minutes to the hour, then one, and as he moved down the row of folding chairs, he smiled to himself. He was sure Seligman must be beside himself by now, worried that his monkey had failed to arrive for the meeting this Wednesday.

Often, at these presentations, he was tempted to tell the audience how he really felt even though he knew that would infuriate Seligman. So far, though, he had resisted the temptation, well aware that if he didn't Seligman would compel him to pay the bills he had promised to forgive, but some day he
suspected he would not be able to resist any longer and would reveal what a wreck he was and what a hoax he and Seligman were perpetrating.