The Race

     Deanna Markham was losing the race, again. She was second in a slothful race across the courtyard of her seniors home with the wheelchair-bound, Dora Lee Schmidt. Two elder tortoises in a juvenile competition to get to their favorite perch; a view of the creek below the farthest border of their restricting home. Deanna’s walker was missing a tennis ball off of one the feet which did not facilitate a smooth landing each time she put it down. Dora Lee was pushing her wheels like a locomotive, a cigarette dangling from her hairy lips. Deanna had always thought Dora Lee looked like a moose. A smoking moose on wheels, Deanna had thought. 

     Quite suddenly, Dora Lee stopped, took the smoke from her mouth and horked up a glob of green, nicotine-infused phlegm into a ready hankerchief. Safely camouflaged in the turquoise hanky, she hid it in the pocket of her cardigan. This performance was not lost on Deanna; she had unfortunately witnessed it many times. Dora Lee Schmidt personified boorishness to a degree that went beyond offending Deanna; she hated her.

     “I used to jog in my sixties,” Dora Lee wheezed as Deanna passed her. This was the opportunity Deanna needed to get ahead and win one for the walkers!

     “Yeah, well you ain’t joggin’ anymore, sister!” Deanna huffed and clackety-clacked into the lead.

     “You, ninny! Not fair, not fair!” Dora Lee cried and began pushing wheels with a throat cleansed vigor. The cigarette, back in it’s yellow lip lock, billowed and the arms pumped but it was too late. Deanna and her lopsided walker made it first. She stood victoriously at the finish line, pumping a fist in the air.

     “Take that, moose!” she whispered.

About troysherdahl

A blue-collar bohemian with a penchant for fine words and dirty jeans.
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