James McKew

My chiropractor sent me a birthday card.

Earlier this year, I injured my lower back and found myself breathing through that little donut hole on the table at the chiropractic office of Dr. Fisty Brawnster. ‘The Brawnster’ is a sophisticated man, a medical professional with the crushing grip of a heavyweight arm wrestler. It took him months of twisting and snapping to get my pain under control. We spent so much time together that he started texting me, checking in when I wasn’t there for my weekly appointments, and eventually asked if I wanted to join him for a round of golf.

“Sure,” I said, happy to have a friend who wasn’t neck deep in auto repairs or accidentally installing sewer pipes in the wrong location. Finally, I had finally found a friend who was a professional, a well-respected member of the community, a confidant…someone who was in every way, the exact opposite of me.

Our first outing was to his country club, where we teed up and whacked golf balls, sharing insider jokes like businessmen do. On the 10th hole, though, I felt a little something pop in my lower spine. I mentioned it to the doc.

“No problem, Jim. Just put a little ice on it, you’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Great! I thought. Medical advice without the $25 co-pay. Things were already paying off!

The next week, he suggested we hike a 14,000-foot peak, here in the Rocky Mountains. After 10 grueling hours, my knees were swollen, and I could barely walk. “No worries,” he said, “happens to all of us,” and gave me a bottle of Aleve, told me to sit in a hot tub for an hour every night. It worked, again! Here I was getting in shape and receiving the best medical advice of my life. At this rate, I would be in top shape in no time.

All was going great, but I could feel the tide shifting; my joint pain was increasing, and it was getting harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning. At some point, all this newfound exercise would lead me back to an office visit. The copayments would start again. I needed a solution, and quick.

In my garage, I began to work on a scheme to get my chiropractic visits without having to make the co-pay. The plan would involve a wager, that much was certain, and it had to be perfect in every detail. Plans were drawn up, charts developed, tiny details worked out, only to be waded up and tossed in the trash and redrawn all over again.

For our next outing, I suggested we meet at the local archery range. Dr. Brawnster happened to be an expert shot and was happy for a chance at a friendly wager.

I made sure he outscored me at every target, racking up the points and sending his ego into overdrive. The plan went perfectly for a full 18 targets until we reached the last and most difficult target. It required me to stand on the edge of cliff, on my tiptoes, while aiming down between two boulders and threading an arrow through a cluster of trees to hit a small foam target about the size of a soda can. I said to Brawnster, “How about one last shot, for all the marbles?”

“Go on,” he said curiously, leaning on his bow, toothpick in his teeth. “You have my attention.”

I swallowed back my apprehension. “Well, if I hit the target, I get free office visits for the rest of the year. If I miss, then I pay you the co-pay weekly for the rest of the year, no questions asked.”

His eyes narrowed, then he studied the target. At this distance, it looked like a blackhead on an elephant’s butt. “Okay,” he said with a nod, “you’re on.”

I drew the bow back, confident in my calculations, and pointed the arrow into the wind, knowing exactly where to aim.

“No, no, wait,” Dr. Brawnster said. “I need better odds. You must where a blindfold.”

“Blindfold?” I said, resistance mounting in my voice.

“Yes, a blindfold and you must stand on one foot.”

“This is preposterous!” I exclaimed. “With my bad sense of balance plus a blindfold, there’s no way I can hit it.”

“Exactly,” the doctor said. “But if I am to give you free appointments for the rest of the year, you have to hit the target while blindfolded, standing on one foot and singing Handel’s “Messiah.”

To be fair, Dr. Brawnster wasn’t aware that I had worked out these scenarios in the garage as part of my calculations. So yes, I blindfolded myself, stood on one foot, pulled back the bow, and began singing, “Hal-le-lu-jah….hal-le-lu-jah…”

My singing caught the attention of a flock of Canadian Geese flying south for the winter. Apparently, my voice sounded like a mating call and one of the geese made a steep dive and landed on the rocky precipice next to me. The extra weight of the bird weakened the stone, breaking it off and sending me, the bird, and my arrow crashing down the cliff.

Hours later, I found myself back on Brawnster’s table, breathing through that little donut in the table and listening to his cheerful recitation of our afternoon’s archery wager to his nurse. He twisted my legs and arms with gleeful exuberance, until I looked like a malformed New York pretzel.

My $25 co-pay exited my wallet that afternoon and landed squarely in his bank account.