Article & Art by Jamie D.
“I think it’s broken,” says Cody as he cradles his ankle. He sits on the ground below the stairs and I can hear dirt in the bearing of the skateboard as it rolls away.
“Uh…”
“Get the car.”
And so I unearth my keys on the short walk through the parking lot. I start the car and back it up onto the sidewalk. Sidewalks are more narrow than parking spots. I take great care to leave the grass on either side of the tires uninjured before coming to a stop as close to Cody as I can get. Sam is on Cody’s left and Cormac is under Cody’s right shoulder. I’m busy fussing with the passenger seat. The speed of the electric motor reclining matches the inching pace of Cody, Sam, and Cormac’s trek to the car. Cody is as comfortable as he will be in the seat.
Let’s call Mom.
“Whose mom?”
All of them. (They’re hanging out, and it's their fault Cody, Sam, Cormac, and I are friends.)
They’re laughing, seriously, a little bit garbled through FaceTime.
“RICE. Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”
Cody’s not putting any weight on his right ankle. Rest, check. Compression, idk how to do that. He’ll be fine without it. Compression is just for comfort, and it’s just Cody anyway. Elevation? Well, his leg is kinda elevated by the way he’s sitting, so, check. Ice? Across the interstate, there’s a Kwik Trip gas station and convenience store. Any East-West road trip in the midwestern United States is haunted by Kwik Trip. They’re a co-op. Or, maybe they hate unions? We need ice. And ibuprofen. That would probably help, too.
The gear shift clicks forward in a satisfying way that I trust will get us across the interstate. I am a pilot now. My position as a driver is elevated by the urgency of the situation. I stop as smoothly as possible at the light while we wait for it to turn green.
“Get Cody the aux cord.” (Even though Cody is already the aux dictator.)
The light turns green and the volume knob is rotated clockwise.
Smoothly, I pilot the car into a parking spot with the quickest access to the interior of the store.
“Cormac! Find ice and get us some ibuprofen.”
“What the hell is taking him so long? How hard can it be to ask someone where to find ice?” On second thought, we did send Cormac.
When Cormac reappears from the Kwik Trip matrix, the outline of a milkshake in his right hand does not match the outline of the bag of ice I had in mind.
“They didn’t have ibuprofen.”
“Cormac, you grabbed a F’real milkshake?”
Kwik Trip did, obviously, stock ibuprofen. We make Cormac go back and get it because there was no way Kwik Trip didn’t stock ibuprofen.
While I drive out of the parking lot, Cormac spends the time explaining his commitment to F’real milkshakes. He simply can’t go through a convenience store without buying one.
A police car tails us out of the gas station. Probably a coincidence. Or perhaps the officer wants to keep an eye on the car of hooligans passing through the small Wisconsin town. Could a broken ankle justify a police escort? Probably not.
I merge into the left turn lane that will return us eastward on the interstate. The police car leers up next to us, in the right turn lane. We part ways and the song “Bitchin’ Camaro” by The Dead Milkmen rings in my skull and Cody’s already swelling ankle. A decision is made to deposit Cody at the Health Partners Clinic in Somerset, Wisconsin. They don’t accept his insurance. We wheel out saltily. Following council with the moms, we set a course for Twin Cities Orthopedics in Stillwater, Minnesota. Our route crosses the width of the St. Croix River between Hudson, Wisconsin and Stillwater. There’s no speed limit over international waters. I press the pedal to the floor and let The Dead Milkmen rattle the car. Cody’s ankle hurts, and in such circumstances, the music can be louder than I’d like.