I first met him some seven years ago.

It wasn’t my choice to meet him. 

But I heard he had high reviews, and so I found his address and crutched my way in on my one good leg to his building.

Admittedly he had the moral advantage.

He was in strapping good health, fit, with a nice stack of extra muscle on his arms.

I was in strapping good health, maybe not quite as fit, and, if my muscle didn’t make itself quite as evident, then let’s just say it was lying low, only showing enough when necessary.

My disadvantage was my leg. 

It was terribly wobbly.  I couldn’t make it do what I wanted it to do no matter how much good energy I conjured up.

I accused him, before my acquaintance with him was more than five minutes old, that his treatment of me was just to get the advantage of me.

Because the first thing he did was make me pull the leg of my sweats up to show him my leg.

And, as I don’t normally go around showing leg, this wasn’t exactly in my comfort zone.

Particularly since the leg in question had great green bruises, yellow iodine stains and extremely white skin, speckled here and there with what seem glaring protrusions of any shape and color.

I told him my surgeon had made me take a vow not to overdo what I put that leg through.  I told him this, because he grabbed my leg like he was going to run with it.

He went on and on about how my surgeon was one of the best; how his surgeries always came through smooth as butter in the rehab process.

I began to get the drift that this guy also knew his stuff.  He wasn’t as rough as I thought he was at the start.  I saw that he never extended my leg past the parameters that the surgeon had told me not to.

I saw, even though he acted like my leg weighed no more than your average golf putter, that he never made quick movements, for which I was very thankful.

I told him I felt extremely vulnerable, sitting there, letting another man bandy around with my leg like he was, when I had no strength in it to kick or fight back with.

He said, yeah, he knew I felt vulnerable.  He could feel it in my muscles.

I wasn’t sure if he really could or if it was another way to manipulate me.

The next visit to him, I quickly tried to get past my vulnerability by asking him all about himself and his family. 

He was obliging, but after about so long, one sort of runs out of questions to ask on that subject.

On another visit (I had lots of them) I asked him if he was Democrat or Republican.  I saw him skitter just a bit on that subject, and he soon told me why.  He said he tried not to be too outspoken on that subject so as not to offend his clients.  Which seemed thoughtful to me.

I found out on another visit that he is a really good fisherman.  At least that is what he told me, but once I knew he was a fisherman, I went back in my mind to all the visits we had had previously, fact checking them, because, like they say, you never know about a fisherman.

He said he went to church, so I asked him if he could remember what the sermon was about.  He did pretty well in telling me what his impressions were.

We talked lawn mowers on another visit, and cattle on several others.  He said he wanted to buy in to our cattle feeding business; I told him to wait to see if the experiment worked out.  I’m glad I told him that, or else he would probably own part of my house today.

It got to the point where I prided myself in thinking that I was a friend of his.

Almost like I was the only one he talked to.

We soon discovered that my knee wasn’t bending all the way.  He said a normal knee bends 135 degrees when it is fully bent.  He said with the way my injury was and the attending surgery, he wanted to see 120 degrees if at all possible. 

But we stalled out at 90 some degrees. 

He didn’t think that was good enough.

He wondered if I had been doing my exercises at home. 

I told him, off and on, maybe more off.

He said he thought those last few degrees were hanging up on scar tissue and that once we broke through that tissue it would be smooth sailing from then on.

He didn’t tell me he was going to try to break through that scar tissue on the very next movement of my leg. 

Those muscles of his flexed and the next thing I was aware of was some blinding pain.  Out of reflex, I guess you might say, my previously hidden muscle slammed to life, and I saw my fist flash out and bury itself in his unsuspecting solar plexus. 

I still smile at him landing some three feet away, eyes bulged out, and hands holding his gut.  Maybe that was one time I had the moral advantage on him, yes?

*****

I have stepped into his office, off and on the last few years just to say hello, and I’m always met with his firm handshake, and a query of how I’m doing. 

He always makes me feel good, and I guess you could say that with a double meaning, because whenever I need a little therapy for my back, he makes that feel better too.

But I had a bit of a letdown the other day.  I was waiting for my appointment regarding my back, when a well-put together gentleman steps in and asks where Jeremy was.

They called him out from in back, and that’s when this gentleman said, “I just wanted to step in and say hi.” 

Whereupon I saw him get the same firm handshake and interest in his life. 

But I think I know better than to be letdown. 

There are some people, I have discovered, who are like him.  They have a genuine sense of interest and care about them that makes anyone they talk to feel better about themselves.

And me?  I’m glad I have the privilege of knowing one of them and where he does business. 

Because I plan on stepping in every now and then to say hi.