Private Swinfin

It wasn't my fault.

If you know me, you knew I was going to end up starting one of the chapters like that, so what the heck, why not do things right, and start the whole thing this way.

So we agree it wasn't my fault. Now let me tell you exactly what happened. Olivia and I--that's my sister--were headed downtown for different reasons, but we decided to do the trip together on account of Olivia's fiance having to work that Saturday, and as such, not being available to suck into driving her to the hair salon with me tagging along to pick up some new roller skates.

The question no doubt pops into your mind 'Since when does Swimfin expect to get roller skates at a beauty salon?'. Well, first of all, the name is Swinfin. Get it right.
And secondly, if you were reading carefully you would have noticed that I said my sister and I, though travelling companions for the afternoon, were ultimately bound for different destinations. The question you should really be asking if you have any sense for detail is 'How did they get downtown?'. Simple. We took the only obvious and safe way down. Lear jet.

I'm kidding. We took the subway. But we considered the lear jet motif very strongly because Olivia is nervous about riding downtown by subway. She doesn't like the downtown much; she's strictly the suburban type. And to tell you the bald truth, I'm no better. I'd be the Arctic Circle type if it was feasible. But, once in a while, I do need to tool down on the weekend...if only to get out of suburbia where everyone has seen me make a prize-winning twit of myself, and go somewhere where I'm (as yet) relatively anonymous. However, this subway thing could be exasperating. Once, when I was riding it, a girl actually made a pass at me and if any more frightening things like that happen to me on the subway...well, I'll be a little leery is all. I don't have a clear picture of the girl I'll finally ask out on a date, but she won't be on a subway train, chewing gum and swinging from the handlebars so her dress will fly over my face. No sir. Gum chewers turn me off.

So anyhow, there we were, cautiously proceeding into the teeming depths of the metrop, being careful not to attract the attention of any of our fellow passengers, some of whom had ingested hallucinogens within the hour, it seemed, when a very logical question appeared in my brain.

"Olivia, why are you going all the way down to this particular beauty place?"

"Well I have this coupon that's only good for today..." And there you have it, blah blah blah, thirty percent off, and my sister's claustrophobia is on hold. "...blah blah blah...and besides, I have to make sure you don't chicken out of buying those roller skates, Swin."

Ahem. Now about this roller skate business, a little clarifying is in order. Again I say anyone who knows me is probably wondering why Swinfin would ever go anywhere near a roller skate, never mind two roller skates. I would be caught dead in roller skates, right? Well normally, yes. Normally, roller skates and I don't fraternize. We travel in different circles. It's that word 'roller' that bothers me. What an ominous sound it has. I mean, I've been on ice skates. The simple trick when you're wearing ice skates is don't go on the ice. But wherever you wear roller skates, you roll. You roll on any flat yielding surface and you keep on rolling until you come to a bumpy unyielding surface, or you just reach a point where suddenly there are no surfaces of any kind underneath you at all.

You get my drift. You appreciate my concern. You understand my trepidation. You see why I was chicken. Alas, I had no choice, thanks to familial pressure. Some inside information: mom had just re-married, the second-time-arounder being a fellow named Martin. Martin was a fine, decent enough fellow as mother-marriers go, but if I had known a certain something about his sinister past that we learned later, I would have asked mom if she was doing the right thing by her children. Martin, it was revealed too late, owned a cottage up north next to a mini-golf course, a water-slide ride, and worst of all, a roller rink. Nobody knew about this. Martin kept it quiet right up til after the honeymoon. Oh, he'd told us about the Tobermory cottage; sort of to throw us off guard, I realize now. But then he had sprung the roller rink on us. An outdoor cement roller rink. The cad.

So there I was, going downtown to buy potential doomsday weapons. Didn't the family see what could happen? If we all went skating together one day, I could slip, lose my balance, and accidently wipe out our entire clan. The family's first trip to the cottage was scheduled for July. At least if I bought the horrible things now, with my ten percent off coupon, I'd have seven months to work out a peace treaty with them.


Sometime later, I was leaving Olivia in the care of her hairstylist and then walking two blocks north to Goalsport Sporting Equipment. The store was new to me. But on entering, I heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Swimfim!"

Behind the cash register was Rudy Purney--not a close friend of mine, but attendee of the same high school as yours truly. Yours truly wandered past tables stacked with soccer balls and baseballs, tennis shoes and t-shirts, knapsacks and jockstraps, and pulled up by the counter.

"Hey Swimfim!!" Rudy repeated, "what are you doing here?! Looking for someone?"

I eyed this particular Purney. As mentioned, we'd never been jolly good pals, he having once or twice made insulting remarks about my coordination right to my face, and I commenting negatively about the very minor role his brain played in his life to people who apparently went and told him what I said. Lately though, we were on civil albeit distant terms, he coming to admire my intellectual capacity, and me cultivating a healthy respect for his health. On suddenly hearing him utter this new slur, however, some of my old testiness towards this cocky jock returned.

"No I'm not looking for someone. I'm going to buy something."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Roller skates, actually."

"Really?? Who for."

"For me."

"Oh yeah? Who's making you take up roller skating? Don't tell me you have a girlfriend?"

"Where are the roller skates, Rudy? I want to try a pair on."

Rudy was about to attempt an answer after peering around the store, when another fellow came through the green curtain in the doorway behind him, wearing a button that said MGR. He was a couple years older than Rudy and myself, and about as big as Rudy and I put together--or don't even add me, at that point my size didn't really even factor in.

"Hey, Rudy...friend of yours?"

"Yeah, Joe. Swimfim, this is Joe."

"Hi, Swinfim. So what are you looking for?"

"Uh, I want to look at your roller skates."

"Okay. They're over behind that rack of coats. Come on, I'll show you what we've got."

I went over, escorted by Joe and Rudy. No sooner had we stepped around the coat rack, when I found myself riddled with roller skates. Joe gave me the once-over and picked his sales pitch. "These," he said hoisting up a pair, "are the beginner's pair. Perfect for you, and a classy style, too."

"What's this rubber thing on the front?"

"That's so you can stop yourself."

"If I could stop myself, I wouldn't be here. Don't you have anything with a better braking system? Hydraulics?"

At this juncture, another customer came in, a tall thin guy with a sparse but bristly moustache and greasy black hair.

"Look, Rudy," said Joe, "finish helping your friend here."

With that, the MGR. stepped over and asked the newcomer if he needed assistance. On receiving a double negative, he went back to mind the cash register. I was left with Rudy.

"I can get you a pair like these with wheels that can be set so they won't roll backwards."

"Okay, that sounds alright."

Rudy walked away. He was about to disappear behind the curtain when Joe touched his shoulder.

"Rudy? Did you ask him what size he takes?"

Rudy reddened. "Uh, sure I did. Sure I asked him. Sure I did. D-Didn't I, Swimfim?"

