Like People in History

by Felice Picano

  Two cuts into the album, I thought, this is nuts: I was trembling with passion and unfulfilled lust. I sat up, turned over, and carefully began to unbutton the front of Cord's short-sleeved shirt.

  He didn't resist. Nor did he help me. He didn't even open his eyes.

  I began kissing his smooth-skinned, nearly hairless torso all over, nibbling lightly on his nipples, then sliding into his navel. His armpits were also nearly hairless, almost sweet with musk. I traveled down the single line of dark hair below his navel into his belt. When I looked up, his eyes were still closed, his lips moving in silent speech.

  Without lifting my mouth off him, slowly, so inexorably he would hardly be aware of it, I undid his buckle, then so quietly he'd barely notice, I snapped open the top metal button of his corduroy jeans, moving my mouth lower and lower as I gingerly unzipped him. Cord wore pristine white Jockey-type shorts of a brand I didn't know. I thought he was about to say something, to stop me in what I was doing, so I quickly began kissing the bulge in his underwear until it hardened and thickened. Seconds later, he was sidling, helping me pull down his pants. I never lifted my mouth until he was completely undressed.

  I covered his lower body with my own naked upper torso. Julian Gwynne had predicted a small cock, and he hadn't been far off. Cord's wasn't large, but like all of him it was smooth-skinned and very pretty, with its pale white shaft and sore-red tip; perfectly proportioned, appropriate, part of him. I sucked him off twice without stopping. Cord's only comment the entire time was during his first climax: he began to sit up, gently lifted my hair off my face so we could make eye contact, looked as if he were about to ask me something, then finally murmured "Oh!" somewhat surprised and fell flat back again.

  Physically I was satisfied: I'd come without touching myself. Psychically I was thrilled: I'd possessed Cord. We went to sleep quickly and deeply.

  That was a Friday night. As Saturday ensued, I began to discover that two codeine at a time wasn't enough. I needed three, then four—and more often than before. (Hadn't Grace Slick and Marty Balin warned they'd do nothing for me?) Eating anything, even yogurt, now seemed impossible. I kept checking the bathroom mirror every half hour or so, certain my face was swelling on one side. When I peered inside my mouth in the mirror, it looked raw, rubicund.

  I'd phoned the Dolomite Dentist at his Gramercy Park office twice and been told by his answering service he wasn't in but that my emergency message would be conveyed as soon as he checked in.

  That was noon. By six he hadn't checked in. I phoned Alistair.

  "I thought you knew where Arthur goes on weekends?" I asked.

  "I do! I do! If I can only find the information!... It's somewhere in New Jersey."

  "New Jersey!" It sounded as far as Nepal, Kamchatka, the Ross Ice Shelf.

  "Where Arthur is in New Jersey, it's very nice. The Montclair area. Quite horsey," Alistair said.

  "I'm feeling pretty horsey myself. Especially several teeth!"

  "Are you running a fever?" he asked.

  "Of course I am, Mother dear," 1 replied,

  "Well if the penicillin isn't doing the trick, Daughter dear, I suggest some sort of homemade poultice."

  But when he heard that I couldn't even take down directions to make one, Alistair promised to send over Kenny to make it for me.

  Cord had gone out sometime after breakfast. He hadn't returned by nightfall. That was okay by me since I very well knew by now that I was unfit company for anyone: my mood swung back and forth between total despair, the certainty I'd die of pain—now increasing geometrically—and a complete and, yes, a definitely homicidal rage at Arthur Dalmatian for not taking the tooth out last week and for going off and leaving me like this.

  Kenny the houseboy arrived with the poultice makings, but one look at me convinced him it was useless. Instead he dosed me with Nembutals out of his own private stash, stayed with me until I passed out, and let himself out.

  The following day was Sunday. I awoke in pain, still hung over from the Nembies, and from there I proceeded to stumble downhill. I did somehow manage, by sipping it very very slowly, nearly an eighth of a cup of tepid coffee made the previous day. I attempted to plump myself onto pillows on my sofa and to try to look at what I was certain was my last morning on earth. Two-and-a-half bars of birdsong outside my window made me itch to strangle the feathered villain, to obliterate the entire avian population. Someone idling his motor a block away toyed unknowingly with his own death at my hands. Music, light, speech, food—anything in the least bit resembling human activity or pleasure was naturally completely out of the question.

