Out Cold ddm-3

by Tom Schreck

  That's me, one genuine motherfucker.

  It doesn't mean everything was perfect. Two things she didn't like at all-one was the fact I boxed. She saw it as crude and macho and a useless archaic way for two men to hurt each other. My esoteric and philosophical explanations didn't work and my references to Gene Tunney, considered a gentleman and a genius, Sugar Ray Robinson, a brilliant tap dancer and entrepreneur, and Hector Camacho, who liked to wear loincloths in the ring, didn't help. I figured she'd warm up to boxing after a while, or soon enough it would be time for me to retire. The other thing she didn't like was my roommate, who, unlike most male roommates, would come along with the marriage. Al is my roomie, and he and Rene just didn't see eye to eye on many issues. Actually, Al didn't see eye to eye with any body because, well, he's a basset hound and he's only about eleven inches tall. It wasn't really surprised she didn't get along with Al. Al barked all the time, and when he wasn't barking, he farted and when he wasn't gaseous, he smelled a tad houndy. He was given to fits of enthusiasm in which he would jump on people. This was more of a problem for men because at Al's height his attacks landed directly on the most sensitive area of a man's body. He also ate furniture; never quite mastered the whole housebreaking deal, and he never did anything he didn't want to do.

  Al was a great pet.

  I got him from a client who got murdered. 'Al' was derivative from a Muslim name that had to do with Allah because his original owner was in the Nation of Islam for a while. I said I'd watch him while she did a short stint in the county lockup, and she got killed. For that reason and for one other Al was staying.

  The other was he's saved my life a couple of times. When I pulled up, the fact the Blue was quiet was a good sign and probably meant the two creatures in my life were simply avoiding each other. I came in the door, toward the back of the trailer. I called the front door because it sounded better than saying 'I came in the door toward the back of the old trailer I live in.' Renee was on the couch that had no upholstery on the arms because of Al's obsessive-compulsive relationship with fabric. Renee didn't bounce up to kiss me, which was her somewhat over-exuberant way of greeting me since we'd been seeing each other. Some people found her affection a little nauseating but I didn't care. It was a nice ray of sunshine especially on days that were shit sandwiches.

  "Hey, what's goin on babe?" I said by way of greeting. Her usually flowing red hair was tied back in a bun and she looked pale without any makeup. Frankly, she looked rough.

  "Duff, we've got to talk," she said without looking at me. Now, I've been dating long enough to know "wanting to talk" wasn't a good sign.

  "About?"

  "I don't know. Something doesn't feel quite right" I felt that funny feeling in my throat and chest when something bad was about to happen.

  "Something with us?"

  "I don't know. I guess everything that has to do with one of us has to do with both us," she said and looked away. Philosophically, I think that made sense, but it didn't do anything to that feeling in my chest.

  "Hey, are you all right?" Rene looked at me for the first time. The look on her face was one part concern and a bunch of other parts anger.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You're wobbling."

  "I am not."

  "Did you get hurt boxing?"

  "No."

  "You did and now you're lying about it."

  "I got hit. That's not getting hurt."

  "Oh bullshit, Duffy. You know exactly what I mean." I got caught lying and I felt my face flush. The physical reaction to knowing I've done something wrong ran through me.

  "I can't believe you. We're supposed to be getting married and you're lying to me." She stood up and headed for the door.

  "Rene…"

  She kept right on going out the door.

  I followed behind her, but she ignored me.

  "Rene…"

  She started her car and pulled out with out looking at me. Almost on cue, Al came around the corner and looked me up and down. It was the basset hound equivalent of saying, 'Is the bitch gone?'

  I looked Al right in the eye.

  "Yeah, she's gone," I said.

  Al let out an audible fart.

  It really, really stunk.

  4

  I didn't much feel like sitting around in the stink thinking about what had gotten into Rene. With the gym not an option and no prospects for a date, my choices were scaled down a bit. Hell, they were more than scaled down; they were eliminated. It was time to go to AJ's.

