Still smell the big man with the neurological disorder in my wool. Walked earlier near the fountain of Plaza Bonita, at the end of the street, underneath the huge Riviera mansion. His wife was walking in semi-darkness and she asked me for help. We shook hands and gave names. Her name was Jill. We moved to their large BMW sedan, the newest. There suffered Joe, her husband, three hundred pounds with braces on his lower legs. Sweat on his upper lip. When I tugged at him I felt sweat through his red sweater. He was not happy experiencing his pain in front of a stranger, this person his wife snatched off pavement stones. We shook hands and I repeated names to make sure. After all, we were intimate. As I reached under his arms and attempted to heft. We tried to swing him upon the pivot of his spaghetti legs from the driver’s seat to the wheelchair. Three times and still we couldn’t do it. He said “fucking” once and I said “ass” twice. We lifted and he fell to the car’s door-well, fearful of falling the rest of the way to the garage floor. He cursed and seemed afraid. I pulled from the passenger side, both arms under his armpits, and dragged him back to his leather interior. Jill pushed and pulled his pants. I smelled urine, diaper down there. On the fourth attempt he wobbled, turned, and fell into his wheelchair, a loud cry. We rolled him over to his chair-elevator. Another scene to heave him into the lift, traveling upward, agonized.
