I was alone in the community garden when Matthew hobbled in. I didn’t know much about Matthew beyond the garden. We only met once before when he limped in on crutches and his leg in a brace. He seemed like a decent guy, friendly and easy with a smile.
The community garden was a plot of land on a slope, bordered by an old wooden fence. A playground lay on one side, expensive houses on the second and third sides, and low-income housing projects on the fourth. Inside the garden, plots of vegetables and flowers mirrored this division—some well-kept, others untamed. It was like a fractal, a small-scale reflection of the surrounding neighborhood. The order within chaos, chaos within order, and the stark contrast of wealth and oppression. This pattern, this fractal, upset me.
Some plots were manicured. Others were unruly containers of disarray, like mine. Matthew’s plot was neat and precise. His strawberries were protected with a mesh net, and everything grew in orderly rows.
I thought his garden was rigid and lacked honesty. My garden plot reflected the arbitrary. It reflected the cruelness of the world. There was a different type of order to my garden, one that depended on a belief in the beauty of rage and the wisdom of entropy. I let the plants assert themselves and speak to me. I watched the weeds grow, and then decided whether they live or die. Pleas were made, juries deliberated, justice was discarded, and judgement was executed.
It occurred to me that every gardener came here for a different reason. Maybe for health, maybe for distraction, maybe, like me, out of desperation.
I was on a bad streak. My knee was wrecked, my landlord was trying to evict me, my finances were in the toilet, I felt sick and overweight. I got another parking ticket, I dropped my toothbrush in the toilet, and there was even more black mold on the wall. And that’s all just the beginning. Maybe I’ll get around to the bad part.
I started coming to the garden a few months ago, trying to find solace in the routine of planting, watering, and weeding. That seemed like a decent plan. The garden is the only place where things didn’t get worse. Sure, snails ate my poppies and the tomatoes refused to grow. But I could live with that. That’s okay. That’s life. That’s reasonable.
I bent over to pull a weed and felt a sharp pain, like pins, in my left knee. I was accustomed to this. Nothing new. This damn knee.
“Dang,” I muttered. I straightened up and shook out my leg. I saw Matthew looking at me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I said. “I’ve got an old injury that barks at me sometimes.”
“I guess it’s contagious,” he said, nodding at his brace.
“Yeah, I noticed,” I said.
The pain in my knee mellowed. “So what is it? The ACL?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “That’s what everyone asks.”
“I suppose it’s the most common injury,” I said.
“Maybe, but not me. The patella tendon snapped. I took a tumble, looked down, and my kneecap was halfway up my thigh.”
We both stayed silent for a moment letting the agony of his words sink in.
I broke the silence, “Sounds fun,” I said.
“Yeah, fun.”
”Have you already had surgery?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “They got me in within a few weeks at South Bay Medical Center. My brother had to wait twice that long for his knee operation.”
“I guess you had better insurance than him,” I said.
He nodded and shuffled a moment.
“The strawberries in this plot over here look really good,” he said, motioning to the plot next to his. “Much better than mine.”
“Maybe they got an earlier start,” I said. “Or possibly a different variety?” I knew he was changing the subject but I wasn’t interested in the strawberries. “How’d the surgery go?”
“Fine. Great,” he said. “Still recovering, but seems fine.” He seemed uncertain.
“I had surgery on my left knee,” I said. “But honestly, I wish I never did, it was way worse after the surgery than before.”
“Really? What happened?” he asked.
“The accident or the surgery?” I asked.
“Both.”
“I got clocked on my bike by a food delivery driver. One of those drivers for….” I trailed off. I had to watch my words. I started again, “a big rideshare company. You know the name of the company. Everyone does. But I can’t tell you the name of the company. I can’t tell you because I had to sign all kinds of NDAs and other papers. It’s ridiculous but I’m legally forbidden from saying their name.”
“I see,” he said, “Obviously there was a lawsuit?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Was there a settlement or did it go to trial?” He seemed to know about these things.
“Settlement,” I said. “But I know what you’re thinking and it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth the injury, or the lawyers, or the pain. I deal with it every day. I wish I never had surgery. It was worse after the surgery.”
“How much was the settlement?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said. “I would, but really, you wouldn’t believe the stack of papers I had to sign.”
“Well, I’m sorry that you had to go through all that,” he said.
It sounded like he meant it.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that. I wish my girlfriend was half as compassionate as you.”
I was trying to be funny, but it came out wrong. He looked uncomfortable.
“Well, I guess I can empathize,” he said, motioning to the brace on his leg.
“Yeah,” I said.
He watered his strawberries, and I watered the roses along the wall. They looked dry. A few minutes passed.
“Who was your doctor?” he called.
I thought about it, really thought about it, but suddenly couldn’t remember that worm’s name. That pasty guy with his BMW and soft voice. I guess I purged it from my mind. “It was at PHSF,” I said. “I don’t remember the doctor’s name. I can’t believe I forgot, but off the top of my head, I can’t remember it.”
