The Dewey Decimal System

by Nathan Larson

  Prior to the pain eclipsing everything else, I’m thinking she’s got fantastically steady hands. And although she owes me a pair of slacks, I’m thinking I don’t intend on holding this incident against her.

  I’m looking at that map tattoo on the back of my eyelids. I faintly note external movement, a repetitive sound not unlike the wings of a bird in flight, but this is not important.

  The MTA, as it happens, has not one but two stops it calls Gun Hill Road. Both are a snap to get to but I’m talking about the station serviced by probably (some might argue this point) the most reliable train line in the city, the 5 express; because it lets you out right there, the place I go now.

  I imagine myself exiting the train, taking the stairs two at a time. I’m out on the street, but pressed somehow, agitated: Go, go, go.

  If I walked just a bit south, I would in time get to the Botanical Garden. In the past I’ve found solace in the garden. But I can’t go there now. I’ve got somewhere else to be, something specific to verify.

  I head west, toward Woodlawn Cemetery.

  The DA is pissed off. NB, even when he’s not pissed off he talks too loud, no sense of decorum; what’s that condition called? A kind of socially insensitive behavior. What’s it called? Sounds like: ass-burgers.

  Regardless, I’m compelled to hold the walkie-talkie thingy away from my head whilst Rosenblatt spouts and spiels.

  “… any idea how much a kneecap? That kind of technology? Costs the goddamn taxpayer?”

  People pay taxes? Quel retro.

  I’m laid up in the new VA Medical Center, formerly Mount Sinai, on Madison and 98th Street. Uncomfortable as hell, not because of any pain, I’ve got an oldlooking bag of morphine drip-dropping such bodily concerns away …No, it’s the fact that I’m in a military medical facility and I’ll confess, it’s nerve-wracking. Don’t like the morphine clouding everything up.

  Military hospital.

  The last time they had me up in one of these houses of horror I underwent a lot of bad shit, said bad shit causing me huge memory gaps, possible false-memory implants, as well as (I suspect) some sort of physical tracking device, installed deep, near a vital organ I would imagine, as to be undetectable.

  I’m aware how this sounds, but I feel it. Back to it: “People still pay taxes?” I talk into the bottom of the thing.

  “Very fucking funny. Citizens still pay taxes, Decimal. Unlike off-the-grid nonpersons, such as yourself.”

  That rankles. “I don’t appreciate … I am not a nonperson.”

  “Course you are. You don’t exist. Officially. Appear in no public record. I like you that way, Decimal. YOU like you that way. Makes you employable, more interesting. You once told me you like that, make up your goddamn mind.”

  “I prefer to think of myself an individual who keeps a low profile.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, it’s going to be tough, keeping a low profile. Should you have to go through any metal detectors. With that new knee of yours. Six million–dollar man. Cue you: this is where you say, thank you, sir.”

  Six million dollars? What’s that all about? Say, “Thank you, Dan.”

  “Thank you, SIR.”

  “Thank you, Sir Dan.”

  “The fuck? I medevac you? Out of some outhouse in frigging Queens? Helicopters and the whole nine? Talk about fucking inconvenience. Lucky I think on my feet. Otherwise: questions. Questions we don’t want asked, see? Decimal, you are the massive fuck-up here. Not me.”

  “Sir, if you’ll allow—”

  “No, I won’t. We don’t do families. Not classy. Are you classy?”

  “I’m nothing if not classy, sir.”

  “So I had thought. So I had THOUGHT. You dress well. For a freakin vagrant. Kids? Women? No fly. Nyet, nein, nope, no way, never. We do mano a mano. Or not at all. Do you think I’m talking out of my ass?”

  Sure I do, but say: “No sir. Perhaps I misread the finer points of the assignment, as the file contained photos and information that included an address, family—”

  “No, no, no. I should take you off this. Right away. But I like you. There’s trust here. It’s a chemistry thing. Maybe I’m losing it. Going soft.”

  “Sir, the direct approach, it’s a difficult prospect, as the subject strikes me as an intelligent and well-trained—”

  “Your observations. On character, are noted. But I do not give a shit. Two things: you stay on this job. Wrap it up. One. Two: you do not approach Miss Balodis under any circumstances.”