  Around two in the afternoon, Alistair called.

  "You sound terrible!"

  "You ought to see me," I managed to joke.

  "I found the address and the phone number and called. Arthur won't be into his office till Tuesday."

  I already knew that. "I'll be a mortality statistic by Tuesday."

  "Arthur has an office in Jersey. It's primitive, not as well equipped and..."

  "I can't wait. I'm going!"

  "...he won't have anyone to help him in surgery and..."

  "I'm going," I declared.

  Alistair bit the bullet. "I'll rent a car and driver and go with you."

  "You're a saint," I declared.

  I'd canonized him a bit prematurely. It required multiple phone calls and several hours for Alistair to come up with a car. By then it was late afternoon: new, shooting pains had begun, and indeed had already defined themselves into two distinct types—I called them Fire Engine Siren and Bolt from the Blue; neither were very pretty to watch.

  They'd begun to modulate and meld so adeptly—themes in some Satanic duet—as we reached the other side of the George Washington Bridge that Alistair had to let me lie down alone in the limo's backseat, while he moved up front next to the driver. In the back, according to Alistair, I loudly moaned and groaned all the way to semirural Montclair.

  I was far beyond caring what effect I made. Every bump the size of an atom in the asphalt not completely absorbed by the DeVille's shocks stilettoed me close to death. Once, when the car suddenly stopped to avoid hitting a child on a bike, I was thrown forward, smashed into the back of the front seat, and the dull, hard, sudden pain was such a sweet relief to me from the other sharper and more constant pain that I smiled, even cooed a bit, Alistair later told me, which badly frightened him and the driver.

  Soon after that I blacked out. I came to and was semiconscious, and quite delirious, by the time we reached Arthur's country place. I remember little of what happened next, except that they moved me into his office: a room almost entirely surrounded with little panes of windows, as though it were a converted back porch, and he sat me in what looked like an ancient barber's chair. I also recall Arthur filling what looked like the largest needle in the world with a milky white fluid. At the time it made little difference what it might be since I glided in and out of consciousness throughout the procedure.

  It was semi-dark when I awakened. I was lying upon an enormous, high-backed, tufted leather chesterfield in what looked to be Arthur's study or den. As I rolled over, I heard voices in an adjoining room. Heard them without spears of pain, I noted, and was even able to make out Arthur's and Alistair's voices, although they were keeping it down, doubtless for my sake. I was still groggy, but I could sit up. Only then did I notice that my mouth was packed full on the inside, my head entirely wrapped in a cloth containing an ice pack. The relief was so sudden, so complete, I began to weep.

  "There he is!" It was Alistair and Arthur. "You're not still in pain?"

  "Ahhm mgcch bbbttrr," I said and shook my head emphatically no to his question.

  Arthur untied the head wrapping and touched my face, saying the swelling had already gone down a great deal. He looked inside, removed about a half ton of gauze he'd put in there, declared himself satisfied, and stuffed it all back in. He told me I'd slept three hours. "It's the morphine I gave you."

  "Mrrffnn
?"

  "A strong derivative. That's all I had here. I don't as a rule use this office. Only in emergencies."

  "Thhhnnks, Rrrthrrr." I managed to convey my gratitude.

  He told me the wisdom tooth had moved faster than he'd dreamed it would, in effect pushing the back molar pretty far toward the jawbone. The shooting pains I'd felt were actual nerve tissue touching bone tissue. He'd removed the wisdom tooth and cauterized any nerve endings he'd seen. He told me I had a hole in my mouth big enough to put my thumb tip inside. I was to go to bed and stay in bed for the next three days.

  "Mmmpssblll!" I declared. "Ssslcctw ssrrwsss mmmrra mmmng!"

  "He's saying he's got to go down to the Selective Service tomorrow morning for his physical," Alistair explained. "He's got to go. They hunt you down if you don't make an appearance. It's when? Seven-thirty?" he asked me.