  AJ's is the dive I hang out in. There are no ferns, no fake antique wall hangings, there are no cheery wait staff saying,

  "Hey guys, would you like to try a bloomin' onion?" Nothing close to that. There was AJ the third, who inherited the bar from his father, who had inherited it from his father. It wasn't rustic, it was old, and it smelled of gallons of flat beer and the flat patrons who had been drinking it for the last one hundred years. No one ever described AJ as cheerful, but he stocked Schlitz and that was all I needed.

  The ten-minute drive from the Blue got taken up with Elvis's gospel number, I Got Confidence, which considering how I felt, was pretty ironic. Just the same, AJ's and the boys were the electro convulsive jolt of insanity I needed.

  "It wasn't called 'Pig Bay'," Rocco explained.

  "Pig Bay? Isn't that the Internet site where you can get livestock supplies on auction?" TC said.

  "No, stupid. We're talking about Kennedy," Rocco said.

  "Let's not forget Marilyn Monroe. She had something to do with the Cubans," Jerry Number One said.

  "She was screwin' Kennedy and Sam Gandlefini," TC said.

  "Gandelfini is the guy on the Sopranos. He's too young to screw Marilyn Monroe," Jerry Number One said.

  "How old do you gotta be to screw?" Jerry Number Two said.

  "Boy, it was DiMaggio getting screwed," Rocco said.

  "Huh?" TC said.

  And so it went. Meet Rocco, TC, Jerry Number One, and Jerry Number Two, otherwise known as the Fearsome Foursome, AJ's brain trust. They were always here and always engaged in inane conversation. Usually it was just them, me and my cop friend, Kelley, and once in awhile my landlord, Dr. Rudy. AJ slid a Schlitz long neck in front of me before I opened my mouth. The TV was on Classic Sports with Bill Walton overenunciating about how he's still depressed about losing to Notre Dame. The Foursome moved on to current events.

  "Awful thing about that fire," TC said.

  "Yeah, don't forget about the box and the cans," Rocco said.

  "What the hell is it with every place having a box full of canned goods for soldiers? Are these guys really dying for oversalted canned meat?"

  "I don't think you have the right attitude Duffy. I was in the service and I loved a can of Spam once in a while. Took my mind off the battle," Rocco said.

  "That fire was college guys, wasn't it?" TC asked.

  "Yeah, college age guys at ROTC training-that's rough," Jerry Number One, said.

  "Did they know what caused it?" I asked.

  "Something about an electrical short or something like that, but some terrorist outfit has said they were responsible," Rocco said.

  "One of my clients who's a little on the paranoid side told me there would be a fire today. He's into all the government conspiracy crap. Iraq left him a little fucked up," I said.

  "You don't believe in government conspiracies, Duff?" Jerry Number Two said.

  "I don't know. I don't think about it much."

  "You think Oswald acted alone? You think we didn't know Pearl Harbor was about to happen? You probably think we landed on the moon," Jerry Number Two said, pausing to sip his Cosmopolitan for dramatic effect. Red stains from the Cosmo dotted his tie-dye.

  "I don't know, Jer. I'm just a guy with a headache, drinking Schlitz."

  "That's exactly what they want, you know," Jerry Number two said.

  I decided it was okay if I thought Neil Armstrong landed on the moon, at least for tonight. My head
started to throb a bit and the Schlitz seemed to be hurting more than helping. I didn't want to make the shift to light speed and start on the Jim Beam, so I thought I might cut my losses and head home early. Before I could get up, the talking head on the TV started interviewing some guy through a split screen set up. The guy's name was Dr. Theodore Martin and he headed up the team of crisis counselors dispatched to deal with the stress of the survivors on the campus. I paused for a moment when the guy mentioned something about how important it was to ventilate the emotions involved in a trauma as soon as possible. He went on about how debriefing was crucial to dealing with such an event. I had let the Schlitz help me debrief my own stressful day, and now it was important to get home and process some sleep. Before I could get away, the Foursome sucked me back in.

  "What's an engaged lover boy like you doing out in the middle of the week?" Rocco said.

  "Ah, no particular reason," I said.

