“No time. Got to work. Got to work.”
“I can’t believe this sweatshop is forcing you to work with this injury. That’s outrageous.”
The woman, her middle-aged, stocky, blond hair tied into a topknot over her rubicund peasant face, wrinkled into anger at the injustice I was suffering.
“I’m going with you and give them a piece of my mind,” she said, keeping pace with me.
“No. No. Don’t understand. Got to go. Got to go!” I screamed hysterically.
I took the nurse’s hand off my arm and ran from her misplaced compassion. The directors, surprised to see me, expressed alarm at my bandaged leg. They told me not to walk and Esther brought a chair. I sat and explained to them in English fragments that I had fallen down the stairs at the hotel.
“You can sue them,” said Ruth.
“We can get you a lawyer,” said Esther.
“No. No. Can’t work no more,” I stopped them.
“At least you have to file a form to get disability. We can fill the forms for you,” said Esther.
“No. Got to go. Great pain.”
Esther went to the back and brought some forms.
“Here. Fill them out when you feel better.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” I screamed.
I gave them my satchel and took the elevator down. Once on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue, I ran. The directors could be watching me from the office window, a nurse, a medical doctor, or an orthopedic surgeon might see me, but I ran like hell and the gauze trailed after me like a tail.
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