The One-Armed Surgeon Free Dating, Singles and Personals

The One-Armed Surgeon Posted: 7/23/2009 1:59:36 PM
A little more of something I'm working on. Nothing profound; just a story... “I’m a surgeon,” the man said. “How can you be a surgeon with one arm?” I asked. “I teach now,” he explained. “I was a surgeon before.” Leaving Rochester early that morning with little more than what I’d arrived with, I’d followed Interstate 90 west until Albert Lea, where I picked up Interstate 35 south. I’d continued south to Des Moines, where I hit Interstate 80 and continued west again. I drove through cornfield after cornfield until I was bored with it and finally stopped on Center Street, near downtown Omaha, Nebraska. It was a parking lot, where I ended up--where I intended to spend the night. There were two bars there: one kind of fancy, the other kind not so much. I choose the other kind. The place was empty. I sat and drank in peace; that is until the one-armed surgeon and his girlfriend came in. There were plenty of seats at the bar, but the surgeon sat on one side of me and his girlfriend on the other--with me in between them. It didn’t make sense. With all the empty seats, they could of sat together. They kept talking to each other--leaning forward and carrying on with the conversation and me trapped in the middle. Getting up, I moved to another seat. They came over and sat on either side of me, again. “What’s the deal?” I demanded. “What do you mean?” the surgeon asked. “Why do you two have to sit on either side of me? There are lots of seats. You can sit together.” The man called the bartender over. “Buy my friend a drink.” I guess he decided we were pals, now. “No thanks,” I said. Figuring they were up to some kinky shenanigans, I wanted no part of it. I mean, the girlfriend was hot, but where would that leave the guy? Watching or participating? “Come on,” the guy insisted, "let me buy you a drink." “I don’t know what you two want,” I said, “but I don’t think I’d like it.” “We don’t want anything, other than to buy you a drink.” “I’ll take the drink,” I decided, “but if you’ve got your mind on something else, you can forget it.” “What will you have?” the bartender asked. “Another Old Milwaukee.” “Oh, no,” the man said. “A Heineken.” “Heineken then,” I said. The bartender went and got me the Heineken. “Live it up, man,” the one-armed man declared, raising his glass. We talked for a while about nothing. He told me he was a surgeon--or was. After a while, he wanted to go to the fancy bar next door. “To pricey for me,” I said. “Don’t worry about it," the girl spoke up for the first time, "Joe's got lots of money." "Okay Joe, we'll go." And so we did. Out in the parking lot, Joe wanted to show me something. "Over here," he said, pointing into the dark. I couldn't see what he was pointing at. I could make out some cars parked over there in the shadows, but that was it. Noting my trepidation, he added, “You still don’t trust me? I just want to show you my car. There it is.” And there it was--an almost new Lincoln Continental. A beauty. We stood and admired it for a while. Then I asked: “How’d you lose your arm?” “My older brother was in Vietnam. When he came home on leave, he said he wasn’t going back. I went in his place--didn‘t want him to get in trouble. We switched places. I was fifteen. Dropped into a jungle with zero training. Anyway, got my arm blown off.” That didn’t make sense. If he'd lost his arm at fifteen, how’d he become a surgeon later? No matter--I followed him into the fancy bar. “I set you up a tab,” said Joe, after whispering something to the bartender. “Have fun.” Then he and the girl vanished for the rest of the night. I got very drunk. I also inquired about the tab... “He paid up front,” the bartender assured me. “One hundred bucks. Said I could keep whatever is left. Don't drink it all up--leave a little for me.” At last call, the surgeon came back. “Where you been?” I asked. “Here and there.” His girlfriend wasn’t around, but I didn’t ask about her. “What are you doing in Omaha?” he wanted to know. "Passing through--going to Denver." “How are you getting there?” “Driving my car.” “What kind of car?” “An Escort--Ford.” He laughed at that. “A piece of crap.” Digging into his front pocket, he produced a set of keys, passed them over. “Take my car,” he said. “Um...” “A gift from me to you.” “What do I do with my Escort?” “Leave it...burn it...give it away,” he suggested. “You no longer need it.” “But I’ll have to register your car before I go anywhere--get insurance.” “Take care of it when you get to Denver.” Next he produced his wallet--his registration. He wrote some words on the back.I didn't see the words. “Here you go, I signed it over to you. Good luck and have a nice ride.” Then he left--just like that. I stuffed the registration and keys in my pocket. I finished my drink. I went out to my new car and drove away. I got three blocks and realized I was to drunk to be driving anywhere. I also realized I’d left my things--my clothes and stuff, what little I had after getting out of Rochester--in my old abandoned car. Pulling to the side of the road, I got out and walked back. When I got there, I climbed into the back seat of the Escort and went to sleep--cramped as it was. Next morning, I awoke sick--hung-over I mean. I couldn’t remember where I’d left my new Continental. I wondered if maybe I’d dreamed it all, but fishing into my pocket, I found the registration. Turning it over, I read what the one-armed surgeon had written on the back. Nothing. There was nothing written there. I'd seen him write something--but I'd only seen him moving the one hand about...an act. He'd faked it. Why? Pulling out of the parking lot, I saw the Continental where I’d left it. There was a police cruiser parked behind it, plus a tow truck. I hadn't parked it illegally. The officer stood there making notations in a notebook. I simply drove on by and headed west. Always west. End