by A.R. Rivera
There are very few things in life that can be counted on. Girls will always disappoint, friends will betray, strangers will never care, and bosses will dismiss. On top of these there is the ever-faithful death and taxes. But for me, there’s one thing that I count on more than any other and have neglected to realize in these last few conscious hours. It’s just as sure as death and occurs as often as a governing body demands their taxes. It is my subconscious need to destroy every plan I make or create for myself.
The severity of these lapses never strikes me right away. It’s only when I find myself looking at the aftermath that I realize what I’ve forced myself into. Like that lady who paints herself into a corner.
There’s something about the clarity of semi-consciousness. It is here, on the verge of sleep, at the very edge of cognizant thought, that I realize what a marvelous shithead I am.
Rest grows to rigidity while I weigh my options. I can choose to stay here and get questioned by the police while using a false name, risk discovery—is that what they call obstruction of justice?—and probably be charged for trying to skip out on the hospital bill.
Or I can remove myself from the situation.
It’s really not a hard choice.
I sit up slowly, mindful not to make myself dizzy again. Carefully crawling from bed, I take my good friend, IV Pole, for a short stroll. The cold from the floor seeps through my standard issue hospital socks as we peek out the half-open door. All I see is a white hall, lined with wooden doors. There are a few people, visitors from the looks of them, making their way around the ward.
Warily rolling down the hall, I head towards a wider area of tile ahead—evidence of upcoming corners—and peek around the angled wall to view the raised work surface of the nurse’s station. Behind the pale colored counters are several women. Some are socializing and others are picking at a basket of muffins set on the low edge of what looks like someone’s desk. Near the basket stands Chelsea. I can tell by the way one hand is raised that she’s on the phone. In the other, she’s holding a business card, staring at it through a pair of glasses set low on her nose.
“. . . Please tell Officer Markham that the patient he inquired about is lucid and considered fit for questioning by Doctor Shepard. His name is Jonas Wakefield. The room is seven-three-one.” Pause. “Yes, until four p.m.” Pause. “No, not on anything with regard to the incident.”
Well. There is now only one road to take and it leads straight back to my apartment.
There’s no time to shower, which is too bad because I could really use one. I retrieve my bag from under the bed and head to the bathroom to wipe down the important stuff. When I switch on the light, the image before me is shocking. For the smallest moment, it appears as though someone’s using my private restroom. I’m about ready to apologize for the intrusion when I realize, the stranger is me. My reflection in the mirror above the sink. It disturbs, captivates, and appalls all at once.
I raise a hand, wanting to touch the glass to make sure it’s real. It’s unsettling, looking in the mirror expecting one thing and finding another. I look awful—my clear complexion’s gone, replaced by chapped red cheeks and hundreds of red, freckle-like dots reaching across my scraped nose and under my irritated eyes, the whites of which are noticeably marked with bright red lines. If I didn’t know better I’d think I was really, really high. The tops of my ears look scaly. My chin is scraped. There’s a bandage I didn’t know was there, strapped to the back of my head. The only thing about me that looks normal is the front of my hair. Still a little too long and brown.
Some moments about the wreck are clear while others stay veiled by the fog on my brain that can’t seem to lift. It obscures the finer details. I recall the events leading up to the crash—why I was on the bus and where I was going—but beyond that, it’s as if the film in my minds projector has broken and only gives partial images between bits of black.
There’s not enough time for a thorough exam. I’ve got to get out of here and the horror-show reflection is too much to deal with right now. So, I scrub what I can and try not to irritate the IV in my hand.
My most immediate worry is the foamy, pink puddle forming in the sink as I brush my teeth. I look to my reflection, ignoring the parts I don’t care for, and open my mouth to search for a source. Maybe I scraped my gums or bit my cheek and don’t remember. I’ve always taken excellent care of my teeth and I don’t see anything wrong with them. There’s nothing marking the insides my cheeks, but my gums are swollen and gingivitis red. Nothing can be done about it right now, except watering down the mouthwash to avoid the burn.
