mojo
issue 22

Kangaroo Legs
Ben Adams


The last time we saw each other I was in a wheelchair, a blanket hiding the lower half of my body. The head surgeon wheeling me to the podium, wheeling me in front of everyone assembled in the hospital’s physical therapy center, the surgeons and nurses, the journalists aiming their cameras at me as though they were hunting rifles, the reporters poachers on a parquet savannah, you and the rest of the physical therapists standing behind them, the seventh graders from Dick Cheney Middle School, looking bored, and the two guys from the venture capital firm that sponsored my surgery, Kevin and Jordan. And at the podium, the head surgeon flipping between slides detailing the nuts and bolts of my surgery, technical terms I’d heard during our pre-op meetings but had forgotten and still can’t remember. The crowd, their energy growing, eager for the real show to start. They got their wish. The head surgeon introducing me, calling me a pioneer in the world of xenotransplantation, an American hero, saying he’s proud to introduce the world’s first leg transplant recipient. Me waving to the crowd like a returning astronaut. Flinging aside the blanket and hopping out of the chair. The reporters gasping, raising their hands with questions, the kids laughing, you covering your mouth. And me bouncing on my new kangaroo legs.

Kevin and Jordan high fived the people around them, their investment paying off. (We’ve talked about how you never liked them. You always yelled at them when they disrupted my PT sessions by snapping pics and texting. And you definitely didn’t approve of the things we got into when they’d hang out in my room.) You finally kicking them out of PT, banning them from the hospital’s physical therapy wing (At the time, Natasha, I thought you were being unfair. But as my physical therapist, you had every right to do this, even though I was pissed at you for eighty-sixing the guys I considered my only friends), upsetting hospital admin, them calling you into a meeting, requiring you lift your lifetime ban if you wanted to keep your job, the venture capital firm having sponsored the construction of the PT wing. Money keeps the wheels of health care hanging on by a lug nut. You weren’t happy about this, you helping me stretch my hips, increasing my mobility, grumbling whenever Kevin and Jordan asked when I’d be ready to dunk a basketball. But what really got under your skin was their nickname for me.

After my surgery, the nurses snipping and unwrapping the bandages covering my legs, the endless sheets of gauze, me restless in the hospital bed, my new legs hanging in leg hammocks (You told me the technical term for these, maybe a thousand times. I still don’t remember. But I remember other things. I remember the way you smelled that first day, like roses and rubbing alcohol. How when you tied your hair back, I saw your long neck and wanted to caress it. This is partly why I’m writing this, to explain how I feel about my legs, about you, everything), and the bandages piling on the floor, you rubbing my haunches. Your hands and fingers on my hips, running through my fur, and me wondering if this is what it felt like to be petted, and Kevin and Jordan walking in while you were massaging my haunches, snapping pics, saying, Bro, you look like some kind of Frankenroo.

You saying, Technically, Frankenroo would be the head surgeon.

And me saying, I’d be Frankenroo’s Monster.

And Kevin and Jordan chanting, Frank-en-roo! Frank-en-roo! Like we were all playing some drinking game, the kind I played during my first semester in college, right before I dropped out. And you, on our first movie night, bringing your laptop to my room, playing The Bride of Frankenstein. Me teasing you, pretending to be offended, asking if this was an appropriate movie to show a Frankenroo. You, suddenly serious, saying I shouldn’t let them call me that, that I’ve sacrificed my life for this surgery, and they’re minimizing it with an immature nickname. But I didn’t have a life to sacrifice, the hospital being a step up from my old place. You saying I shouldn’t hang out with those guys, that they make me feel like I was nothing before my surgery. Me blurting out things I wish I hadn’t (There’s no need for me to write out our argument. We both remember the hurtful things I said), and you slamming your laptop shut, saying I was minimizing your career by being a dick. And during our next session, you being unnecessarily formal, calling me by my last name, and me apologizing, wanting to feel your hands on my haunches again.

In the physical therapy wing, gripping the parallel bars for dear life, feet flopping, straining to use my new legs, learning how to bounce on eight toes ending in sharp points, points a zoologist showed me how to groom, points puncturing the physical therapy mats, puncturing them as though they were immature skin, spilling stuffing, and me working my tail off, hoping these sessions would earn me some brownie points and you’d swing by my room for another movie night.

