There was a noise at the door, something squeaky, like the sound of tennis shoes against a wet, tile floor. He looked up. A full-figured woman dressed in a green, baggy uniform, walked with purpose to the side of his bed. As she reached up, she pulled down a plastic clipboard that was inside a cubby mounted to the wall behind his head. “Okay sweetie,” she said without even looking at him, “do you know where you are?”
Who was she talking to? Was there someone else in the room? Was she talking to him?
“You’re at the Denver County General Hospital. Do you know how you got here?”
Hospital? Why was he at the hospital? He didn’t ask to be taken here.
“You arrived in an ambulance with your friend, uh”—she paused and flipped through the pages of the clipboard—“Robby…Robby Collins. Do you remember a Mr. Collins?”
Monty felt a chill as the memories came back to him—the store, the call, the booze, the pills. No, this couldn’t be happening. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be dead.
“Now Mr. Miller,” the nurse said, leaning over him, her sour breath blowing against the front of his neck. “It is very important you tell us if there was anything else you swallowed besides the Zoloft and Trazodone. Can you remember if there was anything else? Anything at all?”
Monty tried to open his mouth, but it felt like his lips were Super-Glued, cemented shut by a seal of dried mucus.
“Please answer the question, Mr. Miller. Was there anything else? Anything at all?”
Monty turned away and let out a soft whimper. He shut his eyes and shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
Monty nodded. He could feel tears coming, pounding against his eyelids like an unwelcome guest pounding at the door.
“Drugs, pills…anything like that?”
“No!” Monty finally shouted, the tears from his eyes now dripping down his cheeks. “I didn’t take anything! Nothing!”
“Alright Mr. Miller, just calm down. There’s no need to get excited. Now, can I get you anything? Water? An extra blanket?”
Monty looked down at the straps secured around his wrists and ankles then tugged on them slightly and tried to lift his head. “Why am I tied down like this?”
“It’s for your own protection, sweetie. You were in pretty bad shape when they brought you in. The doctor didn’t want you trying to get up and hurting yourself.”
“But I can’t move.”
“I know honey.”
“How am I supposed to go to the bathroom? I can’t move.”
“I know sweetie.”
Monty began to tug and pull against the bindings, kicking and writhing like a rabid squirrel. “I can’t fucking move,” he shouted, as globs of spit went flying onto his chin. “Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t do anything.”
“Please don’t raise your voice Mr. Monty. We have other patients on this floor besides you who are trying to rest.”
“Fuck your patients. I want out of this. Let me the fuck out of this.” He kicked and pulled harder and harder, the straps like sandpaper chafing his wrists. “Let me out of here. Let me the fuck out of here. I don’t deserve to be treated like this. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The nurse tried to restrain him. She put one hand on his chest and the other on his head. “Monty, stop it, stop fighting. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Take your fucking hands off me! You bitch! You cunt! Let me out of here! Let me the fuck out of here!”
“Monty, stop it. Just stop it.”
“I am not resisting arrest! I am not resisting arrest! Victoria! Victoria!”
“Fine,” the nurse said, backing away from him. “If you’re going to act like a crazy person then we’re going to treat you like one.” She took the clipboard and shoved it back in the cubby then turned away from Monty and moved towards the door.
“Wait. Where are you going?” Monty said.
She stopped at the doorway then flipped off the light switch. “Try to get some sleep. The doctor will be in to check on you later.”
“Wait. Don’t leave me like this. Please, don’t leave me.”
She exited the room and pulled the door closed.
Monty lay there, scared, confused, utterly helpless, as his eyes darted around the now pitch-black room. They couldn’t do this, could they? Wasn’t it illegal? Wasn’t it a violation of his civil rights? He wasn’t a threat to them. He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t some sick schizophrenic waving a gun. He was a good kid, first in his class, Phi Kappa Phi honor society, those gold colored cords tied to his cap and gown. Why were they doing this? Why was this happening? What the fuck did he do wrong?
He tugged and pulled against the fabric bindings, panting and groaning, thrashing and squirming, sucking in a barrage of shallow, labored breaths. No, no, he had to calm down, he couldn’t get excited. No sudden movements, no frenetic thoughts, just cool, calm, and under control. He stopped struggling and focused on his breathing, letting his heart catch up to his breath. Okay, okay, that’s it. He could do this…he had to stay calm…nice and easy now.
He lifted his head and looked down at his forearms and noticed that the strap on his right wrist was looser than the one on his left. He shifted his body toward the looser binding and lifted his right hand as far as it would go. If he could just reach the strap with his mouth, he might be able to unbuckle it with his teeth. He strained his neck and inched closer and closer until his chin was nearly touching his chest. He touched the strap with the tip of his tongue and somehow managed to get it inside his mouth. As he closed his eyes, he bit down on the fabric. The strap tasted foul and bitter like a pair of sweat-soaked socks. Using his tongue as a sort of conveyor, he gathered the loose fabric into tight spools inside his mouth. Then he took a deep breath and jerked his head backward, heaving and hauling like a dog playing tug-of-war. With each additional pull, the strap got looser, until he could hear the Velcro beginning to come undone. Yes, it was working. The strap was breaking. It was beginning to come apart.
