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Author's Note: This is a story that has a few parts to it, and there will be a different part each week of the Times. Please enjoy!
Lowry Kane walked out of Doctor Ompus's office in a daze. "I'm going to die, I'm going to die, and I'm going to die. 6 months." How was he supposed to do everything he'd always wanted to accomplish in his life in 6 months? Lowry shook out his weary leg, and settled himself on the park bench. What a day. The sun was beaming overhead; sending down shafts of light so thick and golden, it seemed you could lean on them. Soon, he'd need to lean on anything he could get. It's spreading.
Lowry took out a crisp white kerchief, and mopped up the perspiration on his forehead. He was 60 year old man, for god's sake, with grandkids, and good friends in the community! He couldn't just wait to die. But of course, there was the surgery. The surgery that cost more than he had made in his entire lifetime. The surgery that cost so much money, he couldn't pool a third of it together in 6 months. The surgery. With a heavy breath, Lowry stood up, and started the long tread down to Ivy's Pub. He needed a good drink, now and then. Especially when he found out he was next in line to push up the pansies. "If only," Lowry shook his head. Of course he wouldn't beg his family for the money. Cash was tight with them lately, and they would choose to feed their kids over putting together a couple of crumpled bills towards a surgery, anyways. He swung open the heavy wooden door to Ivy's, and walked inside slowly, letting his old eyes adjust to the light.
Mrs. Ivene spotted him right away, and brought him an old stool to sit on, right next to the drinks. "How are you doing, Lowry?" she asked kindly, drying a pub glass with her blue apron. He stared down at my sore old hands. "Not so good, Ivy," he said finally, taking off his glasses and setting them by his elbow. Ivy's face went sympathetic. "I'll be right back, Lowry, good man, you decide on what you want to drink." She bustled down the bar counter to help a reasonably large man order. The man, in his late thirties, looked exactly like the rest of tourists in this town. Big, burly, lots of leather, vintage sunglasses, and in this case, a thin red goatee on his chin. While Ivy prepared his order, the man turned to him. "So, not having the best day, man?" he asked gruffly. He shook his head meekly. The man slid down a few seats until he was about 4 feet from Lowry. "What's bothering you, man?" he said. Lowry stared at his shoes for a moment. He really needed to get new tassels for his loafers. They looked hideous.
Finally, he looked up at the man in the leather vest, a plethora of tattoos running down each arm. "Well," he started. The man drew closer. "I just came back from my doctors office, and," "High blood pressure?" the man interrupted, "Brings us all down." Lowry tried not to laugh. "No, no. Actually, it's a horrible virus in my leg, that they don't have any medication for yet. The only way to . . .to . . . the only way to get better is if I have a costly surgery, and they remove the main base of the virus from my leg. I'd still be crippled the rest of my life, though. And without the surgery, I have only 6 months to live. I don't know what I'm going to do," Lowry spit out pathetically. Tears brimmed his eyes, but he wiped them away quickly. "Wow, man," the biker said softly. Lowry nodded. "I think I can help," he said.
Lowry's ancient ears perked up. "Can you give me 250,000 dollars?" he asked sarcastically. The man laughed. "No, no, man. But I think I have a solution for you. It's pretty extreme, though." Lowry urged him to keep going. "Okay, okay, man. You need to go to jail." Lowry spit out his drink laughing. After a few minutes, he calmed down. +Go, go to jail?" he cackled. The man didn't look amused. "Yeah, man. If you go to prison, they pay for your medical costs. My friend Paco got a whole new set of teeth when he went to prison. Junkie, you see. I bet the jail will pay almost all of the surgery costs, man." Lowry fell into another fit of laughter. "Jail, eh? I can't go to jail. I'm a 60-year-old cooper. No one would ever send me to prison. I have children. Grandchildren. I'm a nice guy. I can't go to jail," he told the man. The biker just shrugged. "If you change your mind, tell Paco that Bubba sent you, alright?" Lowry set down his drink, and ambled towards the door, chuckling all the way.
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