"Sure you did, Rudy," I confirmed. "And I said size six."

"Right. See, Joe? I ain't a moron."

"No, he's not an absolute moron, " I said to Joe.

"See?" said Rudy, brightening. He ducked through the curtain. Soon he reappeared with the merchandise. I tried them on. They were dark grey with red wheels.

"How are they?" asked Rudy after I laced them up.

"They're good. They fit tight around the ankles but I guess they're supposed to."

"So I made a sale?"

"Congrats. Did you bring out the box, Rudy? I don't think I'll wear them home."

Rudy looked sheepishly around for the box, and not seeing any such thing, bounded off. I bent down to unlace the skates, but was arrested by the sound of many boxes falling off a shelf and onto an employee in the back room. I looked at Joe and shrugged my shoulders. Joe gave an exasperated growl and stomped through the curtain. The other customer and I were left alone, which seemed to suit the other customer just fine, as I saw him pick up a baseball glove and tuck it under his jacket.

He spotted me watching him engaging in his bit of shoplifting, and made a break for the door. Yelling for Rudy and Joe, I lunged at the thief. We wrestled, he trying to dislodge me, and me clinging just to keep my balance since I was still attached to roller skates. We practiced some bizarre dance steps, knocking over a table steeped in ping pong balls, and generally wreaking havoc as the robber went every-which-way...but loose. I held fast and saw the pilfered baseball glove drop to the floor, while we wrestled awkwardly right through the front entrance.

The fleeing criminal had dragged us out on the sidewalk. He then wrenched free of me at last with a grunt, and gave me a push. It wasn't much of a push, but it was enough to send me rolling down the street--and I do mean 'down'--for it was on an incline.

Perhaps now is a good time to throw in topical references to the weather and specify what season it was. Winter. Windy. Freezing cold. Snow and ice.

Several disgruntled pedestrians were forced to fling themselves out of my path, although I wished a few of them might stay put and halt my progress. As it was, the sidewalk was suddenly cleared for me all the way to the intersection which was approaching rapidly. I gulped hard, almost pulling my nasal passages down my throat. Good a time as any to see if the skates were set so they wouldn't roll backwards. It would mean a rather violent stop, but if I was careful, I would only come down on my glutius maximus, with a minimus of damage. I effected a hundred and eighty degree spin, almost losing my balance and very nearly careening sideways into a passing plate glass window.

The switch had not been set to keep the skates from rolling backwards. Proof of this came as I rolled through the intersection hindquarters first.

Nobody was too thrilled to see me. Driving mothers pointed in irritated fashion at their BABY ON BOARD signs, everyone honked and hooted, and also applied their carhorns, but the one who seemed most taken aback by my unexpected arrival was the fellow driving the eighteen-wheeler hauling thousands of gallons of milk. He swerved to avoid flattening me, which was pretty decent of him...like I say, they don't know me downtown...but in swerving, he collided heavily with a salt truck that had been salting the icy road.

Well, it was like an explosion went off. The salt truck was overturned, and the milk truck ruptured. Tons of salt poured onto the street and mixed with a wave of milk to form a surging, gooey morass that began to follow me down the incline.

But I was way ahead. I reached the finish line first. The finish line was where the street turned sharply to circumvent the sheer drop-off beyond. Of course I was going along much too fast to follow the road. I plowed through the guard-rail like it was made of rice paper and zoomed off the plateau into thin air.

There was that sense of dizzy nothingness akin to falling in a dream, and then I landed with a thump in a tall tree with no leaves. My head was reeling, so I shook it violently to clear my transmogrified senses, and then thanked the heavens I had come out of this alive, and that the adventure was over.

That was when I heard the roaring sound above me. An instant later, two swimming pools' worth of salty milk came showering down on top of me. I couldn't breath for a moment, and the force of the deluge dislodged me from my perch. I frantically reached up for the branch again as I fell, and hung on.

Suddenly the raging milkstorm from above subsided. I dangled from the branch, dripping, and swaying in the wind. I sighed a great sight of relief and bent my head. This action caused the branch to crackle and snap and I fell twenty feet onto ice which gave way and left me floating in a foot of cold, salty, milky water.


"I'm sorry. We have no room."

"No room? No room!!"

I sat up on the gurney and eyed the woman viciously. I had been unceremoniously wheeled into the hospital and this female standing behind a wide booth, brightly-lit compared to the rest of the catacombs, had flagged us down immediately. Two expressionless interns had been doing the wheeling, but I saw with some frustration that it was up to me, in sickness or in health, to do the dealing.

"What does that mean, 'no room'?" I queried.

"It means no rooms," replied the desk-sergeant. I mean nurse. " Right now this hospital is overbooked and understaffed."

"Is this a hospital, or a cheap motel! Look, I don't need the room by the ice-machine. My point is, squeeze me in somewhere, huh? But I'm definitely staying."

A doctor emerged at the sound of this woman's ranting. He was a fairly youngish-looking specimen but he had the good, honest appearance of a helpful busboy. He gave me the once-over and frowned. His frowning didn't mean anything of course, but I hoped it wasn't the normal 'what-to-make-of-this' frown that I always received and that he could see I was deathly ill.

"What's the problem, nurse. This...boy is...sickly. Has he been admitted?"

"No, doctor, we have no rooms. That break-out of TB at Lonsdale High School down the street has us all full up, according to Dr. Henricks."

Suddenly, I had the unshakeable notion that it would be best to vacate this place after all. A hospital with garrulous youths possibly roaming the halls while bristling with tuberculosis was a place to be avoided.

"Doctor, perhaps the kind nurse is right. I don't want to be a burden. Moving me to some other--"

"Nurse, there must be a room on the fifth floor; Miss Bartholemew was moved to a rest home this morning."

"Doctor," the desk nurse said with a note of stern reproach in her voice which I heartily approved of, "the fifth floor is reserved specifically for senior patients only. Those are Doctor Henricks' strict orders. If he were not busy skiing, he would tell you so himself."

"But he is out skiing, nurse. And even if he were not, I would say to him that this young man looks to be in pathetic condition and must be cared for this instant."

"And Doctor Henricks would be forced to reply that this boy should be taken to an alternate facility with a room free that is better-equipped to suit his needs and not someone sixty years older than him."

"And I would submit to Doctor Henricks that why bother? Since the boy is here now, why not simply take a few extra minutes to modify the room a bit so the fellow would be comfortable, rather than cart him around town again and have him waste away to nothingness."

"And Doctor Henricks would have to point out that he is in charge here and rules, that worked fine before you arrived, are rules."

"And I would have to argue with Doctor Henricks that a hospital should be run, in all fairness, on a first-come--"

"Look," I interrupted the doctor cheerily, " I don't want to sit here and watch you and Doctor Henricks argue. I tell you what, why not just set me up in that cosy ambulance I rode over in? When we weren't moving, it was pretty comfy. I'll just lie on this stretcher-thing, the first-aid kit will be handy, and I'll even have this intravenous thingy hanging here for emergencies."

