The Scorpion and the Foot Bath

The Scorpion and the Foot Bath by Cooper Gallegos

It was the beginning of our first summer in the Mojave Desert. We had one brutally cold winter behind us and we felt like veterans, cocky and energetic, tramping around our five acres like true desert-rats. Life was refreshingly casual. We bathed only when we felt like it, chased Jack Daniels down with Coors beer and saw ourselves as combination outlaws and ranch wives.
One lazy afternoon, just after the water hauler had filled our 250-gallon water tank I was headed back into the house wearing only shorts and sandals. Just outside the door I stepped on a rock and my foot exploded in pain. I staggered forward in time to see a 3 inch scorpion the color of amber skittle through the dust, making a clean get away. By the time I got to the kitchen my foot was swollen and I was gasping what I thought could be my last gasps. “To the car!” my housemate screeched. We lumbered down our dirt road in our old green Buick. “Elevate your foot,” Pam said. So I did. “No, no, maybe that’s a bad idea!” She was trying to figure out the direction poison traveled through the body while navigating desert roads looking for the hospital.
When we finally pulled up to the entrance of Victor Valley Community Hospital Pam practically shoved me from the passenger door. I limped in and told the duty nurse what had happened. “In here,” she said. She was a no-nonsense type and I hurried after her. She produced a dishpan of sudsy water. “Which foot?” she asked. I pointed to my right. She grabbed my ankle, submerged my foot and scrubbed vigorously. I cringed on the chair, in pain, my head beginning to ache. My foot emerged, dazzlingly pink, clean as a whistle. The nurse took one look at my other foot, covered in desert grime. “Okay, give me your other one,” she said.