  "Sounds like trouble in paradise to me," Jerry Number One said.

  "What's going on Duff, the wedding is off?" TC said.

  "No, no, no…" I said.

  "I never could see marriage," TC said. "I think the Mormons got it right."

  "They're the ones who started that college, right?" Jerry Number Two said.

  "Yeah, Oral Roberts," Rocco said.

  "That ain't it," TC said.

  "It is, too," Rocco said. "I think it has something to do with having more than one wife."

  "What does that mean?" Jerry Number One said.

  "You know, as long as you keep it Oral it's not cheating so you can have as many wives as you want. That's why he changed his name to Oral," Rocco said.

  "It's Brigham Young," Jerry Number Two said.

  "Yes, that was their motto. They encouraged it," Rocco said.

  "Encouraged what?" TC said.

  "Bring 'em young, bring 'em old-it doesn't matter. That's one horny religion. They wanted to make sure everyone knew to be, as they say, 'be like a fruit fly and multiply'," Rocco said. I decided to be like a fruit fly and fly right out of AJ's. It was a long day and it wasn't a good one, so it was time to cut my losses. My '76 El Dorado looked almost surreal under the amber streetlights across from AJ's, next to the cookie factory. The cookie factory's silos must've been making that red goo that goes in the center of those sugar cookies because it hung in the air like some sort of fructose, corn syrupy fog. The 8-track played It's Midnight, which it was heading for, and the king sang about knowing it was late and that's when he's weak. I think I understood just what he was talking about, because I just didn't feel right. My head hurt, I felt a little woozy, and something felt weird with Rene. She's entitled to a non-bubbly day and it seemed needy on my part to read a whole lot into it. Just the same, there are times your instincts tell you something is wrong and you just feel it. Of course, having a love-life track record comparable to the '63 Mets didn't help one's sense of security. Elvis was getting to the part about how things look brighter in the daylight when I saw a series of cop headlights up ahead, just outside Jefferson Park. Jefferson was Crawford's answer to New York's Central Park, and a poor answer indeed. It was by the area in the park with a stinky pond and a bunch of trees separating the bad part of the city from the less bad part of the city. At night it was the haven for teenage drinkers, the gay guys who rendezvoused with anonymous partners, and the everpresent drug dealers. Flashing lights outside the park were as common as they were on the Crawford city hall Christmas tree. My curiosity got the better of me and I pulled over to the curb to see what was going on. There was an ambulance, and the cops and the EMTs tried to subdue a guy who was getting out of control at the thought of getting strapped down to a gurney. In the small crowd of park regulars that had gathered, I spotted Froggy, a gay guy who's been on and off my caseload for years. We've done favors for each other over the years-not the kind that happen in the park-and even though he did very little of what I suggested to him therapeutically, he was a good man. I once helped stop some beating of the gay men in the park and Froggy never forgot.

  "Yo, Froggy," I yelled.

  He squinted through the flashing lights with a selfprotective sneer before recognizing me.

  "Mr. Duffy, how you been?" Froggy said. Froggy's blueblack complexion shined in the lights and his Caribbean accent set him off from the average Crawford citizen.

  "What the hell happened here?" I said.

  "Some crazy-as-shit street guy took a beating and it has sent him off. I mean O-F-F."

  "Anybody you know?"

  "Not one of my types. He be shoutin' at no one, carrying on about people out to get him, the military stealing his brain and what not…"

  I stepped away from Froggy without saying goodbye. I headed toward the commotion to get a closer look. Sure enough, the man they tried to subdue was Karl. He was bleeding from a couple of spots on the face and his clothes were torn and dirty. They had him on the gurney, but he still screamed something about the truth setting him free.

  "You getting rude, Mr. Duffy," Froggy said. It jogged me back.

  "Oh, sorry, Frog."

  "You know this gentleman?"

  "Yeah, a little bit," I said.

