Kevin sent me a text that read: "Wanna make $1,500 over two days painting Foster's three-story house?"
I placed my coffee cup on the kitchen table and tapped out a reply: "I know you, man; make it $2,000 and I'm in. When?"
"Pick u up in 20 minutes."
When 9 a.m. rolled around, Kev picked me up in his rusty truck. When I opened the passenger side door, three empty, pint-sized vodka bottles fell out and clanked to the pavement. Kev was already three sheets in the wind. Again.
Kev wheeled the rust-bucket through the streets of Ft. Smith, Arkansas, driving over a curb near Foster's house and narrowly knocking down a stop sign, and then suddenly the truck lurched to a stop in Foster's front yard.
"You do remember Foster, right? He owns the convenience store two blocks from your pad." Kev took a swig from his vodka bottle.
"Yeah, we talk every now and again," I offered. "He's okay by me."
We entered the already opened front door and spotted Foster pouring a shot of whiskey in his coffee. "Criminy," I thought to myself, "I'm working with two drunks."
"Hey, Kev, Ricky, want a drink?"
Kev pulled out a silver flask and took a nip. I passed. Foster asked Kev to drive to his store and buy two cases of beer. Foster then handed Kev a crisp $50 bill. "C'mon," he motioned to me, "I'll show you where we're going to begin painting."
We climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered a room full of various sized oil paintings. "If you know anybody that wants these, they're free for the taking," Foster advised.
"Awesome!" I couldn't believe it, as there had to be 50-60 paintings he and his wife had collected. "I'll take this one, and that one...and yeah, this is cool, too." I stacked three up against an empty wall, dusting them off with the palm of my hand as I found necessary. They were pretty nice.
"Have a look later and feel free to take them all. Maybe you can sell them on eBay or whatever."
Foster cranked up a Pall Mall non-filter, the blue smoke blowing into his eyes from the draft coming up from the bottom floor. "Right this way. Oh, and watch your step."
Those were the last words I heard from Foster for 9 weeks.
Foster took the first step down and fell. He tumbled like a crash dummy down 15 steps, rolled like a stunt man, and went down 15 more. I heard a distinctive thud and then a small yelp. "Help me."
"Crap!" I shouted. I was freaking out. I hurried as fast but as carefully as I could to where Foster lie in a bloody heap. Crimson goo was gushing out of his scalp. His Samsung lit up with a text message from his wife. She was a hottie.
Rather than give in to the threatening panic, I applied pressure on the wound with both hands and a towel Foster had in his back pocket. Pulling the towel back after 45-seconds, I saw that the cut was rather deep. I saw meat. He'd hit the corner of a wall and needed stitching up post haste. I took his pulse. Shallow.
I recovered my iPhone from my pocket and called 9-1-1.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"
"Yeah, my friend just fell down two flights of stairs and hit his head. He's unconscious, breathing, and alive so far."
"What's the address?" the warm, calm voice asked.
"1501 Elm. Gray house."
"An ambulance is on the way, sir. Please remain on the line."
I placed the phone down and checked Foster's pulse again. He was losing blood fast despite my attempts to stem the flow. Then I heard a siren in the distance and prayed it was on its way to where we were. In a matter of a minute or so, but what seemed like an hour, the rescue service arrived and two EMT's called out from the still open front door.
"Hello? Sir?"
"Up here!" I hollered down to them.
The paramedics went to work with a professional quickness. After 5 minutes, Kev returned with the beer, as the EMT's carted Foster off in a stretcher, loaded him up, and drove away - siren wailing.
In March I received a text from Kev. Foster wanted to see me. I peered out the apartment window. Snow flurries in the Spring. I'd need a jacket.
I trudged through a half-inch of snow and a brisk north wind to the convenience store and spotted Kev's truck. A vodka bottle was on the front seat. Empty.
Inside the store, Kev and Foster were talking and one customer was buying diapers. "Hey, the hero!" Kev called out. His words were slurred. The customer shot a glance at me.
Foster shook my hand. "So you saved my life, huh? Thanks for that. I'd like to pay you back somewhat."
"No need, man, I'd do it for an enemy."
"Maybe you did?"
Silence.
"Grab a case of beer for your efforts, hero." His last word was mocking in nature.
"What do you mean, bro?" I was puzzled.
"I think you tried to kill me by pushing me down the stairs. When I didn't die, like you planned so you could have my wife, you played the Savior role."
"That's absurd! I cried, "I'd never do that!"
"I've seen you eyeballing my woman, man."
"Dude," Kev begged, "I think you've had enough to drink. He really did save your life."
Foster turned his attention to Kev. "Were you there? Did you see it all go down?"
"Well, no..."
"How convenient," Foster mumbled.
Kev looked at me. "What really happened, man? I remember you said: 'He's okay by me.' What did you man by that?"
No longer wanting to listen to two drunks and their conspiracy, I grabbed my case of cold beer. On the way out of the store I turned around and stated firmly, "He painted the walls with his blood."