Working to take two steps, or more accurately, two hops, and Kevin and Jordan, their phones out, recording me, swearing they weren’t going to post it, that it was for internal use only, prodding me, telling me to bounce higher. And me grimacing as I tried to get some serious air. You, frustrated, concerned (You never trusted them. You didn’t like how they treated me like a pet. And you definitely didn’t trust me when they were around. We’ve talked about how I always tried to show off for them). But you never saw the house I grew up in, the house smelling like steamed green beans, and my mom, an old woman withering away in a rocking chair in front of the TV, or the Cinnabon where I worked after I left college, worked for the past twelve years, serving mini-cinnamon rolls and coffee to the Sundown on Willow Bend Senior Center walking group and the kids skipping school, working until I answered an ad on Craigslist, Kevin and Jordan handing me a contract. And six months later, me lying in bed with my legs propped up in their leg hammocks, getting bored and fat. Kevin and Jordan sneaking me beers, me needing the time between our sessions to disappear, waiting for you to come and test my locomotor energetics (I always liked that term. I imagined myself as a train, my legs pistons, fed by the endless energy coursing through them. Nothing stops a runaway train), Kevin and Jordan sometimes cleaning up after themselves, and sometimes not, the day nurse finding beer cans lining the window like it was a frat house fireplace, like we were back in college, earning acronyms, MBAs for them, DUIs for me, and you and the surgeons and everyone else letting me have it, saying alcohol would interact negatively with my meds. Me fumbling with my words, failing to explain how, when it came to visitors, the surgeons were only there to get their names on papers and a Nobel Prize, you were only there because it was your job (There was a time near the end when this was different. I didn’t realize it then, but I need you to know, I do now), but Kevin and Jordan, they only wanted to see me jump.

Jumping being the only thing I thought about in those early days (try being in traction and not thinking about jumping), it’s still all I think about, one jump in particular. All this uncontainable energy surging through my haunches (I still feel your fingers combing through the fur covering them), me wanting to jump, wanting to leap through the window, feel the freedom of nothingness under my feet, and in this nothingness, freedom from the life you say I sacrificed, freedom to be someone else, anyone else.

Kevin and Jordan coming to my mother’s house, the clouds seeming to part and the streets seeming cleaner and the flowers seeming more fragrant, Kevin and Jordan sitting in my mom’s living room, pretending to ignore the green bean smell (I saw the way they looked at each other, the sideways glances), talking about how I’d make history, how they’d fund my surgery, would actually pay me to be the first kangaroo leg transplant recipient, pulling out a check, all that money, all those zeros, promising me endorsement deals, movie studios paying big bucks for my life rights, and when my mom left the room, them hinting at yachts and cocaine and party girls with low self-esteem, and me sitting on the couch, hanging on every word like I was hanging from the rim, daydreaming about jumping ten feet straight up, jumping and touching the clouds. (Who wouldn’t want all that? Who wouldn’t want to be rich and famous and to never have to clock in at Cinnabon ever again? Who wouldn’t want to rub their success in their boss’s face, rip off their apron and kick it in his face, not kick him, never kicking him. Chad’s a corporate douche, always scheduling me to close on Saturday nights. The only people in the mall on Saturday nights are middle-school kids on shoplifting dates. But I would never intentionally hurt anyone.)

Kevin and Jordan sliding the contract across my mother’s coffee table, me signing so fast I smeared the ink with my sweaty hand. My hand almost as sweaty as when we were in my room, you finally coming back for movie night, me earning back your trust, proving to you I was a good guy, that that first night was just me being cranky for hospital reasons (Everyone in that hospital was cranky. I blame it on the flickering fluorescent lights and banana Jell-O), us watching movies, and me reaching across the sheets and taking your hand, worrying you were going to laugh and leave, tell the nurses, the nurses having a good laugh at the freak with the kangaroo legs, making our next PT session awkward, or that you’d go to admin and ask to be transferred, not wanting a patient who hit on you. You surprising me, holding my hand, interweaving your fingers into mine, calling it waffles, and me saying I like waffles, you giggling, and me hoping this would become our thing, our inside joke. The next day, before our session, before you rotated my hips, before you tested the strength in my legs, pressing your hand to each of my twenty-six-inch feet, their four toes, their sharp points, cupping them, asking me to push against your palm, you stood over my bed, saying last night was a one-time thing, saying you were a professional and I was your patient and you had to maintain a certain distance from your patients and there were hospital policies against dating patients, and me saying, Dating? We were holding hands. There’s a hospital policy against holding hands? And you rolling your eyes, saying I knew what you meant (And I did, Natasha. I knew you were saying we couldn’t be together. But that’s not what I heard. I heard we couldn’t be together as long as I was your patient), and hearing this, I worked harder in PT, pushing myself to jump higher, counting down the days until I was walking, jumping, until I got out of the hospital and could ask you out proper, me planning our first date, planning to take you to a diner for breakfast, for waffles. You not telling the nurses about us, but me telling the guys I liked you, and Tyson the night janitor who drank with me and Kevin and Jordan and who I traded my hydrocodone for hits of DMT off his vape pen clowning the shit out of me for weeks, saying he didn’t know I liked them thick.