"You won't need the intravenous thingy," the Doctor assured me professionally.

I, growing progressively more impatient over all this red tape and dickering, finally exploded. "How do you know I won't need the intravenous thingy!" I roared, shaking the intravenous thingy violently. "You haven't even examined me yet! What are you, an armchair brain surgeon? What kind of hospital is this! Here I am--I've caught pneumonia or asthma or whatever--and all you can do is stand there and argue with a schizophrenic nurse! Just put me in the ambulance and leave me be, that's all I ask! I'm not staying on any floor with a heap of old cronies situated over a TB brigade! I've never heard of such insanity! This has got to be the most--"

I stopped. Someone had pushed a small tray on wheels over to the doctor who agitatedly flicked the concealing linen off of it and picked up one of six huge needles lined up in front of him. He approached me.

"I'll be quiet," I said, smiling.


It took them barely five minutes to prepare the room on the fifth floor for me, or rather half the room, since I was sharing it with a crony. They brought me up to the room in a broad expanse of elevator and soon I was plopped in a bed. The crony across the floor, a fragile female of about five-hundred-and-two, craned her neck and ogled me. Obviously I was a radical change from Miss Bartholemew who, we will remember, had escaped to a rest home sometime in the early hours when security was lax.

A nurse came in, followed by the doctor who had threatened me with a needle.

"So what happens now, mums," I inquired. Before I had been put in the room, the doctor had done his examination of me. He now proceeded to hand over the results, telling me I had a high fever, a bad cold, and a flu bug.

"Now," the nurse ordered, "when we bring you you're meals you are not to drink any milk."

"A little late for that, don't you think? I got here courtesy of ten thousand gallons of milk pouring down on top of me. The flu bug probably has enough food supplies getting through enemy lines to last for another hundred-years war."

"At least it wasn't gelatin," said the old woman in the other bed, perking up.

I looked at her, my eyes narrowing.

"Ten thousand gallons of gelatin?"

"No. Poisoned gelatin. At least you didn't eat poisoned gelatin."

"And...you did?" I asked cautiously.

"Of course."

"Mrs. Strep," interjected the nurse, "the gelatin was NOT poisoned. You merely had an allergic reaction to it, that's all."

"Poisoned!" whispered Mrs. Strep vehemently, shielding her mouth from the nurse, who shrugged. Clearly this roommate of mine thought she had stepped into the movie Arsenic And Old Gelatin, and Marcus Welby himself could not have convinced her otherwise.

Someone else entered. I though at first that it was Marcus Welby, but I don't think Marcus Welby skiied much, and so would not have a telltale red welt on his face from hitting a tree.

"Ah, Doctor Henricks," the other doctor put forth humbly.

"You don't say "ahh' to me, Doctor Hamilton...your patients say it to you. Har-har-ha-who-hooo...!" bellowed Doctor Henricks, laughing at his own joke until he was sure we weren't going to join him. Then his face hardened up again as he caught sight of me.

"What is THIS doing up here, Hamilton! The fifth floor is reserved specifically for senior patients only. Those are my strict orders. If I had not been busy skiing, THIS would not be allowed in here."

"This young man is in pathetic condition and needs to be cared for this instant."

"This fellow should be taken to an alternate facility with a room free that is better equipped to suit his needs and not someone ninety years older than him."

"It only took us a few minutes to modify these quarters a bit so he would be comfortable. He's set now."

"May I point out that I am in charge here and rules, that worked fine before you arrived, are rules."

"Sir, a hospital should be run on a first-come, first-serve--"

That went on for a bit, and I finally got to hear the complete version as a sort of bedtime story, for soon after they exited I fell asleep. (I did keep the room even though Doctor Henricks felt he won the argument.) Later, I was awakened when mother, stepfather, and big sister came by for an obligatory visit, sister offering to tend to my paper route while I was convalescing. And then still later, I was awakened for dinner, which should have been slept through, except that I traded my milk with Mrs. Strep for an extra gelatin which of course she wouldn't eat.

I drifted off to slumberland yet again, presumably for the night, while brooding on being cooped up with a bunch of living dead. Why didn't they let me shack up in the ambulance like I asked?

I was a virtual phlegm factory that night. Even when I conquered my cold, however, the night had no intention of going smoothly. I was fast asleep at midnight when Mr. Finker from down the hall dropped by to entertain Mrs. Strep with his banjo, she having been forced to amuse herself up til then with a deck of cards.

Snarling, I snapped back to consciousness. When you are having a dream about sharing a quiet, candlelit dinner with a beautiful girl, and then picking her up in your arms, you don't want it all ruined by banjo music.

"Growl. Yawn. I don't suppose you can turn the volume down on that thing."

"Sorry," said the old-timer, still plucking spritely away, "the only way this thing could be quieted down now would be if some of these here strings were to bust."

"Snip a few," I suggested. This was a hospital. There had to be dozens of meat cleavers lying around. I offered to go find one.

Mrs. Strep giggled and remarked how clever I was, and introduced Mr. Finker to me. The banjo player himself was confined to a wheelchair, had shoots of wild, curly white hair on his round, wrinkled head, and was, all in all, a bit on the shrivelled side even in comparison to me. It would be a shame to strangle him or his banjo.

"One of the nurses is going to come in and tell you to turn it off. I'm only thinking of your well-being." That was true.

"There ain't no nurses up here, young man," said Mr. Finker with a touch of bitterness. "They don't care enough about us to have anyone up here on duty."

"Don't complain, Aaron," soothed the Strep, "because if they did pay attention to us, they'd have found out about our little competitions by now."

I wanted to enquire as to the nature of these 'competitions' being casually mentioned, when Mr. Finker suddenly spun his head around, not a few cricks in his neck sounding off in the process, and stared keenly at me as if I were poisoned gelatin.

"Wait a minute, son! What are you doing up here? Only seniors are supposed to be up here!"

Mrs. Strep cut in. "Oh, it's all right, Aaron. He's a really nice young man who they had no room for elsewhere. His name is Sinfin."

"Eh?"

"Sinfin."

"Swingfin, eh? Well that's a darn foolish name to stick on a poor innocent child. Seems to fit you, though, I guess. I suppose that if Frannie says yer alright, I'll have to take you at face value. I don't imagine most people like to do that. I'm Mr. Finker. You can call me Aaron."

"Thank you. May I say, your name suits you as well."

He thanked me proudly and continued to squint hard at me. So did Mrs. Strep who beckoned me to address her as Frannie.

"His being here complicates things a bit, wouldn't you say, Airy?" said Mrs. Strep.

"He seems uncomplicated to me," responded Mr. Finker.

"Thank you, Finker. I mean Aaron," I said.