It still stings.
After I’m half-dressed, I examine my hand, looking at the clear tubes and tape attached to the rolling metal pole. There is no avoiding this one. My old pal, IV, has to go. Gently as I can manage, I peel the tape from my hand. Still, it feels like it’s taking a layer of skin with it. The needle rolls with my vein as I tug. Checking over the tube connected to the IV bag I shudder, considering what has to happen next. I can’t put my shirt on until it’s disconnected and I can’t leave without a shirt. I’ve never been one to faint at the sight of blood but don’t find incidents of self-mutilation particularly fun, either. So, when I see a pellet of smelling salts taped to the wall just above the mounted toilet paper, I yank it down, just in case. Outside the bathroom, I rummage through the drawers near the doctors’ sink. There I find giant cotton swabs, a roll of tape, and a dozen or so sheets of gauze.
No amount of mental preparation can help at this point. I take a deep breath and hold it. With my sore arm, I reach and give one, quick jerk. The needle comes straight out. But the gaping hole it’s left in my vein stays wide open.
I’m frozen for a fraction of a second—watching my blood dribble onto the floor—then apply pressure with the hospital gown. The next part really is a two person job. And for a moment I’m stuck. I make my way back to the bathroom sink, being careful not to step in the bits of red and press the back of my hand against the mirror as hard as I can and awkwardly try to get the tape and mound of gauze ready to apply. I should’ve thought further ahead.
It takes longer than I want it to. I’m a little unsteady from the sight of the cavernous hole in my hand and my fingers on the left hand are not cooperating. Cursing myself for the slow pace, I feel like a turtle trying to swim through a pool of peanut butter, as my dad would say.
I’m sure the lack of speed will cost me.
Setting on the edge of the bed to rest, I try to avoid seeing the blood puddles while making sure I have everything I came in with. When I check the clock, surprise overrules my irritation. It’s only been five minutes since I got back to the room.
My flu symptoms make a reprisal. I choose to ignore them, pressing on toward my goal of making a clean get away. One last look in the mirror over the doctors sink and I decide the head bandage has to go. But I can’t see the back of my head to survey the wound—it feels like only one or two stitches—I opt for keeping the bandage and wearing a hat.
A file sits inside the bin on the outside of my door. There’s a certain amount of humor in seeing my alias printed on it. I stuff it into my backpack and walk out the opposite direction of the nurses’ station as soon as the coast is clear.
I wonder who else made it through the wreck—hopefully someone who remembers it. From my vantage point, I saw nothing but the truck. Hopefully, the traffic cameras answer the other questions. Even if I knew something, I have no intention of opening up.
If I stayed for the inquisition, I’d have to tell them my real name and that means the hospital staff would know it. I’m not sure if it’s considered fraud since, technically, the nurse gave them my fake name, but no way am I sticking around to find out—not with the streak of shit-luck I’ve been having.
This really is the best way to handle the situation. Truly, it’s nothing more than finding a way out of a bill I can’t afford to pay. And why should I stay? It will only drive up the price
of the debt. So, really, I’m doing the hospital a favor by leaving. Besides, they can write off the expense at the end of the year.
The ward they have me stowed in is shaped like a rectangle with only one exit directly in front of the nurses’ station. This is an obvious safety hazard, and a serious monkey wrench. I think my clothes are inconspicuous enough, but I’m not sure how many staff members might recognize me. After some internal debate, I determine the worst thing to do is wait around to be discovered and decide that as long as Chelsea is not at the nurses’ station, I’ll walk right by. No problem. Preparing for final departure, my headphones go on. My iPod battery is still dead but, should anyone call out to me I can pretend not to hear.
I make my way from the hall, slowly approaching a cluster of nurses. There are fewer now than before. Encouraged, I charge ahead with the baseball cap pulled way down. The hospital bracelet, which somehow managed to go unnoticed up to this point, screams at me. I tuck my hand deep into my pocket. In a moment of unexplained bravery—or stupidity—I grab a muffin from the basket on the counter as I pass.