  5

  The blood gushed out of both eyes. It was thick and came out with the force of a fireman's hose. It hit me in the face and splashed in my own eyes, making it difficult to see. I felt a piercing in my side and then two of them were at my sides throwing punches at me. The whole time I couldn't do anything to defend myself even though my hands were free. The blood continued to splash on my face, the piercing kept entering my side, the two shapes whaled away at me, and I couldn't raise my guard. When my vision cleared I could see a teenage boy fifteen feet away crying for help. He's in pain, scared to death and he looks pathetic. He screams for me to help him and I can't move. Something awful is going to happen to him. Slow dribbles of blood start to run down the boy's face. When I look close I see the boy is me when I'm fifteen. The blood starts to run down his face harder, and the blood gushing from the eyes in front of me turns black. I look to my side; the sharpened steel point that is stabbing me in the side turns into a snake getting ready to bite. It's all happening at once and suddenly something wet and scratchy is dragged across my face…

  A piercing sound shakes through my head, my eyes open, and I'm in that weird place between sleep and awake. I see Al sitting on my chest staring at me.

  Fuck, the dreams were back.

  I went to the bathroom, thought I was going to get sick, and held it off. It was a shitty way to wake up and I had thought these things had gone away. Awhile back I got involved in some violent shit and though I didn't really think it bothered me much during the day, I'd get these really fucked up dreams at night. It made sleep unpleasant and something I think I unconsciously avoided, which ironically, made the nightmares more likely to happen. The self-prescribed medication in the white bottle with the brown label slowed them, but didn't prevent them. Stress brought them on, but I wasn't entirely sure what I was stressed about.

  Regardless, I was up and the day had started, so I made some coffee and tried to get normal. The headache had dulled, which was the only bright spot of the morning so far, that is, until Al started to object to the birds flying around outside The Blue. This offended him to his core and he wanted the sparrows to understand his objection. The sparrows seemed to take a special joy in pissing Al off and continued to flit around the window. Al balanced between the top of a set of shelves and the back of chair and in terms of equilibrium Al was no Alvin Ailey. One particular sparrow must've given Al the finger or the wing or something because Al growled and then let out this long baritone bay. The sparrows didn't like the baying and flew away, which brought Al back to barking. It also changed his body position abruptly and the chair tipped over sending him ass-overtea-kettle to the carpet. He did a quick body roll, righted himself, and did that tornado basset move to clear the accumulated slobber from his jowls. Then he lay down and started to snore. With Al's morning exercise re
gimen complete and the noise reduced to his wood sawing impersonation, I was able to call the hospital. It was only 7:45 a.m., but I wanted to find out about Karl.

  "Crawford Medical Center, How may I direct your call," The operator said. At first I was glad not to get an automated system with a menu longer than the Chinese take out place around the corner.

  "Yes, I'm calling about a patient. His name is-"

  "I'll transfer you to Family Services." The phone began to ring. And ring. And ring.

  "Family Services, Michele speaking, how may I direct your call?" The younger but, no more friendly, voice said.

  "I wanted to find out about a patient admitted-"

  "Hold on. I'll transfer you."

  I never had time to object.

  "Crawford Medical Center, how may I direct your call?" The first woman said.

  "I just spoke to you and you transferred me and now they transferred me back," I said.

  "How may I direct your call?" She said.

  "I just want to find out about a patient."

  "Hold on I'll transfer you," and she did before I could scream.

  I decided it would be best if I showed up there in person, which would make me late for work, but I could couch it in the fact I was visiting a client. The Michelin Woman would smirk about something, but I had become immune to her bitching at me.

  Besides, I always welcomed an excuse to go to the medical center, because it gave me a chance to visit Doctor Rudy. Rudy was my landlord, well, sort of my landlord. An uncle of his died and left him the Airstream trailer I now call home. Rudy had no use for it and gave it to me. I knew Rudy because he worked the fights for the state boxing commission and we kind of hit it off. He wasn't your typical country club doctor-he was a regular guy.

  At the hospital I stopped by Rudy's office before I went anywhere else. He had a small space in the office building adjacent to the hospital. When I came through his door, there he was like he always, hunched over his computer, next to a half eaten toasted coconut donut, and sweating. Rudy always sweated.