"Not at all. Just how do you figure he complicates things, Frannie?"

"Well I mean is he allowed to race, or isn't he?"

"Oh! Frannie, I hadn't thought of that. Why I suppose he can race if he wants to. Our rulebook only states that entries have to be on the fifth floor."

"Does it?" questioned Frannie, feeling under her mattress for some object. She brought forth a worn, leathery notepad, flipping through it with one faded eyebrow cocked. "You're absolutely right, Airy! According to this, he can race!"

Aaron began to laugh uproariously. "Hey, you know, with a youngster like Swingfin in the competition, Langley might not clean up this month again, after all! The big blowhard. I can't wait to see his face when he sees Swingfin rolling out onto the field."

"But Airy, he's so scrawny. Do you think he could beat Biff?"

"He IS puny. I forgot that. Youth ain't everything if yer built like nuthin'. How old are you anyway, boy? Eleven...twelve?"

"Seventeen."

"Seven, eh? You don't look that old. Don't suppose you've done much wheelchair-racing?"

Finallly I grasped the situation. All this gibberish about races and rulebooks and competitions had thrown me, since it had been spewed by people whom I pictured weary after a hard afternoon of tiddlywinks. Now it was apparent that these were nocturnal octagenerians, biding their time until the wee hours, when they could break out the wheelchairs and let loose.

"Do you race?" I asked Frannie, astonished.

"Of course," she beamed, pointing to her own hall machine, a fold-up model lying in wait beside a bedpan.

"Where do you get the energy?"

"Energy's all we got!" roared Aaron angrily. "We spend the days cooped up like pigeons and it ain't fair. Most of us ain't quarantined. Once a week we get to go down and use the rec room, if you can call it that! What's there is broken anyway. They don't spend a dime here on anything."

"Yes I know. I've eaten here once already, remember."

"So we race at night and bet gelatins. And they don't know or else they'd stop us, so we keep quiet. It's our only fun. I suggested sit-ins where I play the banjo but nobody seemed to be enthusiastic. But then Harry S. Goddard, may he rest in peace, said we should hold wheelchair races, and I'm glad he did."

"You all race?"

"Most of us. These days, those that don't feel like losin' their dessert to Biff Langley don't race, but most of us are still in. Frannie here used to be a regular winner til that big show-off Biff went and got himself paralyzed from the waist down and ended up here just to ruin our fun, it seems."

"When I won," said Frannie, her eyes sparkling, "I used to give all my gelatins out to Airy and everybody anyway. I don't eat them."

"Those were the days," Aaron said, licking his lips.

"Now Biff Langley wins almost every night."

"Biff Langley is a wampus," scoffed Aaron, "and he treats me like yesterday's trash...or today's lunch. Whichever."

"Now Aaron, you know he's only upset with you because you tease him about not being able to go to the bathroom himself."

"Ha-ha-haa! Yes it would solve everything if they just ignored him and let him burst."

"Actually, Sinfin, you'd like him. And wait til you see him. He's very handsome. Quite a catch he'd be!"

"Except nobody CAN catch him," moaned Aaron, lapsing into moodiness. "The man hoards gelatin too. Never shares with anyone. No wonder he's always in the bathroom. Serves him right. And I swear the nurses giggle when they're in there with him. Anyway, Swingfin, gettin back to the subject at hand, do you like gelatin?"

He spoke with hope in his voice and a twinkle in his eye.

"He certainly does," answered Frannie, "you should have seen the way he wolfed down mine and his earlier this evening."

"Oh, is that what I heard...you eating. Well are you willing to wager your gelatin and try and beat that bigmouth Langley, Swingin?"

"I-I'm not in a wheelchair," I begged off lamely, or rather, by not being lame.

"So? That doesn't make a difference. Half the combatants aren't confined to one. I'm not," he said, suddenly leaping up and doing several somersaults, and some kind of loop-de-loop thing that I thought only rollercoasters could do. "Frannie is, though. Her allergic reaction has made her legs spotty and sore. Everytime I touch them she cries out. Swingfin, you can use Mona Bartholemew's old wheelchair over there in the corner. She's the one who left this morning."

"I think I'll miss her the most," I said. Then, just before Aaron Finker could point it out himself, I realized I was being a pusillanimous worm. Aaron had called me puny, had he? Well, I'd show him. And maybe...just maybe I would have a few surprises for this Biff Langley as well.

I opted to participate. Frannie was thrilled and Aaron slapped me on the spine with his banjo, although not hard enough to damage the noisemaker. The banjo, I mean. They informed me that normally they raced every night, but earlier that day they had thrown a riotous going-away bash for the much-loved Bartholemew (with no help from the staff) and, as a result, everyone was a mite tuckered out. Competition would resume tomorrow.

Finker stayed on and put Frannie to sleep with his banjo. Then he left, possibly to make the rounds, and I drifted off with visions of dancing wheelchairs in my head.


The next day was our (the seniors') day down in the recreation room. As Aaron had angrily pointed out we only got to use it once a week, and not even then if we forgot to reserve it. It was also the day I tried my luck in a wheelchair, and discovered that my luck was the same whether in a wheelchair, or walking on two feet.

At first, the nurses were puzzled as to why I would want to putter around in a wheelchair, but then Aaron's dictum about the disinterest in us was borne out when they decided they just didn't care what I did. I was left to roll about on my own.

I didn't do very well in the beginning. I caused what amounted to a six-wheelchair pile-up on the way to the elevator, leading Aaron to eye me with a sort of forlorn hopelessness as if to say 'so much for our chances of wresting gelatins from Biff Langley'. If it was a Demolition Derby, I would have had it in the bag. As it was, it took me twenty minutes to maneuver myself into the elevator, and I ended up going in backwards.

When we arrived at our destination, I had my first look at the rec room and I have to say I was not impressed. The gloomy, grey paint on the walls was old and peeling. The gym mats were frayed and flattened so much that they weren't any safer than being body-slammed on a hard floor, as Aaron demonstrated to me later on. The beanbags had more holes in them than beans, and the beans were all over the floor, making driving a wheelchair even more perilous for those just learning. The basketballs were so deflated that just trying to pick one up was like kneading dough. And the equipment was all broken down and antiquated. The first six weights on the dusty bench-press were all cracked in half, so anyone using it had to be able to press upwards of a hundred pounds. That excluded everyone but Biff Langley and Bertha Bombaum.

To top it all off, I think I saw a mouse. Or it might have been a porcupine.

As Aaron said: no one cared.

I was appalled, but the cronies, arriving now in droves, spread out and made the best of it, as they must have done each week. I wheeled myself over to Aaron, dodging beans and potholes. I bumped into the banjo-player from behind, who had also elected to come down in his wheelchair to play a bit of wheelchair basketball.

"Which one is Biff Langley?" I whispered.