You saying holding hands violated the hospital’s code of ethics, leaving me to think I’d only ever see you in the PT wing, you helping me learn to walk, me trying hard not to be distracted by your smell, your hair, your smile when I did something you liked, trying not to misinterpret it as something more, as a coded message, you hinting at another movie night. You coming back to my room after the PR stunt in the children’s cancer ward. The entire surgical team showing up, someone from the hospital taking pictures, all the kids lining up in the hallway, me asking them if they wanted a ride, the kids not being scared, not seeing me as a freak, rushing toward me, climbing my haunches as if they were the scaffolding of a jungle gym, and me saying, One at a time. Everyone will get a turn. Scooping up the nearest kid, hopping down the hallway, the kids laughing like they were on a rollercoaster, laughing like they hadn’t laughed in years, or so the nurses kept telling me, and me laughing with them, their joy contagious, me starting to think my new legs could do more than just make me a shit load of money. A feeling I liked. And reaching the end of the hall, turning around and hopping back, a kid in my arms, the other kids waiting their turn, you watching me, smiling. You coming to my room that night, saying I gave those kids something they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. Me shrugging, trying to play it cool, thinking it was something I’d remember too, and you reaching across the sheets, taking my hand, staying until the nurse kicked you out, you coming back the next night and every night afterward.

And at the press conference, you watching me make a fool of myself. And me needing you to look at me the way you had in the pediatric ward (There were exceptions, times I knew I’d upset you, like when I’d slack off during PT or when you overheard me saying those things about that one nurse. And I want you to know, I’m sorry for all those moments, for everything I said. That’s why I’m writing this, so you’ll know how sorry I am), and when you came back to my room for movie night, instead of watching a movie, we just talked, at first me cracking jokes, you laughing, me loving your laugh, the way your nose crinkles, the way you snort. Then the mood getting serious, us talking about our pasts, our childhoods, our deadbeat dads. Talking until the evening nurse came in to check my blood pressure, saying it was high, attributing it to my time with the kids, all the hopping, unaware it was because you’d just touched my furry knee. And you saying we’d finish them movie tomorrow, then leaving, taking your laptop and jacket, leaving your smell of roses and hand soap.

The same soap Tyson puts in all the hospital’s soap dispensers, everyone in the hospital smelling like some variation of antiseptic. The reporters smelling like perfume and cologne and TV makeup, smelling like rancid crayons, as though they were broadcasting in Smell-O-Vision. Me smelling of kangaroo musk, a blend of sweat and fur and the thick skin under my fur, smelling animalistic. The same animalistic smell every time I jumped. Smelling it during my first bounce, Kevin and Jordan cheering me on—according to you, egging me on—chanting, Frank-en-roo! and, Bounce! Bounce! And you, the look on your face a combination of excitement and concern, excited because I was increasing my mobility, concerned over my need for the approval of two guys who would later ghost me and cancel my contract. Bouncing on eight toes ending in sharp points, me at first testing their springiness (I know there’s an official term for this. The zoologist the VC guys brought in mentioned it. But I tend to ignore things that sound technical, and other things you’ve called me out on. So, I just call it springiness), bouncing, building up energy, like a battery, storing it until it’s released. Me with my hands on the balance bars, jumping, my feet leaving the ground, a few inches at first, jumping jumping jumping.

Distracted by the energy surging through my haunches as I jumped, jumping feeling almost sexual, the build-up, a rush of adrenaline, a release of endorphins on leaping, a loneliness on landing. Me jumping only a few inches at first, practicing self-control, wanting to jump ten feet, twelve feet, wanting to touch the clouds, practicing as much self-control as when we were alone in my hospital room, me wanting to kiss you, wrap my arms around you and pull you on top of me (In the hospital, I was attracted to other women. And, since the purpose of this letter is honesty, a few men, the doctors, nurses, and technicians who kept the hospital intubated. But none of them were as kind, funny, or as strong-willed as you. None of them saw past my freakishly large legs. None of them were you), practicing self-control when we held hands, my fingers woven through yours, like a convict’s through a chain-link fence, watching a flock fly. Me jumping higher and higher, stopping only when you said that was high enough, landing with a soft thud on the physical therapy wing’s floor, out of breath, heart pounding. (Both the cardiologist and the zoologist warned me all the extra blood my new kangaroo legs needed would put a strain on my heart.)