  I frown at this. Who? Oh right, that’s the maiden name … “Shapsko.”

  “Yeah, right, that’s right. Miss Shapsko, the wife, her, any kids. I’m issuing a restraining order. Got it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Maybe it’s the dope making things cloudy, but something seems strange about the mention of this woman’s unmarried name. But I can’t trace this, much less complete a thought.

  “Decimal?”

  “Yeah, still here.”

  “Okay. So the job is the same. It’s the man of the house you want. Now. When you’re up and running again. Counting on you. Nobody else appropriate for this thing.”

  “Understood.” Another thought. “Sir, not to offend, but I get the sense that you might have seen the need to put a tail on me.”

  “Oh? One: I’m insulted. And B: what would lead you to this fucking conclusion?”

  “Found me awful quick. You know, out in Queens.”

  The D.A. sniffs. “Yours, Decimal, is not to fucking question your superiors. Your guardian fucking angels. I won’t be insulted by a shitbird like you. Clear?”

  “Crystalline.”

  “This a secure line?”

  I have a look over at the doctor or nurse or whatever he is, Asian guy, upon whose walkie I’m speaking.

  Dude makes like he’s studying a chart, as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever laid peepers on. I’ve been holding the device a foot from my head, there’s no way he hasn’t heard everything.

  “Yup,” I tell the DA. The doctor glances my way, I toss him a wink.

  “Good. Good. Just do like you like to do best and keep that low profile low.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Roger who?”

  “Always wanted to say that on a CB.”

  “Decimal: heal the fuck up, get this thing done, no muss no fuss, and then fuck back off to your books.”

  DA terminates the call. I hand the device back to the doc.

  “That was my boss.”

  The doc, like I said an Asian kid, Korean or something, sticks out his lower lip. “Not my concern.”

  I’m getting sleepy, things slowing down. “Doc, am I going to make it? Give it to me straight.” Voice it like last-stages-of-throat-cancer, don’t know why. Gallows humor.

  The guy looks at me askance, like I’m an idiot. Thought he’d appreciate it, oh well.

  “You’ve had knee replacement surgery. You’re fine. But I would think upwards of six months’ physical therapy …”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Doc offers me a tight expression, something in the strained-smile family. “It’s not optional. You want to walk upright again?”

  I shrug. Major correction: morphine is nice. “Tell me all about my new knee, doc.”

  “State of the art. Ceramic and titanium.”

  That’s way rich. I laugh at that.

  “What aspect of this is funny?” The doc is blinking his eyes rapidly. Seems annoyed.

  “Titanium … My boss, he’s got this pen … it’s a goddamn pen, mind you, see, so … man always waving it around …” I get that far and forget why it was funny.

  “You should be taking this very seriously,” says the doc. “You’re aware that you were given priority, placed directly at the head of the line. We’re completely understaffed, and have more cases than we can handle as it is.”

  Touchy.

  “Additionally, I don’t like doing procedures on somebody without a complete set of rec
ords. It’s dangerous. I’m aware there’s a political dimension to all this; frankly, though, I grow weary of this secretive stuff. Creates an uncomfortably large margin for error, and isn’t fair to other patients who might be forced to wait while you types get treated. Please express this to your employer, if you would.”

  Prickly.

  “And if that’s the same Daniel Rosenblatt who brought so many lawsuits against this facility in the past, please let him know that he’s responsible for the firing of at least two good physicians, known personally to me. The man used to stand down in the lobby, handing out his card. Unbelievable.”

  Am I my brother’s keeper? “Gosh, doc,” I say. “Well, can’t speak to that, but let me at least say thanks.”

  The doctor mumbles something. Cranky guy.

  I say, “Also, if you’ve got a moment and I’m not pushing my luck, I could use a couple aspirin. For my PTSD. Maybe we could cuddle too. Give me a safe space to cry it out.”

  Doc rolls his eyes and shoves off. Godspeed, doc.

  He’s all right, that fellow, despite the hair up his ass. I appreciate everything he’s done for me, really I do.

  Not 100 percent on what that is, but if the DA is to be believed, it was expensive.