  "He's not in any condition to take a physical!" Arthur said. "Besides which, a blood test would show up all the morphine in his body. I'll write a note excusing him until he's better."

  While Arthur was in his office, Alistair explained that if I wanted, he'd go to Rector Street with me the following morning, have someone look at Arthur's letter, and get me home again.

  "There! I wrote it on my NYU stationery," Arthur said, handing me the letter. "I've got a position there! That should add a bit of prestige!"

  I still couldn't focus, so he read it aloud. It said that I'd had major oral surgery and lost blood, and was still under medication. I should not be out of bed for the next few days. Arthur could be reached at any of three phone numbers to confirm this, although any dental surgeon looking into my mouth would see how badly off I was. He stressed at the beginning and ending of the letter that I was under his care and should at all times be treated like a patient recovering from surgery.

  "Hand them this as you go in," Arthur instructed. "Find a seat and wait for them to give you another date."

  I thanked Arthur again, even though I knew it meant putting off the Army physical to another time. Alistair led me to the car, and I snoozed all the way home. He had to half carry me into my apartment and put me to bed. The next morning at 7 A.M., to my amazement, Alistair was there again to get me dressed and to help me out of the apartment and down to Rector Street.

  The way I figured it, we'd go in and be out again in a few minutes. A half hour at the latest.

  I couldn't have been more wrong.

  First, they wouldn't let Alistair past the front door. I suppose they'd had assaults or threats of demonstrations from activists: they only let in people holding "Greetings" slips in their hands.

  Alistair carefully explained to the MP at the door that I'd had oral surgery and had a letter from my doctor. The MP moved his head in a manner that certainly indicated comprehension, but he didn't reply until Alistair again demanded entry, at which the MP said, "I'll take care of 'im!"

  His way of taking care of me was to walk me in and promptly leave me alone. I found myself standing in a huge empty place with signs and arrows everywhere on the floors and walls. Among, I should add, scores of other young guys also holding "Greetings" slips—although without my added envelope—all of whom seemed as in the dark about what to do as I was.

  In the distance, at one high, closed-in desk window, someone took hold of our "Greetings" slips, found our names, and handed us back manila envelopes to hold our medical files. We were told to go to Number One.

  Speaking a bit better, despite the mass of gauze in my mouth, I said, "I've got a doctor's note."

  "Show it at Number One," the soldier behind the high desk said.

  Number One turned out to be merely secretarial: a desk where one could correct any incorrect data already written on one's folder.

  "I've got a doctor's note," I said.

  "Show it at Number Two," I was told.

  Number Two was for those who questioned their current draft status.

  "I've got a doctor's note," I said, showing the envelope.

  "Show it at Number Three," I was told.

  Number Three was in another section of the building, down a long corridor with arrows on the floor enclosing bold red threes and pointing ahead. A long line of guys waited ahead of me. I looked in vain for a chair.

  When, at last, it was my turn, I saw that we were at the eye test. "I've got a doctor's note," I said, and thrust the envelope at the medical-looking person.

  "What's it for?"

  "Oral surgery. Last night. Here." I kept trying to give it to him, but he kept backing off. "Take it!" I insisted.

  "Eye surgery?" he asked.

  "Oral surgery!" I said, opening my mouth and showing it packed and bloody.

  "This is for eyes. You have surgery on your eyes?" "Of course not. In my mouth..."

  "Then you can take the eye test."

  Which I took.

  "I'm supposed to be home, in bed. I just had surgery last night," I explained, as he marked my sight results on my file and handed it to me. "Where do I get this looked at?"

  "Try Number Four."

  Number Four, on the opposite side of the building, through another series of long, well-marked corridors, turned out to be hearing tests. Naturally, I found no chair, but another long line, and once again I was forced to stand and wait and take the test and from there was sent on to Number Five.

  At about Number Seven, a floor up and halfway around the block, I finally arrived at blood tests. Once again I, my protests, and my envelope were completely ignored, as another medico took my blood pressure, then frowned.

  "You got arrhythmia?"

