Fiction: The Accident
By Candace Lyons
arttimesjournal August 28, 2021
My life may not be charmed, but it's far from cursed as well. I've got little occasion to complain so when I hit one of those why-me moments, I take advantage of it and become the undisputed queen of self-pity. Pity in any form is entirely welcome, though, to be honest, as appealing as pity is when everything seems to go wrong, getting over it is what I'd rather do. Usually I depend on my best friend, Abby, for this. She's a woman who has made putting problems into perspective an art. When Abby begins a sentence with, "Things could be worse," I know they're just about to get a lot better.
But Abby missed my last why-me moment and, oh, did I miss her. She was off on vacation with her husband. I could have called, of course, but I do have my limits. I wasn't about to make solving my problems part of her itinerary. Besides, there wasn't really anything to solve this time. There was something to heal and, for once, it was pity more than perspective I was seeking. In theory, that's easier to come by because I do have other friends. But in practice, it's usually a rare commodity because of my own inability to bemoan my fate to anyone but Abby. Pity from others must be spontaneous or it doesn't count. This time, it wasn't to be had at all. I seemed to be condemned to do without it from the moment I fell.
I was leaving my friend Ted's apartment building when I tripped over a door jamb I've reconnoitred successfully maybe a hundred times without even noticing it was there. I know now. I will remember if I live to be a hundred because first I rammed my foot into the thing and then I went sailing until I landed on my knee -- hard. This made me forget the pain in my toes and left me writhing on the sidewalk, an awkward lump as it was a cold, winter night and I was wrapped in a bulky layer of down that hadn't been long enough to protect my knee but now left me about as mobile as Humpty Dumpty. With one leg out of commission, I could not get off the freezing pavement by myself. Yet, if pity was going to be a stranger in this affair, luck stayed with me. Although it was very late, two men happened to be strolling by.
They stopped, got me on my good foot, then continued on their way, seemingly oblivious to my profuse thanks. They never said a word -- not before, during or after -- as if they spent their entire lives running across fallen bodies and righting them and I was just another one.
Ted had called a taxi for me. It pulled up as I watched my rescuers disappear into the dark. I got in awkwardly, whimpering away, and, of course, found myself confronted with a driver who was just finishing a bad day and whose only concern, had I been bleeding from every pore, would have been for his upholstery. My tears were only water. He didn't care at all. In fact, he seemed so annoyed by my suffering, I began to worry that he would refuse to drive me all the way home. But he didn't.
I live in a second floor walk-up and somehow I walked up those two flights that evening. The next day, however, I couldn't walk down. I couldn't walk at all at first. I had to crab-crawl, sitting on my back side, using my arms and good leg for locomotion, the bad leg suspended in mid-air. Believe me, this is tiring and I oozed self-pity until I remembered a cane I'd inherited from my grandmother that I'd consigned to the closet years ago. This helped me get around, but did nothing to chase away visions of an emergency rescue from one of my non-vacationing friends, probably Ted, and an emergency room visit where all my savings would go to pay the bill. I stopped oozing and began to wallow which left me too busy feeling sorry for myself to actually call anyone right away. As it turned out, this was good. A few hours and a few ice bags later, things started to improve on their own. By the next day, I could even get out of the building. I would live. Neither I nor my knee would be broke. I was very relieved.
I was also relieved I didn't have to go to work that next day. I'm a photographer but the career is in its infancy and I was still taking temporary office jobs more often than I liked so I could do the little things like eat and pay the rent. But I was between assignments at the moment which was very lucky because I needed time more than money so the knee could heel. Running errands, the bane of living alone when your health is less than perfect, was all I could manage.
