by Icabu

Settling into his comfy convertible chair, John Gage let out a long, frustrating sigh. The box of receipts, stack of bank statements and his checkbook littered the portable folding table in front of him. At least his forced ‘vacation’ gave him time to tackle some of the pesky and tedious household tasks he’d been putting off for a while. Staring at the piles of papers, he realized he’d put off balancing his checkbook for quite some time.

Well, no time like the present, he convinced himself. Picking up his checkbook, he flipped through the pages of the register to find the last entry. There it was – March 14th, for the rent. He frowned. He’d paid it two weeks late … again. But, Mrs. Mable hadn’t held that against him … at least not yet.

He frowned again. The last register entry was March 14th and today was June 24th. He sighed, scratched his head, sifted through the box of receipts. He’d need a calculator, definitely. He knew he had one … somewhere. Looking around from his chair, he tried to remember where he’d put it last.

Forgetting about the calculator for the moment, he looked over the stack of bank statements. The one from January had been reconciled – he remembered spending half the night finding the three cent difference between his checkbook and the statement. He’d felt kind of proud to only have been off by three cents. It had been his New Year’s resolution to keep his checkbook balanced so he wasn’t going to rest until he’d found that three cents. He flipped over the February statement; the reconciliation form was blank. So much for that resolution. Had it really been six months since he’d balanced his checkbook?

He’d have to hunt down the calculator. Carefully, he pushed the table to the side. His crutches lay on the floor beside the chair where he’d dropped them when he’d sat down. He leaned over to pick them up, straightening quickly as his damaged ribs sharply protested the movement. Hissing breaths between clenched teeth, he sat still until the pain settled into a deep throb. That was a dumb move.

John looked down at the crutches. They might as well have been out in the parking lot beside his Rover. Slowly, he slid to the edge of the chair and eased down, sitting on the floor, being very careful of his bruised ribs and broken, casted leg. Grinning in triumph, he pulled the crutches across his lap.

Frowning, he stood up the crutches. They towered above him. Now he had to get off the floor. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all. He leaned the crutches against the chair, then rolled onto all fours. Feeling pressure all along his busted fibula, Johnny quickly pulled his uninjured leg up and pushed himself up, clawing for purchase on the chair to get the job done.

Now standing, his injured leg and ribs throbbed to the rapid beat of his pulse. It was a sad day when getting off the floor, in a most undignified manner, left him winded to the point of exhaustion. He saw a pain pill in his immediate future. More consuming, now that he was vertical, was his sudden need for the bathroom. With another sigh, he crutched his way to take care of that business.

Perched on a stool at the counter, he munched a Gage Special Hero sandwich and stared at the mess of papers and receipts he had to wade through. After a while, he shifted his gaze. He was getting indigestion thinking about how much work – boring work – he had ahead of him. Finishing the sandwich, he felt much better and chose to forego the pain pill. He’d need a clear mind to work with all those numbers.

Rummaging through the drawers in his small apartment didn’t unveil the calculator’s hiding spot. He did find four and a half more pencils so he figured he’d better get started or it would be another few months before he’d convince himself to tackle this chore again.

After three hours, seventeen minutes and about thirty-four seconds, he had the February statement reconciled. He’d had to chase down a seventy-two cent discrepancy this time. That took most of the time, but he’d found his mistake. He really needed to find that calculator.

Having remembered to lean the crutches on the chair, he reached for them to hunt down the calculator. A light knock on the door halted him.

"It’s open," he bellowed, twisting to see who would be coming in at this hour.

The door creaked open slowly and a beautiful blonde head stuck through. "Johnny?"

It was Cindy, or Mindy, from down the hall. They were twins that Johnny could never tell apart. He didn’t think they really knew which one they were either. He always addressed them with both names, which amused them to no end.

"Hey, come on in, CinMin," he called out, motioning with his hand.

"Awww, look at you, Johnny." Cindy/Mindy entered, followed closely by her identical sister, Mindy/Cindy. They walked in slowly and quietly, as if at the hospital. "Does it hurt?" they asked simultaneously, gawking at his casted leg.

"Oh, sometimes," said Johnny, giving his best injured party expression, which, unfortunately, he was all too practiced at.

"Well, don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll take care of you," cooed CinMin.

"All night if we have to," MinCin added.

Johnny smiled and enjoyed the twins as they took care of his every need.

#######

It didn’t take all night before Johnny assured the twins he would survive without them for a little while. He mentioned the bank paperwork he had to do and that was enough to get the twins out the door. They would be no help with that particular chore. He did have his calculator now. He had no idea how it got in the bedside table drawer – a place he hadn’t thought to look before.

Settled in the chair again, Johnny breezed through his checkbook. Entering, subtracting – a lot, and adding what felt like far too few times. Finally finished with the register, he stretched – carefully, and thought about reconciling each statement. If he waited until next week, he’d have June’s statement to do, too. He should go ahead and get caught up, he supposed. He’d slept most of the two days he’d been at Rampart so he wasn’t too tired even at this hour. He could sleep all day after he finished if he wanted to.

Coffee. Work like this needed lots of coffee. Especially at this hour of the night. Morning, he corrected himself after looking at his watch. One-fifteen in the morning. Definitely coffee time.

Unable to handle the crutches and the coffee cup, Johnny downed the whole cup at the counter. Soon, he’d be able to put weight on his leg and use only one crutch – but not quite yet. He figured he could survive with the bolus shots of caffeine instead of the steady drip. He grinned at his medical analogy as he headed back to the chair and the waiting bank statements.