  "I had oral surgery last night. I'm supposed to be in bed," I tried explaining once again. "Here. It's in this doctor's note."

  "How long have you had a heart condition?" he asked.

  Once again I attempted to explain. But he merely untied the rubber from around one arm and put it around the other one, and tried testing again.

  "You sure you don't know anything about a heart condition?"

  "I had oral surgery last night," I explained. "I lost blood. Wouldn't that explain why your blood pressure test shows me close to death?"

  He shrugged and marked down some numbers on my file.

  At Number Eight, down in the basement, a city block away from Number Seven, I was supposed to give a half pint of blood. By now it was 11:30 A.M. I'd not eaten or drunk anything since yesterday morning's eighth of a cup of coffee. I'd been on my feet all morning without once sitting down. I'd been shunted around from one place to another, totaling about five miles. I was deeply fatigued, and there wasn't even a wall to lean against! I was waiting along with others on a long line defined by a waist-high, fragile-looking, wooden railing that twisted rectangularly around and around through a huge, otherwise bare room, when someone came up to me and asked me to roll up my other sleeve to get ready to have blood taken out.

  "I can't," I explained. "I lost blood last night during my oral surgery." I attempted to thrust my letter at him. He too ignored it.

  "Why can't you give blood?" he asked. "Religious reasons?"

  "I just told you." I once more tried to hand over the letter.

  "Then you don't refuse for religious reasons?"

  "It doesn't matter," I said. "My blood is fall of morphine."

  "You're a morphine addict?" he asked.

  I figured this might get me to a doctor who'd actually read my letter.

  "My blood is full of morphine," I said.

  "How long have you been a morphine addict?" he asked.

  "Years," I said, still expecting to be taken somewhere. "Since birth."

  He merely marked my file, gave it back, and moved on to the next person.

  At the head of the line, I attempted once more to hand over my letter, and to explain. Again it did no good. When I resisted having any blood taken, two MPs were called over and they held me down while blood was taken out of my arm. I was so weak I offered only token resistance.

  "There! That wasn't so scary, was it?" the doctor said, w
hen he'd gotten his half pint of blood out of my arm. "You can get up now."

  I sat up and felt distinctly odd.

  "I don't know why you'd want to go around saying you're a morphine addict," he continued as I tried to get to my feet. "Anyway, that type of thing can be checked out, you know."

  He covered my newest wound with a swab of alcohol and a lozenge of gauze. My elbow was bent back, my file was shoved under my other arm, and I was shoved out beyond the curtain, to walk the maze past those coming in to get their blood taken.

  After six steps, the wooden railings seemed to lean in together, then move out again. I thought that a bit odd. After another few steps, I could see guys looking at me carefully, as though they knew me; Strange, I didn't know any of them. Another few steps and the walls seemed to angle in bizarrely and turn into yellow-and-black checkerboard patterns, which twisted around so curiously I began to lose my sense of balance. They crashed together, intermeshing, yellow into black.... I was still tightly gripping Arthur's letter, using it to prop me up... and a great cheer went up as I hit the floor and blacked out.

  Alistair was there when I woke up. He was dressed in his best suit and tie and wearing horn-rimmed glasses, and he was talking in a tight little voice to a variety of military doctors who sat across from him looking red-faced and distinctly uncomfortable. Other men were coming and going rapidly from the room: I was lying on a cot, a rough wool blanket tightly wrapped around the mattress, a male nurse in uniform at my side.

  "...any long-term effects, naturally, we plan to seek considerable damages, both from those individuals involved, and the board itself...," I heard Alistair saying, and I thought, He's got it well in hand whatever it is. I went to sleep again.

  When I awakened, I heard someone protesting, "We can't possibly have an ambulance come to the doors."

  "He'll not remain here for your malpractice another minute," Alistair said tightly. "I demand an ambulance."

  Phone calls had to be made. Meanwhile he came over to the bed, smiled down at me, said everything would be all right, and explained that once I'd collapsed, Arthur's letter was found gripped in my hand, still unopened and unread, and the entire board staff panicked. They'd phoned Arthur, who'd phoned Alistair, as my next of kin.