Since Abby was gone, I ended up with plenty of time on my own. I didn't trust myself to initiate calls, knowing they'd be one long plaint on my part, and by that weird law of nature, when I most wanted someone to call me and ask how I was doing, nobody did. The knee was still not happy with stairs so I spent most of the next week hanging
around the apartment. To keep from moping, I started playing with the camera. I experimented with studio shots, something new for me. I wasn't equipped for this, but I work more by instinct than f-stops anyway. I would have needed someone else around to simulate strobes, only there I was, still in destiny's solitary confinement so I did what I could with high watt bulbs and a piece of white cardboard that was hanging around. I created still lifes and lit them as artistically as possible. I wasn't really sure what I was doing, but to my pleasant surprise, I actually had a few shots good enough for the back of the portfolio by the time I was sufficiently healed and sufficiently broke to call Claudia, my temporary counsellor, and have her send me back to the cold, cruel world of corporate America.
Though I could get around, I was still limping and needed the cane. I went to work the first day feeling very sorry for myself again. I reluctantly hobbled to the bus thinking, "At least I'll get a seat."
I was wrong. This is a town without pity. The only concern I got was at the company where I was assigned but the concern seemed to be that I typed with my knee and that my affliction would slow me down on the computer. By the time I went home, I was badly in need of a dose of sympathy so I exaggerated the limp and winced a lot as I got on the bus, but to no avail.
This is when I gave up trying to be pathetic. I finally accepted the fact that I was going to go through this particular why-me moment all by myself. Since the phone still refused to ring, I eventually called my mother just to hear a friendly voice. I didn't even mention the knee because it was getting better every day so there seemed to be no point in worrying her. Besides, I knew what she'd have to say because what my mother always says is,
"Everything happens for the best," the way Abby says,
"Things could be worse."
My mother is trying to be as optimistic as Abby when she tells me this except when I say,
"Prove it," to either one of them, only Abby can come up with an answer. My mother says,
"You'll have to wait and see," which I don't consider an answer at all since every shred of patience I possess is used up on the painfully slow process of launching my career. Waiting for anything else is torture. But, wouldn't you know it, though she never even proffered her magic formula, my mother turned out to be right and it didn't take all that long to find this out.
Once I'd made enough money to pay my bills, I dedicated some time to showing my portfolio to anyone who might possibly be interested. Abby was back by then. I was glad because making the rounds can be discouraging if your name isn't Richard Avedon. Kate
Harris isn't even close and that's what my name happens to be. It was Abby's perspective I needed at that point since it's always served up with a large dose of humour which boosts my morale enough to let me go out there smiling again next morning.
It was at my umpteenth appointment that the waiting part of my mother's formula came to an end, though I couldn't have guessed this at first. A woman who looked intimidatingly more like a model than a photo editor was flipping through my portfolio with very little reaction beyond an occasional non-committal,
"Hmm," which was extremely demoralising. She'd gotten past the first part of the book where the photos that have actually been published are, and I was comparing myself to a deceased mallard when pages stopped flipping. The book was propped between the woman's lap and the desk so I wasn't sure what she was looking at. She leaned forward. She was so close, I could admire her flawless make-up, but I couldn't read her expression.
"Look," she began, though I already was, "your work is good only it's not what we need." Those were words I'd heard before, so I was ready to pack up and leave when she added, "But I know someone who'll be very interested in these," and she slid the portfolio flat on the desk top. The images were upside down but I recognised the still lifes I'd shot while I was a prisoner in my own apartment. The model-editor ceased to intimidate me. I was now fascinated, hanging on every word as she continued,
"Tony Evans is looking for an assistant and this is the kind of work he does." I had heard of Tony Evans. I was impressed.
Then Abby almost lost her best friend status because the woman even called and set up an interview for me which certainly didn't hurt my chances. Three days later I was offered the job. I start Monday. The studio work I'd decided to teach myself will be learned from one of the best. The job doesn't pay as much as I earned slaving over a computer, but it pays enough. It means I never buy new clothes again, but attire is jeans and a tee shirt. I've got those. Best of all, it means I no longer have to fritter away my creative energy on things that have nothing to do with my chosen profession. I'd consider giving up eating for that.
Two months ago, you couldn't have convinced me there could possibly be anything good about practically fracturing my knee, but now I consider it a lucky almost-break. There's still a lump that makes my knobby knee even knobbier. I lit that as artistically as possible and took a picture of it. I've hung the photo on the wall so the next time I'm tempted to ask myself, "Why me?" I'll already know the answer.