Feeling Funky, Part 3

The questions are fired at me by nearly everyone and they wash over me with a gratifying sense of support. My guys are indignant, angry, feeling protective. Of course, there is almost no question I can answer without breaching the confidentiality of my erstwhile exhibitionist patient.

“Who was it?’

“Was he black or white?’

“What did he do?”

I can answer this, “He just flashed me, he didn’t assault me.”

“What happened?”

I explain for a third time that I can’t tell them details.

“We don’t want you to give us details, just tell us what happened.”

“Ms. L, do we need to take care of this for you?” Everybody stops to hear the answer to this question. Mr. I is in a wheelchair, the result of a brutal drug deal gone bad. He is a man of slight stature to begin with, and the chair does not help with his imposing appearance. He is also one of my greatest fans, and I will need to blog on him eventually.

Somehow, I do not doubt he could organize some taking-care-of activities, and this has been my greatest fear. I don’t want any of my guys in trouble for mistakenly protecting my honor, or by extension, their own. “No, Mr. I, it’s been taken care of.”

The barrage of questions begins again. Finally I hush them and ask, “What is it you need to know?”

Mr. R leans forward in his chair, all six foot one of him, all the second degree murder offense of him (which is invisible to me). He looks at me earnestly, “We need to know that you’re alright.”

My friend, K.O. suggests this is the obvious, approval seeking question. Clearly one her well-bred, socialite mother would ask it: a question without meaning. This is a reasonable assumption, but at least a place for me to regain control of the conversation.

“I’m ok, Mr. R.”

“No, Ms. L., we need to know that you’re ok with the rest of us.”