The exit looms closer. My pace quickens. I get to the double wide electric doors, step on the mat, and wait. Nothing. On the wall is a giant square button with a blue wheelchair printed on it. I press the shape and the doors open in precise, jerking increments. In three steps, I’m outside the ward and chest to chest with a police officer.
“Where’s the fire?”
“Sorry,” Ah, my tongue is dry, “I am . . . late for work.” My eyes are down and away.
“Watch where you’re going next time. This is a hospital.”
“Absolutely, Officer,” as I step aside, the light catches on his shield. The name below the badge number reads ‘Markham.’
The weather is sunny but not hot. The unfiltered sunlight burns my sensitive eyes. Now that I am officially liberated, I can think about transportation. There’s no way I am taking a bus, so I walk around the outside of the building near the emergency entrance remembering that I once saw a taxi around there. I think. There are cars all over the lot, one is yellow, but it’s not a cab. There has to be an internet café nearby. I need coffee and a taxi.
The first few places don’t have anything. Most of the people give me funny looks, like I’m crazy or something. One woman acts like she can’t understand what I’m saying, though I repeat the question a half-dozen times.
“You know, Wi-Fi? Wireless internet access?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“If you don’t want to help, all you have to do is say so!”
I’m in the middle of a one of the largest cities in southern California and there isn’t a hot spot or Starbucks in sight? Not that I can see much of anything with my eyes constantly watering. I can’t remember what happened to my sunglasses.
Finally, I settle on an older retro-type restaurant because I’m exhausted and it’s the nearest doorway that promises a place to sit. When my eyes adjust to the dim foyer, I can tell from the looks of the place that they probably don’t have internet. The empty hostess station at the front has a rotary phone.
I’m trapped in the Stone Age!
My head is pounding, eyes are aching, and my shoulder burns with each step. The sign up front says ‘Seat Yourself,’ so I do, nearly stumbling into a padded booth in the back corner. The inside is mostly brown. Dark wooden tables and carpet, the walls are paneled with wallpaper that looks like old newspaper clippings. It reminds me of a place I used to go to with my dad before it became a Friday’s, then went out of business last year. I rest my head on the cool tabletop, struggling to keep my eyes open.
A waiter appears and asks if I’m waiting for anyone. I answer with a negative and he offers me a smaller table. I refuse and order a regular coffee since they do not have espresso and ask whether there are any working payphones in the area.
“Sure, located in the back near the restrooms.”
“Does it work?”
“It did a few minutes ago.”
“Is there a phone book?”
“Yes,” he answers, giving an exaggerated nod, like I’m slow.
He won’t be getting a tip.
After I finish my first cup of coffee, I order a refill, since it’s free, and walk towards the dark hall near the restrooms. To my astonishment, the payphone is practically brand new. No graffiti or anything. There’s a large vending machine next to it. All I want is coffee and peanut M&Ms.
“Snap!”
As I’m about to drop in a few quarters, I notice the machine doesn’t sell candy. Weren’t cigarette machines outlawed in the eighties? I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid. I dig deeper in my pocket trying to find enough quarters since it doesn’t take paper. I’m shocked once again by the low, low price; only two dollars. They must not be charging the fifty cent tax per pack. I’m coming here for my cigarettes from now on. I have just enough change for one pack and a phone call to the nearest cab company.
When I get back to the table, the check has been left for me. I guzzle enough caffeine in the next fifteen minutes to see me through the drive home, then leave the money on the table, hit the head, and go outside for a well deserved, much anticipated smoke while waiting for my yellow chariot to arrive.
Dusk moves in. It’s been a very long day and I cannot wait to see it end. I want to be on my own lumpy futon bed in my own crappy apartment. Before long the taxi pulls up. I give my address to the driver, asking that, since it is on the way, we swing by Abi’s place so I can get a look at my car. I just have to make sure it hasn’t been broken into or towed away.
“What’s the name of the street?” The driver says.