He bit down harder and tugged more rapidly, the Velcro hissing, popping, and pulling apart. But, his tongue became tired and his jaw started aching and tears of pain began to roll from his eyes. Shit, he was losing his grip. The strap was slipping and he was finding it more and more difficult to catch his breath. He had to rest for a minute and let his mouth recuperate. If the strap fell to the floor, he’d never be able to get it back. He stopped pulling and just lay there quietly, breathing slowly in and out through his nose.
After a few minutes, he regained his composure then shifted into position for one last go. He was almost there. He almost had it. A couple more inches and it would break for sure. He closed his eyes and clenched down on the fabric then reared his head back as hard as he could. The Velcro gave way and the strap unfastened, slipping through the buckle and falling to the floor. Yes, it worked. His right arm was free. Okay, okay, now the left. He turned his head, shifted his body, and reached his hand across his chest. But he couldn’t reach his arm. The left strap was too tightly fastened—it had his hand pinned all the way down by his knee. But he couldn’t give up. He had to get to it. He was almost there. He was almost free.
He dug his heels into the mattress and lifted his butt completely off the bed. In one quick turn, he thrust his pelvis upward and turned his entire body in mid air. He came crashing back down onto the mattress and reached over across his hip. It was just enough. He could feel the strap with his fingers. He grabbed a hold of it and began to peel it away. Once he found the right angle, the strap came off easily. He pulled and pulled until finally it unraveled and the strap broke free and fell to the floor.
He grabbed his knees, pulled himself upright, and started on the ankle straps as quickly as he could. But he heard something out in the hallway, the sound of feet moving past the door. He froze, his mouth open, his eyes fixed on the door. He lay back down, pressed his head into the pillow, and pulled the sheet up over his neck.
Out of
the corner of his eye, he saw a head poke in through the doorframe—it floated there for a minute then went away. He waited a few moments for the footsteps to become distant, then sat up and went to work on his ankles. Now that he had both hands, it was much easier, and he was able to free his ankles in about ten seconds flat. He swung his legs out around the side of the mattress then went to stand up, but quickly realized he was still attached. There were a bunch of tubes connected to small, metallic nipples protruding from blue pieces of circular tape attached to his stomach and chest.
He began ripping them off, but they didn’t come off easily. In fact, it felt like he was tearing off a piece of his skin. He finally got off all twelve of them, but when he went to stand up, he realized he was still attached. Now what? He looked down at his arm. There was a tube running out from the vein in his forearm up to a plastic bag hanging from a hook on something that looked like a glorified coat rack. Damn, it was the IV.
He took a deep breath and started digging away the tape from his forearm, but it was even stickier than the pieces that were stuck to his chest. He’d never get it off at this rate. But wait. The IV was connected to a plastic adapter sticking outside of the tape. If he could remove the tube from the adapter then maybe he wouldn’t have to pull the needle out. He grabbed the adapter and twisted it carefully, then pulled out the tube and freed his arm.
He scanned the room and began moving forward, but he was so sore that he could barely walk. It felt like he’d been dropped from the top floor of a twenty-story building then trampled by a marching band and run over with a car. He put one wobbly foot in front of the other until he got to the end of the bed, when he realized that something was wrong. He was still attached. Something still had him, pulling at the tip of his dick. He lifted his gown and looked down at his boxers—there was a tube running out from underneath his crotch.
He grabbed the tube and gently pulled it downward, but it was stuck on the inside. What the hell was going on? He tried pulling it again, only this time harder, but it felt like he was going to pull off his dick. He released the tension and sat down on the mattress, the panic beginning to bubble inside his head. Okay, okay, calm down, calm down, he had to think, he had to concentrate. It went in, right? So, somehow it had to come out.
He stood back up and pulled a little harder, but the pain was excruciating. It felt like a knife tearing into his nuts. But he had to do it. He had to get rid of it. He had to pull it out. Who knew what they might do to him if he stayed here any longer? They might put him in an institution where he’d be strapped down to a bed for more than a month. No, no, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He needed his alcohol. He had to get home.
He wrapped his fingers around the plastic tubing then began to pull down as hard as he could. The tube gradually slid out, but his palms were so damp with perspiration that he couldn’t seem to keep a good enough grip. So, he wrapped a piece of his gown around the tubing then wiped it dry and gathered up the slack. Okay, one last tug. No time to be a pussy. He closed his eyes and pulled it down. The tears welled inside his eyes and he began to let out a high-pitched moan. The tube slid out farther and farther, until finally it came out completely and dropped to the floor.
He stood there trembling, looking down at the tubing that was coiled in a small puddle of tears and blood. He lifted his gown and brought his hand against his boxers. His crotch was numb and damp with blood. He opened the fly to make sure he wasn’t hemorrhaging. He wasn’t, but his dick had shrunk to the size of a snail. Would he have permanent damage? Would he ever be able to use the bathroom again? Fuck it. Who cared? It didn’t really matter. The only thing that mattered was getting the hell out of here.