That’s the kind of language my attorney instructed me to always use. “Off the top of my head; I don’t remember; at the moment I can’t recall, approximately, to the best of my recollection…” Yeah, there’s a technique to all this legal crap. I’ve always got to be on guard.
“Well, you shouldn’t be angry at your doctor,” he said. “He was probably trying to help.”
“Do I sound angry,” I wondered, “I don’t remember sounding angry.”
“I’m not that angry at him,” I replied. “I’m more angry at the driver and the company than at him.”
He didn’t respond.
I aimed the hose at the yellow roses, watching the petals fall off when the water droplets hit them. I thought about the Hyundai taking a sharp left turn in front of me. I remembered the tearing pain in my knee as I was thrown from my bike. I thought about the driver offering me $1,000 in broken English as I lay dazed on the street. She didn’t want me to report the accident.
I thought about the phone she was staring at. I thought about the app she was on. I thought about the $114 billion multinational company currently trading at $61.42 a share. She worked for that company in disconnected increments of twenty minutes. She was making a food delivery. Someone ordered McDonald’s.
Yeah, the company distanced themselves. They said she was an independent contractor, not an employee. Just another driver, responsible for her own actions, her own insurance, her own mistakes. They hid behind legal definitions, technicalities, and ambiguous sections of employment law, leaving me with the wreckage and the pain. I’m surprised they didn’t try to pin it on the drive-through worker at McDonald’s. Yeah, it must’ve been the drive-through worker’s fault. Imagine all of this suffering for a Big Mac.
I thought about California Proposition 22, the law that let companies like this off the hook. The companies paid millions in TV ads. They said the proposition was for the drivers, to keep them in control of their own schedules. Who were they kidding? Sure, these drivers really don’t want healthcare, unemployment benefits, and insurance.
It worked. The proposition passed, appealed, and then upheld by the prestigious Supreme Court of the so-called USA. Shareholders celebrated and the company pocketed billions while people like me dealt with the fallout—collateral damage. The proposition made sure drivers were on their own, left to fend for themselves without the normal protections employees get.
And there I was, lying on the street with a knee that would never be the same. She was “independent,” not their problem, not their responsibility. And neither was I. Just another two casualties in their billion-dollar game.
“Do I sound angry,” I asked myself. I really didn’t remember sounding angry.
“My dad was an orthopedic surgeon,” Matthew called.
I looked up from the wet soil, surprised. I thought the conversation was over.
“I should’ve gone to him,” I said.
“Well, he’s dead now.” He paused. “He loved his job. He always loved being able to help people. It’s amazing what science can do.”
I took a breath. I looked at the rose petals on the ground, the thirsty dahlias, the bachelor buttons. I took a breath. I could tell where this was going.
“It really is amazing,” I lied.
“Yeah, it’s really incredible,” he said.
I couldn’t help myself. I chimed in, “But of course, there are a few cases where it backfires or something goes wrong. I guess I just have that kind of luck.”
Matthew nodded. That seemed to be what he needed to hear. It didn’t help my knee. It didn’t help my mind. But I guess he needed to hear that. He seemed like a nice guy. Just because his dad was a doctor doesn’t mean he wasn’t a nice guy.
I wondered if I’d sleep through the night. I told myself it might not get better. In spite of all the appointments, my knee was still a world of hell. Years of waking up in pain, endless doctor’s visits, screaming at my attorney, humiliated by theirs. And all for nothing. My knee is still a world of hell.
I watched Matthew as he moved on to his tomatoes. He was meticulous, careful not to damage the plants. He moved slowly, his brace a constant reminder of his injury. I thought about his father, the surgeon who loved his job, and the faith Matthew had in medical science—that it could fix anything. I thought about my father, also a doctor; an alcoholic who hated his job.
Matthew will find out. Wait until the pain medication wears off and the physical therapists give up. He’ll find out the truth.
I wanted his pain to feel like mine, so someone could understand. I knew it was wrong to want this, that it made me a bad person. But people should know. Sometimes, things don’t get better. You just have to live with the pain. I wanted to tell him that. But I didn’t. I kept it to myself.
Matthew was still focused on his plot, adjusting the supports for his tomatoes. In the fading light, the garden was quiet. I watched him, his leg brace catching the last rays of the sun.
As we packed up our things and walked out of the garden, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had slipped away, something I used to cherish. Something I couldn’t hold onto, no matter how hard I tried. The world kept turning, indifferent to my pain, my hopes, my bitterness, or my defeats.
Matthew walked towards his car, limping slightly but still upright, still believing. I hoped his knee would get better after all. Maybe I’m not a bad person. Despite my doubts, I wanted to believe it would get better. Maybe his faith in science would carry him through. Maybe the ghost of his father would carry the day. Maybe it wouldn’t.
He waved goodbye, and I waved back. As I turned in the opposite direction, pins in my knee with each step, I thought about what it meant to hope, to cling to the idea that things could get better. The world needs more of that.
Sure, the world could use that.
Maybe someday.