"He ain't here yet...wait, here he comes now."

I whirled towards the door, almost upsetting myself in the process, and it was only because I smacked into Aaron's chair and knocked it over that I didn't go down. All the ladies turned with me. Clearly, seeing Biff Langley wheel in was the only thrill they had remaining judging by the contents of the rest of the male crowd...self included.

The swinging doors parted slowly and Biff Langley entered, escorted by two nurses, each pushing one handle of his great wheelchair. Some of the ladies sighed, some fussed with their hair, and some merely swooned and were forced to take another Valium. I stared. Not at Biff Langley, but at his wheelchair.

It had mag wheels. It had a horn which Langley proceeded to honk. It had bumper stickers from all over the world. And it had a roof that could be folded up or out like a convertible car.

"What a chair!!" I gulped.

"That's last year's model," Aaron explained. "His good chair's in the shop; broken tail light from when I rammed him, accidently."

I tore my gaze from the awesome contraption and peeked at Langley himself. He had wavy red hair that was greased down and perfect. He had a twirled moustache and a spitcurl. His face was square, his cheekbones high, his smile light and magnanimous.

His most distinctive feature, besides his eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks, hair, moustache, spitcurl, and fingernails, was his arms. They were massive things. I bet he could, without pulling the nurses any closer to the chair, put an arm around each, and still scratch his left ear with his right hand, and probably vice-versa too. And thick! I saw a python digesting a zookeeper once and it was like a ribbon compared to Biff Langley's bulging biceps. Massive? Heck, they had to be! What else could move him and that chair around!

Two words came to my mind on taking in Biff Langley. Macho...and mucho.

And yet I liked him. I liked him at first sight, the way the ladies loved him at first sight. He had energy. He had spirit. He had zest for life. And he had potato chips, a big bag of them sitting in his wheelchair's side-car. I was starving for junk food.


"Sorry I'm late, girls," said Biff in a booming voice.

"That's okay, Biff," Aaron excused, "we know those long trips to the bathroom are a real pain."

"Ah, Finker. You've put your teeth back in today, only to see them get all smashed in. Or can you still see?"

"I can still see. And what I see would kill anyone's eyes."

"Perhaps you'd care to wheel outside and settle this like a man!"

"I would."

Frannie tsk-tsked along with the other women.

"Aaron! Don't you dare lay a hand on poor Biffens--er--Mr. Langley. It wouldn't be fair! You can stand and he can't!"

"I can't stand. I can't stand HIM!"

"Aaron!"

"It's alright, Mrs. Strep," soothed Biff. "Mr. Finker is well aware that I could throttle him with one hand tied behind my back."

"I could beat you standing on one foot, Langley! What about you? Could you beat me standing on one foot?"

"Sir, I find your so-called humour crude and distasteful."

"That's because when it comes to thinking up snappy comebacks you don't have a leg to stand on."

"Aaron, you're such a boor," said Frannie cattily.

Biff Langley caught sight of me eyeing his potato chips. "Who's this young lad? He looks hungry. Come, child, do not slobber so, in front of the ladies. Here..."

He tossed me the bag of chips and almost took my head off.

"Eat them at my expense. Share them with almost everyone, if you feel so inclined. Now, which of you young ladies would like to ride around in my side-car?"

All of them put up their hands to volunteer, including the nurses. One of the nurses even began to sit down in the side-car, but that's when Frannie made her move.

Frannie had been ordered confined to her wheelchair due to severe, painful sores on her legs, but to see her leap from her seat and sprint across the room one would never have guessed it. She nudged the nurse aside and nestled down in the side-car. Langley wrapped a contented arm around her.

"Ah, Mrs. Strep. Frannie dear, when your husband was alive he was one lucky man."

"And when you're gone, Langley," piped up Aaron, "we'll all be lucky men. Don't think you'll get lucky, Fran. He's got...cold feet! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

"And you, Mr. Finker," said Biff bitingly, "are lucky enough to be getting an enema this afternoon, these nurses inform me."

"You told him!" snapped Aaron, glaring at the nurses.

"He forced it out of both of us. Simultaneously," said one nurse, while putting on fresh lipstick.

"Yes...and very soon now, Mr. Finker, they will be 'forcing it' out of you. Good day, sir. Frannie dear, shall we go?"

And with that, Biff Langley wheeled himself out the door, accompanied by a gleeful Strep.

"Drats! Alright, what are you all sittin' around for, let's play basketball!" said Finker petulantly. I was invited to join in and make it a foursome, two per team. There was one hoop on the far wall with its net long since gone, but it was enough. We picked out the best of the pathetic basketballs and played until I went for a basket and got the half-deflated thing caught on the hoop like a pizza-in-the-making thrown too high and gone forever. Then we called it quits and did various other stuff, such as weight-lifting, bowling with beanbags (for there were seven plastic bowling pins present) and, would you believe it, karate.

It was all very entertaining. Aaron did impossibly well at beanbag-bowling, until we discovered he was slipping Mexican jumping beans in his beanbag. After being wearied by Aaron's karate lesson, I joined the women for a while at a rickety old card table and after quickly being briefed on the rules of Canasta, won two sweet rolls and some breath mints away from the most cutthroat cardplaying females I ever met. If I hadn't lied about never playing Canasta before, I shudder to think of my fate surrounded by those man-eating cardsharks.

However, the day was not just entertaining. It was enlightening. The equipment may have been worn out and deflated but the people weren't.

After all too short a time, my friends and I were kicked out of the rec room and herded back upstairs.


I said goodbye-for-now to most of my new acquaintances as they made their way to their rooms in cheery pairs. Only Aaron followed me to my cell, most likely to see if Frannie had returned so he could get in his spot of competitive wooing time. Or possibly he wanted to hide out and dodge that enema.

"I think I'm getting better with this chair. Even so, I don't suppose we could puncture Biff Langley's tires?" I mused, as we wheeled along the hall towards my room.

"Nah, we shouldn't puncture his tires again this month. We've already done it for November. Too risky, he'd get wise to us. We can only hope he gets the runs again. But you keep practicing anyway, cuz I think he's getting immune to the laxative I copped from the Supplies Room."

"I can understand what Mrs. Strep sees in him."

"I can't! There ain't nuthin' in him to see. I know. I've seen him behind the X-ray machine. Nuthin' but gelatin and laxative. She can't have the hots for him!"

"She's with him now, riding in his side-car."

"Oh sure, she's infatuated now. Girls always fall for jerks with big wheelchairs. He's just a show-off in a classy street-machine is all. If he pulls over to the side of the hall and tells her he's outta gas, and tries to get fresh, she'll slap him silly. When she rode with me, she sat in my lap. Notice she don't sit in his lap. Would you sit in his lap?"

"No, I wouldn't sit in his lap."