He dropped his gown and tiptoed towards the doorway, then pushed open the door and peered down the hall. His eyes locked with a nurse who was sitting behind a large rectangular console that was filled with computers and stacks of brown files. The nurse stood up and started shouting, waving her hands and calling for help.
Monty turned and bolted down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the cold, tile floor. Where was he going? What was he doing? He didn’t know, but wherever it was, he had to get there as quick as he could. His legs were water, his head was oatmeal, and he had to slide his hands along the edge of the walls so he wouldn’t spill out into the middle of the hall. A thunderous roar materialized behind him. It was the sound of jiggling keys and heavy black boots stampeding across squeaky, clean hospital floors. He could see something ahead. It was an exit, the door lit up by a sign with a red neon glow. When he got to it, he lowered his shoulder and smashed into the heavy wooden doors. But nothing happened. The doors didn’t open and so he tried searching for the doorknobs, but there were none. He took a step back and planted his foot into the center of the door, his bare flesh slapping against the wood. Nothing happened. The doors were solid. They wouldn’t open. He stepped back again and winded up to plant another, but just then, he felt a crushing blow to his lower back. His knees folded, his legs crumbled, and his entire body went flying into the door. He tried to recover and push himself upward, but was held down by an overwhelming force. He turned his head and look behind him. It was the weight of three men in blue polyester, starch-stiff shirts, and heavy black boots. One had his knee pressed in between Monty’s shoulder blades, one hand gripping his head, the other squeezing his neck. Another had Monty’s hands bound behind him, his fat knee driving into the small of Monty’s back. Monty kicked and squirmed, screaming at them to get the hell off of him, but they only pressed harder until he was completely immobile.
In one sudden sweeping motion, they flipped him over and lifted him up by his ankles and wrists. Like a hog on a stick, they carried him down the fluorescent-lit hallway, Monty kicking and screaming, bullets of spit shooting from his lips. When they got him back to the room, they tossed him like a rag doll through the air and on top of the bed. As they swarmed in on him like a pack of hyenas, their sharp fingernails and elbows dug into his flesh. One grabbed his wrists and pinned them by his earlobes while another planted his knee in the center of his chest. The third went to the foot of the bed and forced his legs wide open, while a pair of nurses fastened the straps efficiently around his ankles. When they were done with his legs, they went around to his forearms, and with the help of the security guards, pinned his hands by his hips. Monty tried to resist, but they were too strong for him. He was completely helpless, his arms by his side, his legs secured to the bed. The wound on his chin was now wide open and he could feel the blood trickling down his neck. But the nurses didn’t stop. They crouched to the floor and picked up the bindings, then fastened the straps around both of his wrists.
“Alright,” one of them said, stepping away from him. “He’s secure.”
The men in blue polyester eased their weight off of him then slowly stepped away from the bed. They all just stood there for a moment with looks of disgust on their faces, folding their arms and shaking their heads. He felt like a freak in some circus sideshow, pulling at the straps and writhing around in the bed. Why were they doing this? Why was this happening? Why were they treating him like he was a fucking animal?
He kicked and pulled harder and harder, the fabric of the straps cutting into his skin. All of a sudden, it became too much for him; his breath began to shorten and his muscles went limp. It felt like he was being sucked down into the bedding, his body disappearing into a bottomless pit. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open, he was so damn exhausted. He just gave up and quit trying to resist. As he slowly drifted in and out of consciousness, he could hear the conversation between the guards and the nurse.
“He’s been here before,” the nurse said, looking down at him. “He’s some kind of engineer.”
“What’s wrong with him? He on drugs or something?”
“No. Alcoholic.”
“That’s a shame. That’s a god damn shame.”
“Yeah. We get all kinds in here.”
Chapter 16
&n
bsp; The Morning After
MONTY could feel the presence of someone beside him, the cadence of their breathing dueling with the heart monitor machine beeping by his head. He opened his eyes and craned his neck forward and saw the silhouette of a man sitting beside his bed. The man was slumped over in a chair, his head tilted slightly forward, his hands folded together like he was deep in prayer.
Monty tried to say something, but his mouth was so dehydrated that he couldn’t get enough saliva to even move his tongue. So he let out a moan that sounded more like a whimper, a soft, pathetic cry for help.
The man stirred. His posture straightened. He lifted his head and moved into the light. “Monty,” he said, “are you awake?”
Monty recognized the man’s voice. It belonged to his father. But it couldn’t be his dad, could it? Why would he be here?
Monty turned his head as far as he could sideways and let the light come to his blood-pooled eyes. “Dad, is that you?”
“Yes Monty, it’s me.”
Monty blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Where was he? Was he at home? He looked down at the white blanket covering his body, at the series of plastic tubes and wires running out from underneath his blue hospital gown. “Where am I?” he said, his voice a bit shaky.
“You’re in the hospital, Monty.”
“Where? In Florida?”
His dad dropped his head and removed his glasses, wiping the tears from his tired, jet-lagged eyes. “No Monty, no son. You’re in Denver, at the General Hospital.”
“What am I doing here?”
Some Are Sicker Than Others Page 16