  I’m in a private room. Deluxe, like. I lie still, listening to hushed conversations outside, full-throated screaming from some point beyond that.

  I’m in a military hospital.

  Military hospital equals fear and loss, no control, factors unknown but certainly nothing good. Fuzzy details, but the fear is there.

  Designer viruses, spores, airborne bio-nano weaponry. Probes, man.

  I gotta pee. Thinking about probes will do that.

  I ease the IV out of the vein in my hand. Haul myself up and almost nosedive into the floor. It’s like having one leg. I do some painful hopping.

  Note my belongings, clothing, check the pants for the key, okay, laminate, plus, amazingly, my gun (you should have seen me back in Queens before I passed out, doused in blood, right knee decimated, probably in shock, dislocating my arm to retrieve the pistol from under that evil-ass “entertainment center”), all of it in a clear plastic sack, hanging off a peg in a cubbyhole.

  A box of surgical gloves. Could it be Christmas?

  Note the PurellTM dispenser on the wall; you have to love that. Want one for the library.

  I’m ready to hit the dispenser, ready to cleanse. And then I’m ready to bounce.

  My first mistake was stealing a wheelchair as opposed to a crutch or something, more or less broadcasting my defenselessness to all and sundry.

  Not to mention the freaking monster of a hill around 96th Street. I’m vibing Special Olympics, with a strong emphasis on the “special.”

  My second and far more serious mistake, but related to the first, was reckoning I’d take Fifth Avenue all the way down to the library.

  Fifth Avenue, of course, borders the park. Park entrances are festooned with yellow police tape. Crosstown motorways are blockaded with piles of rock, log, and garbage.

  Within lies who knows what kind of darkness.

  And here’s me, grunting and straining, surgical mask and hat, in a goddamn wheelchair, half-stoned on the dope, essentially announcing “easy target” to anything that might emerge from the unknowable hole that is the park.

  My gun, needless to say, is in my lap. I’m trying to remember how many bullets might remain in the clip. Can’t scare up this information. I don’t think I shot at anybody recently but my powers of recall are not running at their full potential.

  Did I mention this?

  It’s quiet. Bad quiet. I’m on the east side of Fifth, as far away from the park as possible. There’s no question I’m being observed.

  Even at night, the air here is more melting plastic than oxygen. That smell, always that smell. The Stench.

  I need to pause and take a pill, they’re in my jacket pocket, but I don’t want to stop moving. Thanks be to Christ I pulled on a pair of those gloves prior to exiting the hospital, the thought of touching these wheels with my naked hands raises my gorge.

  I’m at 73rd Street, arms trembling, biting my tongue with the effort of pushing my carcass up the slight incline that is Fifth Avenue.

  I hear a thunk, and a brick appears in my path.

  As I try to digest this, wham, something whacks my right wheel, missing my hand by inches. Something else whistles by my head. I get the general thrust of things.

  To my left is some overgrown shrubbery near the entryway to a once-fancy apartment house, I size it up. Register a sharp sting in my upper arm as something tags me there, thankfully something on the smaller side. Time to move.

  Upend myself, tilting the chair west and dumping my body into the brush, my weight crushing the small branches, and I land behind the shrubs.

  A deluge of projectiles—brick fragments, shale, bits of tile. I attempt to shield my head and lie flat. As my bad knee hits the earth I nearly black out and most likely give an involuntary scream, though I can’t be sure. I feel warmth in my crotch and am dismayed to realize that I’ve pissed my pants. Just a touch.

  Whizz, bang, chunks strike the wall behind me, bouncing off the air-conditioning units, smashing holes in the windows, one of which gives and shatters completely, and in due course I’m covered in and framed by glass shards.

  My gun is in hand. Hope it’s still loaded, so tough to keep track of such things.

  The shower of debris is slackening and I take this opportunity to make sure my key is still with me, check, and to work my pill bottle out of my pocket, trying not to stab myself with a spear of broken glass. Praise be the bottle didn’t fall out, I get the top off one-handed in a much-practiced maneuver, angle my head back, and coax two down my gullet.

  Downpour of crap comes to a stop. I cock the hammer on the Beretta. Voices.