And you making sure I didn’t put too much of a strain on my heart. Or, more precisely, helping me build up the strength in my heart, build up the endurance to bounce and jump. Standing behind me, guiding me as I shuffle-hopped the balance bars, your hand just behind mine, fingers grazing my palm, and later, after I’d graduated from the balance bars, hopping with a walker, then hopping walker-free, you walking with me, hand on my shoulder, supporting me, ready to catch me should I fall, my heart racing with your touch.

The night before the presser, you coming to my room for one last movie night, saying we needed to celebrate my release into the wild, taken aback when I didn’t hop off my bed and take you in my arms, greeting you as I had on previous nights. Our relationship starting off slow, sitting on my bed, watching a movie, our hands in waffles, a week later making out, exploring each other’s bodies, your fingers running through my fur. You wanting to go further, getting frustrated when I’d back away (I was embarrassed to say it at the time, but I was afraid of sex. My legs were still new and felt foreign. Each leg was fifty pounds of bounce-inducing muscle. I didn’t know how to use them, what to do with them if we slept together. I worried I’d hurt you if I moved the wrong way. I worried I’d hurt myself), me eventually working up the courage to let you get on top of me, stretching my legs out on the bed like two spears, your hips brushing against mine, chafing, pulling at my fur. You in my room on the last night, implying we were going to do something special, sitting on the bed, patting the sheets, inviting me to sit next to you. Me doing what I do best, ruining the moment.

About a week prior, Tyson offering me a blunt, cleaning my room, saying he noticed we’d been spending time together, saying he’d heard the nurses talking about us in the break room, about the real reason you’d been spending your nights with me, and after telling me, apologizing, his apology convincing me his story was true, Tyson never apologizing for shit—he still owes me two-hundred bucks. And on the last night, you sitting on my bed, and me acting distant, not looking at you, not saying anything. You asking if I was nervous about the press conference. Me dodging your question, asking you why you were with me. You wanting to know where this was coming from. Me repeating my question. (You remember what happened next. I know I do. I remember everything I said. We hadn’t fought since our first movie night, and like then, it was all my fault) me accusing you of using me, of only being with me for my legs, repeating Tyson’s gossip, the nursing staff’s speculation, accusing you of striking a deal with the VC firm, the same VC firm you called vampires, signing on as the exclusive physical therapist for all future animal leg transplants. You looking stunned, like you were going to cry, asking me why I was saying these things, asking where they were coming from. Me telling you to save your crocodile tears. You wiping your eyes, saying whatever’s going on we can work it out, we just have to talk it out, you always trying to fix everything, trying to fix our relationship, fix my legs, fix me. Me asking why you were even here, why you kept coming to my room after you’d made it clear you don’t date patients.

You saying you never intended to fall in love with me. But after our trip to the pediatric cancer wing, you seeing me playing with the kids, feeling as though you were seeing me for the first time, not the me showing off for Kevin and Jordan, not the me masking my insecurities with drugs and alcohol and talking shit, but the real me, you suddenly finding me irresistible, convincing you to break your code, realizing you were falling in love with a patient, falling in love with me. Me not buying it, calling you a compelling actress. (And other things, much worse things. I lie awake at night thinking about everything I said and wish I could take back every word.) You stopping at the door, making your final plea, saying I didn’t have to go through with it, didn’t have to jump for the camera, that we could leave the hospital, go anywhere, just the two of us, and be together. And me, instead of saying what I should have said, what I’m trying to say with this letter, saying something insensitive about how you wouldn’t understand how with these legs I’ll be kicking open a window for others to jump through, people with giraffe legs and cheetah legs and Holstein cow legs, changing the world. Saying you’ll understand when you’re fucking the next leg transplant recipient. And you storming out, the second and last time I made you storm out, taking your laptop and jacket, leaving your smell of roses.

