The Truth
By John Page
It was really Marian on the CB that led us to the scene of the broken Toyota.
When we got there we found Neal lying huddled on the sand in the wash in the fetal position. He was twitching and jerking and sobbing hysterically. We could hear him babbling to himself “Save me, save me, please somebody, save me.” There was sand stuck to his face where the tears, the spittle drooling from the corners of his mouth, and the stuff coming out of his nose had all smeared together into a gooey, slimy mess. His eyes were red, and his pants were stained. He smelled of vomit.
Marian stepped calmly out of cab of the truck and looked at her miserable husband with disdain. “There, there, Neal,” she said, “I told you everything would work out OK.”
Bob found a roll of blue paper shop towels and wet it; the three of us, with some help from Marilyn, cleaned Neal up as best we could. He, of course, resisted being touched by water, but we overpowered him. It was quite a while before we had him wiped off, and he settled down and regressed to his normal obnoxious self.
