Just When I Want To Show Sympathy

Hick helped me carry in the groceries yesterday. And proved that sometimes, it's easier to do things myself.

On those rare instances when he's home to help, I carry stuff from T-Hoe's rear to the side porch, and Hick carries them on inside. I do that so he doesn't have to go up and down the steps every time, which is his method of carrying in groceries. All one trip from garage to kitchen, repeat. Instead of everything carried to side porch first, then ascend the stairs, and carry in things from that level.

I suppose one way is as good as the other. But the fact remains that I always take stuff halfway for him. Yesterday, he came out to the garage, draped bags on his arms, and was headed through the door before I was out of the driver's seat. I gathered up some bags and took them to the side porch. Hick came back out later than I expected him. I'd already taken my second load.

Hick was dabbing at his arm with a paper towel. Bounty Select-A-Size.

"What happened to you?"

"I almost fell!"

"How?"

"I tripped on the threshold."

"Uh. Don't you know it's there, after all these years?"

"Yes, Val. I know it's there. Them dogs was running around."

"No. Juno never goes down the steps. And Jack was right there with her, waiting for me to come through and give them cat kibble."

"I almost fell flat on my face!"

"I'm sorry that you're hurt. That looks bad. Let me see."

Hick removed the blood-soaked paper towel. His left forearm had a scrape about six inches long, deeper in the middle.

"You'll have to clean that up. When I come in, I'll put some bandaids and antibiotic ointment on it."

"I'm trying to stop the blood now."

"I see that. I'll fix it when I get these groceries in, so the dogs don't get them."

"I can carry them."

With that, Hick started grabbing bags, still holding the blood-soaked paper towel.

"Uh, I'd rather you didn't. Most people don't want their food touched by bloody hands."

"My hands aren't bloody! I can carry them."

There's no arguing with Hick when he gets hard-headed. Well. There IS. But it's not very rewarding.

Once inside, Hick disappeared. I hollered that there were bandaids in the medicine cabinet. To bring a couple, and as soon as stuff was put up, I'd put them on. Of course you know that my commands were ignored. Hick wandered back into the kitchen, and stood near FRIG II. I kept putting stuff away.

"Why do I smell some kind of chemical?"

"Oh. I put that liquid skin on my cut."

"What? You can't do that until it stops bleeding. And I SAID I was going to put bandaids on it."

"It's fine. See?"

"It's still running blood! You can't walk around with it like that."

"It's fine. I'm going outside."

"You'll get dirt and dog hair in it. Or you'll sit down in the La-Z-Boy and get it all over the armrest. As soon as I'm done, I'll get the bandaids."

"A bandaid won't cover it."

"I'm pretty sure there are big ones in there."

"I'll go look."

"WHAT IN THE NOT-HEAVEN! Why did you put the sticky stuff on the cut?"

"It wasn't big enough, going the other way."

"That's why you use more than ONE! Even a couple of small ones would have added on at the ends. NOBODY puts the sticky part on the cut!"

"It's fine."

See? I just can't have sympathy for Hick. I was willing to help him, but he had to use one hand to put a bandaid on the wrong way, rather than waiting.

I would really like to help him rip that thing off. I figure he doesn't need that arm hair.