Me not waiting for the door to slam, texting Kevin and Jordan, telling them what had happened, them saying they’ll take care of it. (I was mad at you. You already know I’ve loved you from day one—technically, day ninety-one—and I felt betrayed. But I swear, I didn’t know they’d take it this far. I know this is a lot to hear, but I need you to know my feelings for you haven’t changed. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve stopped reading by now, and never wanted to hear from me again, but despite how everything turned out, I need you to know, Natasha, I’m still in love with you) And at the presser, the guy from the hospital board whispering in your ear, your expression changing from shocked to sad to furious to sad again, and finally to resignation, hearing you’d been fired, hearing you had to stay for the press conference anyway, that leaving would be bad for optics, bad for the hospital.

The reporters pointing their cameras and microphones at me, pointing them as though they were hunting rifles, Kevin and Jordan chanting, Frank-en-roo! Frank-en-roo! And me jumping. Who can resist a chant? Bouncing at first, bouncing on the floor, showing the springiness in my hamstrings—or the kangaroo equivalent to hamstrings—jumping higher and higher and higher, reaching eight, ten, twelve feet—a new personal best. Landing on the parquet, landing with a thud, sounding like a bowling ball rolling off a piano. Me asking if anyone had any questions. You looking concerned and frustrated, knowing you couldn’t stop what was coming next, the question Kevin and Jordan had been asking for a year, you not knowing how bad it would be—no one knew—bad because I always do what everyone asks (We’ve talked about how I’m a people pleaser. I’m afraid to tell people no, that they won’t like me if I do. It’s the cause of all my problems. I need you to know this is something I’m working on, that I’m trying to be a better person). And the guy from channel six, a plant, hired by the VC firm, pointing at the backboard, asking if a guy who, on new kangaroo legs, standing at five foot five, knees perpetually bent, knew how to dunk a basketball. Everyone cheering. Kevin and Jordan saying we should make this interesting, sending the seventh graders from Dick Cheney Middle School, my alma mater (the VC firm thought this would be a nice touch—the local-kid-makes-good angle the fifty-five to ninety demographic eats up), onto the court for some five-on-one, a kid named Orion (I know all their names) passing me the rock, and Kevin and Jordan chanting, Dunk it! Dunk it! Everyone cheering me on. And me starting from the three-point line, bouncing the ball, bouncing my legs. Bouncing bouncing bouncing. As though building up momentum, until it was impossible for me to hold it in.

It was freeing, flying through the air. Everything I hoped it would be. (And dunking on those seventh graders, I know I should be ashamed of posterizing some kids, but seventh graders are the worst. They come into the Cinnabon and never buy anything. Instead, they take up tables, showing off everything they’ve shoplifted). I felt pure joy, gravity grabbing my eight toes, holding them to the parquet, holding me as I pulled away from the earth, me breaking free of its grip, flying through the air, rising up up up, sailing over the heads of everyone in the PT wing, my arm outstretched behind me, basketball in hand, primed for a windmill. Kevin and Jordan chanting, Frank-en-roo! Frank-en-roo! The doctors and the zoologist who promised I’d cover twelve feet in a single leap beaming, you sporting your concerned smile, the cameras recording my flight, me soaring over the backboard, flying through the open window, leaving the gym, leaving the hospital, sailing over the town, over my mom’s house, leaving it and its smell behind, leaving the withering behind, flying toward the stratosphere. And gravity catching me before I left orbit, before I soared into the unknown, gravity grabbing my toes ending in sharp points and pulling me back toward the earth, gravity holding me, the comfort of it, holding me like my mother had the day my father left, holding me like you held my hand, waffle-style, holding me like someone who only wants me to love myself, only wants me to be happy. Gravity gently pulling me back to the earth. Gravity silencing Kevin’s and Jordan’s chanting. Silencing the reporter’s questions. And suddenly the medical staff screaming, you screaming, the kids screaming, and gravity pulling me down down down, just short of the backboard, just short of dunking the ball, just short of being free, gravity bringing me crashing down onto the seventh graders.

Surgeons and nurses rushing to the screaming kids and you rushing to check on me and Kevin and Jordan rushing out the door, taking with them their contract and debauched promises. Reporters recording everything. Days later, back in my mom’s house, me withering away in my own rocker, scratching the nits nesting in my fur, writing these words, hoping they’ll show you how terrible I feel about everything that happened, show you how I feel about you, Natasha. Knowing you probably won’t read them, won’t understand, and me knowing, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never leap over this house, over this neighborhood, never fly away, never dunk a basketball on my mangy kangaroo legs.