  It’s Portuguese. I’m sure of this, though I’m hardly fluent. At least four individuals. Brazilian Portuguese at that, which I certainly don’t understand. Sounds like an argument. Probably beefing as to who comes over to check me out. They do have reason to be concerned.

  Or maybe it’s like that Chinese thing where they always sound like they’re chewing each other out.

  I’m no longer concerned. Not really.

  The voices cease, or at least fall below audibility. I’m trying to gauge if I can get up. I run a checklist of my motor functions, which comes up at about 50 percent. As in, I cannot rely on the lower half of my body. Not super great. On ten, I will make the most of my arms, will rise up if possible and bring what I got.

  I’m not hearing anything. Count to ten.

  In one big push-up I rise from the brush, trying to put my weight on my good knee …

  A short, stocky man freezes halfway across the avenue, all I clock is a wispy mustache. I don’t even think about it, I pull off a shot and he folds up on himself and slow-motion face-plants on the asphalt.

  Guess he got the short straw.

  I don’t recall hearing the shot, which is odd, but now there’s general shouting across the street. Apparently I’ve made an impression.

  I do understand the word “arma” … register the sound of a group of people crashing through the brush, perhaps retreating, falling back into the inky wilds of Central Park.

  Wait till all is quiet again. I retrieve my hat, then very very gingerly come to a full standing position … I surmise that the least bit of pressure on my bad knee might cause me to lose consciousness and I can’t afford that now.

  My beeper has been obliterated … oops. No way for the DA to page me now. Que sera.

  Guy prostrate in the street, in supplication. I can see his upper back rising and falling, not dead, not yet. His navy-blue T-shirt reads Jeter and the number 2, a bit of Yankees swag.

  I’m a Mets fan. Or was. Go fuck yourself: you try growing up a biracial Mets fan in the South Bronx.

  I see no weapon, save a large bread knife that must have been in his hand, and is now abo
ut ten feet out of his reach. I do see an exit wound, lower back, blood rapidly dying his T-shirt black.

  A freaking bread knife … that’s pretty bleak. Even for a punk scavenger.

  Can I walk? Hardly. Dragging my useless leg, I hopskip in his direction.

  The wheelchair is trashed. Goddamnit. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but what now?

  Approaching the prone figure, I feel a tug in my stomach. Nothing I can articulate. Something feels wrong, off. It’s easier to sit back down and kind of shuffle over to him on my ass; I do so with a growing sense of dread.

  I arrive at his side. His respiration is choppy and erratic. I have to know, so I roll him over. Not a short man, not at all. More like a kid. Seventeen, tops, and probably younger. His features are fairly wrecked, but he’s presenting all the facial aspects of Down syndrome.

  He blinks at me, blood gathering at his mouth, bubbling out his nose. It’s a straight-up gut shot, square in the lower abdomen, absolutely zero hope, but I drop my weapon, knock his head sideways so he doesn’t choke on his own fluids, and apply direct pressure.

  Just a kid, just a big kid. A handicapped kid.

  I’m talking, saying, “I’m so sorry. I am so sorry. I didn’t know who … A hospital, I can get you to a hospital. No problem. Kid, you have to look at me …”

  But he’s elsewhere, watching from some distant point. Blood is running freely from his nose. Oh Jesus, I think … I think he’s trying to smile at me.

  “You gotta believe that I would not have hurt you. Had I known …”

  Yeah, he’s smiling at me, which is more than I can bear … I’m pressing at the wound hard but he’s bleeding out, a small pond of blood has formed, flowing freely from the exit wound in his back.

  Now I’m just babbling, with no reason to believe he understands my rap. “Hey, kid, you like baseball? Speak English? Nod if you’re with me. You gotta stay with me. Okay?”

  His expression doesn’t change, though his jaw slackens a bit. I feel him fading. I press his abdomen harder.

  “No, listen. We’re going to get you help. Listen. I have a story. When I was a kid, younger than you, my dad took me to the old Yankee Stadium. Not that crappy new one that got hit. The old one they tore down. Listen. So he gets me sitting down and gives me two bucks for popcorn and candy. Are you listening?”