"Well she's a lot like you. She's got common sense, she has. She knows who'll treat her right. You tell her I said that, will you? As a matter of fact, when you two are alone, tell her all kinds of great things about me."

"Great things?"

"Yah!"

"Great things about you?"

"Yah!"

"What sort of stuff should I make up?"

"Hey, you don't have to make anything up! Tell her I'm writing a song for her to play on my banjo."

"Super. Just never get around to playing it for her and you're set."

"Are you suggesting that I don't play well, young Swingfin!"

"Uh...no...er...you...uh...just wouldn't want to have it in your lap when she leaps into it."

"Leaps into my banjo?"

"Your lap. It could get crushed."

"My lap?"

"Your banjo."

"Swingfin, you're right. I couldn't love a woman who crushed my banjo."

"I could," I muttered.

We were nearing the end of the long corridor where my cell was, but suddenly I paused in front of a half-open door to another room. Inside was a sleeping gentleman--and I carefully insert the word 'sleeping' because the fellow didn't look like he could be a gentle man at any other time--who looked like the biggest fright in a cheapie 3D movie. Even in sleep he sort of leapt out at you.

"Who is that?" I asked uneasily. "He wasn't down in the Exercise Room."

"That's Morris Battley."

"It would be."

"He's an albino with a skin condition. Have you ever met an albino with a skin condition?'

"I saw an albino gorilla at the zoo once. And he had a rash. We never actually met, though."

"Hmmm. No--no I don't think Morris was ever locked up in a zoo. Musta been someone else. My point is, don't meet an albino with a skin condition. Morris is an old crow in albino-gorilla form. A snake in sheep's clothing. He has some absurd notion we should be sleeping at night instead of enjoying ourselves racing."

For the first time since setting sight on this albino-gorillaesque-crowlike-sleeping-sheepsnake, I felt something akin to friendliness. He felt nights were for sleeping. So I wasn't the only one who had stumbled onto this novel idea.

"He can't be all bad," I tut-tutted.

"Then whatever parts that were good were chopped off. He's as grumpy as he looks, alright. And who would imagine that a sleeping person, all innocent-like with spittle running outta his face like that could look nasty. He probably changes the channel when a good dream comes on."

All of a sudden, one grotesque eye snapped open and glowered at me. I was petrified.

"Hello," I managed, gulping.

"Tell your mother to see the abortion people next time," he said. "This mustn't happen again."

"His eye is red," I whispered to Aaron, ignoring the slur on my mother's procreation via procrastination.

"He's probably firin' it up to shoot some kinda death ray. Let's move along. We don't have to take abuse from him. Guy's tongue was inspected for design ideas by the top razor-blade makers."

We moved along, even though I wanted to remain and stare some more at the fascinating Mr. Battley. But pulling into my room with my thoughts preoccupied, I almost collided embarrassingly with a nurse who was in there, and Aaron did collide with me from the rear. The nurse gazed at us sternly.

"Will you gentlemen stop leaving skid-marks on the floor, please!"

"Would you rather I hadn't stopped and left skid-marks somewhere else?" I asked politely.

"Don't get flippant with me, old--I mean young--man."

I wondered what the woman had been up to in our room. She had a basketload of rumpled potato sack-like specimens.

"I've changed the sheets on your and Mrs. Strep's beds. Now if you'll allow me to pass--"

"Wait. Before you make a pass, you mean to say they actually change sheets in this dump?"

"She said change'm, Swingfin, she didn't say wash'm."

"Mr. Swinfing, your friend Mr. Finker will be leaving you shortly for his enema. I will dispose of these sheets and summon a doctor right this instant."

"No rush," said Aaron. The nurse edged by us, almost disposing the load of laundry on my head, and then she was absent. A second later Frannie was wheeling in. Apparently her romantic trip among the sickbeds and leper colonies in Biff Langley's care was concluded.

"Did you slap'm?" asked Aaron anxiously.

Frannie swooned. A woman swooning in a wheelchair is tough to spot, but there was a definite swoon.

"Did you slap'm?" repeated Aaron, piqued now.

"No, but I felt like doing it, when he kept pushing me off him!"

"Ah-HA! This fiend pushes women around. Waitaminute, waitaminute! What do you mean he had to push you away?"

"He said I was being too forward at this early date, the poop! It'll be Spring soon, for goodness sakes."

"Swingfin! Are you listening to this?!"

I wasn't listening to much of anything at all. Something was nagging at my bosom, something that had nothing to do with Frannie, or Aaron, or the poop, but I couldn't pin down what was bothering me.

"Swingfin, are you listening! Look at this, Fran, you've sent the boy into some kind of coma. He can't believe your shocking behaviour and neither can I. This is--well I don't know what to call it--it has no polite name."

"Aaron, you're jealous!"

"It's not me. Swingfin's the one who's jealous. He's--he's gasterflabbed. That boy has a crush on you a mile wide. Can't you see it in his face?"

"Yes. Right now he looks just like you do all the time when you're around me. Oh Aaron, why can't you just admit we should be together and stop all this not-fooling around?"

"What? Are you saying--"

"I'm saying Biff Langley can go lock himself in the bathroom for years if he pleases. It's you I'm trying to get hold of. Get in the game, Aaron."

Aaron got in the game. The wheels spinning crazily in his head were echoed by the wheels spinning crazily on his wheelchair. Then they were together, hugging while their chairs clinked like two wine glasses being toasted to their romance. I was only dimly aware of this, still puzzling out my inner turmoil, which had something to do with that sheet-changing nurse.

"Darling, Sinfin appears to be in some kind of trance."

"He does look funny, doesn't he, lammikins?"

"Honeypot, were you swinging a ball in front of his face before I came in?"

"Not me, sweetcheeks. Perhaps Morris Battley's evil eye works on a delayed reaction principle. Morris zapped him with it as we passed by. Whatever it is, I hope he recovers before the race, so he can beat the pants off old Langley."

The race!! My God! That was it! I paled. At least I think I paled. One never sees oneself pale of course, but one gets to know the feel of it through years of experience.

"Loveyduck, he's pale," said the lammikins (I knew it).

"What's up, Swingfin?" asked the honeypot.

"The races! She's sure to have seen the notebook!"

"What are you babbling about?"

"Don't you understand? She changed the sheets on lammikin's--I mean Frannie's--bed! She must have seen your rulebook between the mattresses!"

"Oh my gosh!" exclaimed Aaron, horror coagulating on his face in the wrinkles of his face, "she'll tell! We won't be able to race anymore! It's all ruined!"

"What can we do, Aaron!" I shrieked. "Huh? Huh? She changed the sheets! She'll tell Doctor Henricks! We're in trouble! What do we do!"

Besides me, Frannie also managed to remain calm. "Look, boys, maybe she didn't see the book. And if she did, maybe she didn't read it."

"Check if it's there!" Aaron stammered. I shot out of the wheelchair and scrambled over to Frannie's bed. Groping between the mattresses, I felt for the leather notebook and produced it.