“15937 Palm Court.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Punch the address into your GPS.” I say.
“What’s a GPS?” he turns to look at me.
What is with everyone today?
Frustrated, I offer directions. I’ve never heard of a cab without a navigation system. Once he has them down, I lean my head back. It’s still hurting but not as much. There was a vending machine inside the restroom that sold pain reliever, I got change for a dollar from the waiter and bought a couple packets. Seems they’re kicking in.
I wake up to the sound of a coarse voice and look out the window. Nothing looks familiar.
“Where are we?”
“15397 Palm,”
“No, this is wrong.” I repeat the address and ask him to take me a little further down the road. “It will only take a minute.” I assure.
The neighborhood looks . . . weird. The houses are the same, mostly, but the landscapes look different. Maybe the city finally came out to trim the trees. It’s hard to tell in the evening light. When the car stops, the first thing I notice is the street light’s fixed and my car is not where I left it. Not near the curb or on her driveway.
How could she do this? My whole life is in that car!
I look to the meter and am pleased to find the expense is less than eight dollars—not pleased enough to distract me, but enough to momentarily appreciate the economic value.
“Keep the change,” I mutter, tossing a crisp new ten at the cabbie.
Walking up the driveway, all I can think about are the threats I’m going to make. If this woman thinks she can do whatever she wants just because we broke up . . . What is her problem anyway? I almost died and she towed my car? I can hardly believe that my sweet Abi could ever be so insensitive. It is uncharacteristic. It has to be in her garage. It has to be.
“Hey, I can’t take this!”
I scale the small set of steps in one bound and knock on her door. Shushing interjections sound from inside.
“Hey! Mister, I can’t take this!”
I knock, again, louder. “I can hear you in there—I know you’re home!”
Abi doesn’t open the door, but it does open. Standing on the threshold is a man about my age, maybe younger, w
earing small basketball shorts and matching sleeveless shirt. The blow to my ego is substantial, but I won’t acknowledge it.
“Go get Abi.”
“Who?” His brow pulls together with such genuine confusion I actually have to take a step back to double-check the address. My hopes are quickly shattered.
“Mister, I told you I can’t take your Monopoly money. If you don’t pay me right now I’m calling the cops.” The taxi driver is beside me shaking a fist in my face.
“I paid you.” The guy won’t listen so I give a shove to his chest. The ache in my shoulder and arm start to burn again.
Turning back to Abi’s door I hear the driver walking off, grumbling. “Look, I don’t care if you two are dating; I just need to know what she did with my car.”
“Dude, you have the wrong house.” He steps back and starts to close the door.
I thrust my foot over the threshold. “Abi! Where’s my car?”
“Get your foot out of my doorway.” His eyes burn fierce. I’ve hit a nerve.
“I’m not leaving until I talk to Abi.”
He looks away and yells, “Jamie, call the police.”
I push my way through the half-open door and stop. The walls that should be plain white are covered with flowery wallpaper. Pictures of people I’ve never seen before, save the man who answered the door, are hanging everywhere.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know what’s happening, I can see it. But the weird I’m faced with in this moment has me knocked off balance. I can’t get out in front of what’s happening to objectively look and deal with what comes next. All I feel is a quick pointed pressure and wind at my back. Then, it’s too late to react.
A heavy thrust has knocked me out the front door, off the small porch, and onto the grass. My back breaks my fall. While I struggle to inhale, the pain in my head starts up again.
I must have the wrong house, but how can that be? Have I been wrong about her address all this time?
A tall man leans over me, his face obscured by the night. “You alright? I didn’t want to shove you that hard, but you were scaring my daughter.” I try to get up. “No, no, you stay down. You don’t look so good.”
Before long, there’s a bright flashing light and I’m being shoved, prodded, searched, and cuffed—mercifully, the arresting officer lets me keep my hands in front. I guess they figure anyone who looks as bad me can’t be much of a threat—then, stuffed into the caged back seat of a police car.
Crazy Pills