He was only off by seven cents for March. A simple error to fix. Another coffee bolus and a bathroom trip and he was back tackling April.

He hated April – to the tune of thirty-two dollars and seventeen cents. It took an entire pencil eraser and some very long hours to find the three errors totaling that amount. For a while he was sure the bank had made a mistake until he found the transposed numbers he’d written. When his checkbook register finally matched the April statement, he felt like jumping for joy. Well, mental jumping anyway. Only one more statement to go.

Not wanting to stop, he dove into the May statement. It wasn’t like he had to be anywhere in the morning. Hell, it was almost the time he’d be getting up to go into the station. He didn’t want to think of that, so he concentrated more intently on the numbers that had begun to dance in front of his eyes.

"Damn," he growled as light filtered through the window behind him. How could he be off again? He’d used the calculator to fill in the register. He could understand transposing numbers here and there – there were so damn many of them! Lack of sleep must be catching up with him now. He couldn’t remember how to write a two, which made him laugh, which set his ribs to aching.

#######

The pain pill and mind numbing exhaustion made dialing the familiar number difficult. His brow furrowed in concentration, Johnny carefully placed his finger in the number hole and spun the dial. Then the next number. Finally, the last number.

The stroke of brilliance came to him as he sat staring at the jumbled mess on his little table. Roy would help him. Roy always helped when he needed it most and his sleep-starved and medication addled brain told him that he most certainly needed help now. He wasn’t prepared for the female voice that answered.

"Roy?"

"Johnny, is that you? What’s wrong?" Joanne DeSoto asked.

"Where’s Roy?"

"Johnny, he’s gone to work. Are you all right?"

"Roy’s not there?"

"Johnny, what’s wrong? Are you all right?" Concern filled Joanne’s voice.

"I need Roy’s help, Jo. I didn’t get any sleep. He’s at work?"

"Yes, Johnny, Roy’s at work. Do you need me to call the squad for you? Are you sick? Did you fall?"

"I just … I needed Roy, Jo. I know he could help me."

"Johnny, listen," Joanne said, slowly and clearly. "I’ll take the kids to school and come over to see you. I’ll help if I can or I can call Roy at the station. Okay, Johnny?"

Johnny swallowed in a dry throat. He hated that the medication did that. It also made it really hard to think. What did Joanne say?

"Johnny!" Joanne called out.

"I need help, Jo."

"I’m on my way, Johnny," Joanne said. "About thirty minutes, okay, Johnny?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Jo." The medication and exhaustion thickened Johnny’s speech. Forming words and coherent thought was beyond him. He didn’t remember to hang up the phone.

#######

Pounding on the door stirred Johnny from his medicine-induced fog.

"Door’s open, come in," he slurred.

"Johnny," Joanne called as she bustled through the door. She stopped and stared at her husband’s partner sitting in an ugly chair with a folding table covered in papers in front of him. He was staring, slightly slack-jawed at the papers. She rushed over and looked into his eyes.

"Have you been drinking, Johnny?" she asked.

"Coffee. Lots. All night."

"Why?"

"A dollar."

"What?" Joanne looked around the apartment for empty booze bottles.

"I can’t find a dollar."

"What are you talking about, Johnny?"

Johnny pointed to the May bank statement on his table. "Off a dollar. Even. One stinking dollar."

Joanne studied the papers, recognizing a bank statements and Johnny’s checkbook nearby. Eraser marks almost cut through in spots. "You’ve been balancing your checkbook? All night?"

Johnny nodded. An exaggerated, slow movement.

Joanne knelt in front of Johnny. "Why do you need Roy, Johnny?"

"To find my dollar."

"You wanted Roy to help balance your checkbook?" asked Joanne, incredulously.

Johnny’s head bobbed again.

"Are you on medication, Johnny?"

Another head bob.

"Tell you what, Johnny," Joanne said, standing. "Let me put you to bed so you can sleep off this medication." She helped Johnny as he started to get out of the chair. "I’ll work on your checkbook while you rest. Okay?"

Johnny nodded again, causing him to wobble on his crutches. "You’re so nice, Jo."

"Uh-hmm." Joanne concentrated on getting Johnny into bed without doing any more harm to his battered body. He was snoring softly before she got the blanket over him. After leaning his crutches on the wall by the head of the bed, she tip-toed out of the room even though she doubted a blast from the fire engine’s air horn would rouse him.

Settling into the uncomfortable chair, Joanne studied the problem statement and checkbook.

#######

Johnny woke in a dark room. His bedroom. He lay, blinking sleep away, trying to remember how he’d gotten there.

Cindy or Mindy?

Joanne! He remembered her coming over to see him, but didn’t recall why. He got up slowly, letting the aches and pains settle before moving further. He stopped by the fridge for a few gulps from the milk carton. He hated how the meds dried out his mouth – just like a hangover, he thought.

Then he remembered his checkbook and his head immediately began to pound. Reluctantly, he glanced at the table by his chair. He didn’t remember leaving it that neat. The statements were all stacked neatly. His receipts were arranged tidily in the box. The calculator and pencils were placed atop the statements. A paper he didn’t recognized lay beside the box of receipts.

Johnny made his way over to the table. The paper was a hand-written note. He picked it up, recognizing Joanne’s writing.

On the table, under where the note had laid, was a slightly wrinkled dollar bill. Johnny grinned. Joanne was the best.

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December Picture 2007              Stories by Icabu