"You see," said Fran, "she didn't open it. If she had, she would have taken it."

"Maybe she's gone to tell mom--I mean the doctors," I intoned, all atwitter.

"Sinfin, Aaron, stop worrying. Look how those sheets are. Just draped over the bed. She didn't bother tucking them in, so she didn't even find the book."

"Swingfin may have loosened the sheets just now. Did you, Swingfin, or were they tucked in tight?"

"I--I don't know! I can't remember."

"She knows! She knows! All our racing days are over and now they'll really bring the crunch down on us."

"Aaron, watch your blood pressure! That nurse is just the type who would have confronted us if she'd seen the book. You know how she is. Why would she let the doctors make the bust for her, so to speak?"

"She is just the sort of nurse who would find the book, open it like a nosey parker and read every word!"

"Hey," I said, relaxed somewhat, "if they come and yell at us, then they come. No use crying over changed bedsheets. If they don't, we assume we're undetected and we continue with tonight's race as per schedule."

"What if they know, and they lie in wait to catch us red-handed?"

"Then we finish the race and right after we laugh at Biff Langley when I beat him, we face up to whatever they've got in store for us and we go down fighting. If worse comes to worse and a confrontation ensues, WE confront them with all our complaints. It doesn't look good for them if word gets out that attention is so lax that half the patients can get away with secret wheelchair races every night, does it? So we hold our ground and sit for no nonsense. We be firm! Hang tough! Have courage!"

This speech concluded, I turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Aaron asked.

"To find a good place to hide. Bye." I said, hustling out.


Besides the fear of discovery gnawing away at me, I was afraid this enema-giving spirit might be spreading, and did not want to be present when they collared Aaron, as they could very well take one look at me and decide what's good for the goose is good for the chicken. Once, when I was a young lad, I had my mouth washed out with soap. An enema couldn't be all that much better.

Jogging down the hall in search of a broom closet, I was instantly checked in my stride by a 'Hey!". I halted, scanning reluctantly for the impending firing squad. I was wrong. The 'Hey!" had originated from Morris Battley's domain. I wondered nervously what was up, so I peered in at the Battley. He was lying on his back this time, head squashed at an absurd angle into the pillow, and he gazed at me is if he had caught me sealing up his room with bricks. Too late to start now of course.

"Come in here," he raspingly rhapsodized. I entered. I though I smelled some kind of incense,

"Who are you?" HE seemed incensed. "Why don't you answer, boy! Have you no tongue to speak with?"

Tongues I had. Or rather, one tongue, to set the record straight. It was words that failed me except for 'uh, buh'. However, I pulled myself together.

"I'm Swinfin," I rattled incoherently.

"Can it be, Swinfin, that you are the person of great importance whose coming was foretold to me?" he said, pressing his fingertips lightly together and doing some hissing.

Hmmmm. he appeared to be lapsing into some quasi-religious, magical experience, or act, if you will. I wasn't impressed. If lightning had flashed and eerie music had broken out and smoke had billowed about, I would have been impressed. I'd have run, pausing only to ask if my swift departure had also been foretold, but I'd have been impressed. As it was, I simply stood there waiting.

Suddenly, he seemed to take a horrible turn for the worse, and it dawned on me that perhaps I was having the privilege of watching old Morris Battley kick the bucket. Indeed, his eyes were shut, his face was contorted, his fists were clenched into balls, and I was just about to touch him on the arm and ask him if he wanted an aspirin, when he awoke, as it were.

"My son, what is your name?" (Didn't we already cover that?)

"Swinfin."

"Run that by me again, my son?"

"It's Swinfin."

"I see. May I call you 'my son', my son?"

"Sure. Y'know, Mr. Morris--may I call you Mr. Morris?--you're not half as bad as Aaron Finker makes out."

"The spirit world has informed me that the one called Aaron Finker is worm-slime. Tell me, my son, would you like to have your future told?"

I responded enthusiastically in the affirmative. I had always wanted my future predicted but had avoided the ordeal since I envisioned fortunetellers staring at their cards and saying 'There's not much to tell; things wrap up for you pretty early on', or just looking hopeless and saying 'My good man, this is all too complex to sort out! Pass on you future if you can!".

He bade me to sit down in the visitor's chair.

"Hand me that crystal ball on the table beside you..."

I tossed it over. He immediately focused all his attention on the artifact, rubbing and caressing, zooming those red eyes of his on its interior of nothingness.

"It is cloudy."

"Sorry. Guess I got fingerprints on it. Look, uh, about what you said before, about me being of great importance, that's excuse my language, a crock. I'm not important."

"Perhaps you do not think so..."

"Many people do not think so. But what I'm trying to say is, don't start guessing I'm an ambasador's son, or some such thing, or you'll be way off right from the start. Keep it routine."

"My son, I never guess. I never assume. To assume is to make an ass of you, and just you. You are entered in tonight's wheelchair race."

I jumped. How had he known I was racing? Surely no one had bothered to tell him.

"There is danger for you tonight. Do not race."

"I knew it. The doctors know, don't they?"

"They will interfere, but not in a way you expect. Like Fran, they too write things down."

"I don't get it."

"You remain silent. I speak. Don't ask questions while I give answers. Now, I look again. To your future. I see a woman."

"Oh you do, do you?"

"She is very beautiful."

"Ha!"

"You are fleeing with her up a hill of stairs, away from the town below. There are alarms sounding everywhere, and a horde of people are chasing you. You and the woman are exhausted but you can't let them catch you. You run through wilderness and come to a cave that stretches into an old tunnel. You can hide here. There has to be somewhere to hide! You run inside. On the ground, under your feet, are loose boards. You pull the boards back and there's a hole underneath, big enough for you and the woman to curl up in. You do so, and pull the boards in place just as your angry pursuers rush in. You see their feet trample on the planks above you. They are all women. And they are all after you! You can't count them all! They search the mine tunnels and do not find you, so they leave."

Morris paused and then continued.

"You and the beautiful woman are alone. She wants to sleep. She wants you to sleep but you won't. You leave her for awhile then. I cannot see where you go, but when you return, she has changed. She no longer wants to sleep. That's all."

I must say it wasn't a bad little yarn, although I got the feeling I'd heard it somewhere before, but it needed some work at the end. I thanked him profusely and said sorry I had to go but I was late for an appointment with archdemon Oogy-Ploogy in the next room.

Have you ever heard such goop? I mean, of course those women would have sense enough to look under the planks!



Most of that weirdo's psychic ravings went in one ear and after grazing about in the wide open spaces, out the other. However, the part about the doctors maybe knowing of our pre-planned midnight escapade had stirred up all my apprehensions. I skulked back to my co-room and dove into bed. A nice nap held promise of patching up my tattered nerves. But as I quickly discovered, promises held dangling before you like carrots on strings are easily snatched away. No sooner had I begun mauling my pillow in Morris Battley-type fashion, when Frannie commenced wailing about Aaron's present fate, who I was informed had been dragged off for his enema session shortly after I had left. When I attempted to soothe by saying 'how bad could it possibly be', the lady went on to describe in lurid, lengthy detail, how bad it no doubt was. Then when Aaron crawled in, looking, shall we say, drained, and went through the whole disgusting play-by-play a second time, I though I was going to be ill. Then when he began playing morbid Russian ballads on his banjo, I was ill.

Eventually, the noise did die away and I got in that nap. But no sooner had I dropped off, seeking solace in a few tightly-plotted nightmares, then suddenly strong machinery was rousing me from my slumber. When this rough handling failed to budge me, banjo music came on again.

"I'm up I'm up what's up?"

Aaron finished the tune he had started then spoke.

"Oh you're up, eh? Gosh, what a sleeper you are. Race time! Let's roll!"

We surged out into the hall, the three of us wending our way along the cornery corridor to the starting point. Everybody else (except Battley) had showed already, not having been detained by a musical refrain.

"What took you, Finker?" scoffed Biff Langley, high astride his mag-wheelchair, now sans side-car. "Took you a while to get your nerves back in order after that enema sucked them out of place, did it?"

"We're ready now, Langley. Let's go. Or do you have to make one of your quick trips to the bathroom? Last time we had to wait an hour because nobody would give you hand."

"Just the sort of slur I expect from a snivelling jabonoose like yourself."

"What did you call me?"

"Snivelling."

"The other thing."

"Jabonoose."

"What on Earth's a jabonoose?"

"What makes you think it's something on Earth?"

"Awright, you--!"

I broke in. "Boys, boys. Think of the women."

"Yes, we'll settle this later, Langley."

"Certainly. Jabonoose."

The hour was at hand. We assembled at the starting line, Langley on my left, jabonoose to my right. None of us, before the whistle was blown, could help gazing around, trying to spot any hidden doctors. I didn't make out any; my hands tensed on the wheels. Izzy Vanbrook popped in his dentures and began the fateful, lispy countdown. Five...four...three...two...

Dora Weedabic called everything to a halt by announcing oh pooh, she had forgotten to put on her racing glasses, silly her. Izzy Vanbrook suggested perhaps she should put them on so as to spare us all a lot of grief later after she rode through the mural-sized window around turn number two. Dora said what, she hadn't put her hearing-aid in. Several contestants shouted Izzy's instructions in a heated manner. Dora put on her spectacles and said well really, they didn't have to yell. Aaron said yes, they did, when this sort of damn foolishness went on every night.

The counter then resumed counting where he'd left off, thought better of it, and backed all the way up to 'five' again. Everyone curled up in their seats once more, ready to streak forth like lightning as soon as Izzy's false teeth clicked together for the last time. My hands gripped the rubber tires even harder, so much so that my fingers ached.

And so much so, that the left wheel on my chair sprang free from its moorings and said chair clunked to the floor lopsidedly, almost giving me a whiplash in the process.


There was a confusing babble of noise at first, and then everyone else joined in WITH me to make the din even more confusing.

"Waw hoppen?!"

"The young fellow busted his chair," said Aaron.

"I did not," snapped Biff Langley.

"Not you," I said, still quivering, "he means me! And no--I did not bust my wheelchair. The thing was loose."

"Who's loose?" someone cried.

"He says the wheel came loose."

"Nonsense. He's copping out is what he's doing."

"I am not copping out!" I shouted vehemently.

"Swingfin," said Aaron, "I don't understand. I checked your wheelchair out before the race. It was in perfect shape. I always check mine and Fran's and yours. I don't want any accidents to happen, but this--"

"Are you calling me a liar?" I barked, boiling over due to recent events. Now I was being accused of tampering with my own vehicle.

Suddenly, Biff Langley reared up beside me. He had been inspecting the damage.

"Little fellow, your chair could have been rigged."

"No it wasn't," said Aaron, examining his chair.

"Not you. He means me!! Now, define 'rigged'," I demanded, slowly easing out of the deathtrap device. "Should we call in the bomb squad?"

"Not necessary. The wheel was merely loosened somewhat. I noticed you were applying excessive pressure to the tires, little fellow, and it is entirely possible this accident was meant to occur when you were travelling at great speed. A pity we may never know."

"Yes," I said drily, "a crying shame."

"I simply meant that whoever did this may have felt it was an innocent, harmless prank, when in fact it could have been much worse."

"Much worse?" I gulped.

"Much, MUCH worse," intoned Langley gravely.

"How worse?"

"You may have lost the wheel while rounding the second corner, and crashed through the large window, only to be splattered all over the parking lot in a heap of broken bones, tangled metal--"

"What tangled metal?"

"The wheelchair. Don't interrupt."

"Oh."

"....tangled metal, and seeping gore."

"I get you." I said, holding up a hand.

"You did it!!" shouted Aaron out of the blue. "You did it, didn't you, Langley! You rigged his chair so he'd lose!"

"You dare accuse me?!!"

"You didn't want to get beat by a half-baked snip of a boy! No offense, Swingfin."

"Mr. Finker! Do you imply that I could actually be afraid of losing to this little pixie? This child could not beat a one-armed infant in a square-wheeled potty-chair! No offense, child."

"Look, Langley, we know you're slime. You--"

"Slime, sir! Why, I believe it was your fault this happened--you failed to check the chair properly and now you're trying to pin your negligence on me!"

"What?!"

"You heard me, jabonoose!"

"How DARE you!"

I hate to break in on this, but as a responsible chronicler I (Swinfin) feel obligated to mention that at this point the crowd was choosing sides. I myself did not know whether to side with combatant number one, who called me a Swingfin, a liar, and a half-baked snip of a boy, or combatant number two, who refered to me as a little pixie, a child, and someone who couldn't beat a one-armed infant in a square-wheeled potty-chair.

At any rate, tempers were flaring and dentures were whacking around inside stubborn heads when somebody suggested a new idea.

"Hey, maybe old Battley did it."

Everybody went quiet.

"Yeah," someone whispered, "he hates us racing cuz we wake him up."

"I got two gelatins that say it was him."

"I raise you a gelatin and still say it was Langley."

"I bet Finker."

"My gelatin's on the kid himself. I say he chickened out."

That pushed me to the limit. "Hey hey hey!! You're betting on this?! What are you people! If I had been going fifty miles an hour--"

"Fifty miles an hour!"

"Awright, thirty."

"Try ten."

"Awright, ten. The point is, I could have been seriously injured!"

"Actually, I think it would have been quite funny..."

"And I wanna know who's the person here with the sick, twisted, demented sense of humour!"

They all pointed at me.

SEE CHAPTER 2 (CONCLUSION)