The Autograph Hound
Page 15
It’s the fattest letter I’ve ever gotten. I open it quickly. There’s a note and a long, Xeroxed report called “History.” On top, it says—
WALSH, MARGARET F., HOUSEWIFE CAUCASIAN 72 FEMALE HUSBAND—UNKNOWN
That’s Mom.
“Well, she had a good life, Walsh.”
“I heard from her this morning. She wasn’t feeling so good.”
“No use cryin’ over spilt milk.”
“I’ll call her tomorrow when things are settled down.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“There’s a note. Maybe it’s from Mom.”
“I tried to get ya three times yesterday, Walsh. You know how it is leavin’ things in these corridors. Read it. Go ahead. Read it out loud if it helps.”
“‘Dear Mr. Walsh. Unable to reach you in time for the termination at four forty-four A.M., this Tuesday. We are enclosing the final report. Yours truly, George Bromberg, M.D., and Phyllis McGuire, M.D., Consultant.’”
“I thought I wuz doin’ a fava, Walsh. You know I don’t take no packages for nobody. It’s a rule.”
“The history’s very long.”
“Yeah?”
“Impressive.”
“Wanna read it?”
“No time.”
I read down the first page quick like a menu.
1. Duodenal ulcer, peptic with hemorrhage
651-951
2. Bone metastatic carcinoma
360-951
3. Lung tumor emboli
234-951
4. Kidney, nephrosclerosis (arteriolar)
710-517
5. Heart, left ventricular hypertrophy
400-533
The report goes on for pages. It has footnotes like a book. Mom always said she was a rare specimen.
“I don’t do favas easy.”
The letter fits inside the secret pocket of my windbreaker. Leroy growls at me as I go to the door.
“S … I … T!”
“Here’s your twelve cents, Mrs. Berado. Thanks.”
“Walsh, did she give y’anythin’?”
“I really can’t talk about it now, Mrs. Berado.”
Mrs. Berado walks me to the door. Leroy’s ahead of her on the leash. He nearly yanks her down the steps.
“Fucking dogs,” she says. “They should all be dead.”
“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Berado.”
“Walsh, can I ask you one question?”
“Okay.”
“Did y’inherit anythin’?”
“I think Mom left me her body.”
This must be the place. The billboard has a newspaper story blown up the size of a door.
THE MAN WITH GOLD IN HIS VEINS
Mr. Joe Thomas, of Detroit, is about to start receiving $12,000 a year as legitimate blood money. Mr. Thomas, a 34-year-old assembly belt worker in a car factory, is a blood donor. Thomas was found to possess blood containing a remarkably high concentration of a rare antibody called antilues B. The discovery is the medical equivalent of a gold strike or an oil strike in Texas. Scientists knew there was gold in those veins. Now, after a fiercely competitive auction, involving five biological supply companies, Mr. Thomas’ blood has been valued at $1,500 a quart. Mr. Thomas is amazed at his good luck. “It’s hard to believe, but I’ve signed the contract. So I guess it’s true.”
“It could be you,” says a man from the window of the trailer parked next to the Donation Centre. I been watching you from the window. You’re the first today.”
“I gave blood on Forty-second Street. I fainted.”
“That’s chump change. Here, you get twenty dollars in two minutes.”
“I’ve got a plan. How many pints for three hundred and fifty?”
“Seventeen plus.”
“Could you take eighteen right away?”
“Will you settle for two? You won’t feel a thing. I’m a fast syringe. They don’t call me ‘Quick Draw’ Scarpino for nothing.”
“It’s eighteen or nothing.”
“Mister, if I took eighteen I’d have to send you to the morgue. Blood’s not the big money, man. Try Scientific Research. Ask the girl at the Information Desk inside. Her name’s Anne. Tell her Quick Draw said to stick ’em up.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, next time come back and see us. Blood money’s better’n no money.”
Anne stands up behind the desk. Her breasts point straight at me. They’re too large for her dress. You couldn’t describe them as “knockers” or “boobs,” which sounds like there are two. Hers are like one wedge of Cheddar cheese. She could donate a breast to science herself, and not miss a thing. I don’t want to think dirty thoughts in a Catholic hospital. I keep my eyes on her eyes—blue, with green mascara and eyelashes all around like Twiggy.
“Yeah?” she says. “Deliveries around the corner.”
“Quick Draw says to stick ’em up.”
“You can tell Quick Draw to go fuck himself and all his funny friends.”
I’m shocked. That’s no way to talk to a scientific gift. Maybe I’m the cure for cancer, the missing link, the Nobel Prize. “I heard an announcement on the radio.”
“So Quick Draw sent you in here?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t blood good enough for you?”
“I wanted to make a bigger gift.”
“Glory boy, huh?”
“The announcement said I’d be helping mankind and making money.”
“Whaddya want to be—a guinea pig or a gift?”
“Which pays more?”
“Let’s see …” She pulls out a file card index and licks her fingers to flip through them. Her tongue’s as smooth as pink velvet. Her nails are polished red. “I’ve got something in Dream Research. Dr. Rogers—the guy written up in the Post.”
“What’s that about?”
“They watch you sleep.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“They’re studying the REM cycle—that’s rapid eye movement.”
“I sleep with my eyes shut. I don’t dream.”
“I’d go up there and try it myself, but you’ve got to sleep alone.”
“I once had a dream.”
“Tell it to the doctor. You want this or don’t you? They put wires on your head. It’s fifty dollars a day, controlled conditions. They’ve got everything up there—air-conditioning, Muzak, the magazines.”
“No television?”
“How can you sleep if the tube’s on?”
“But how do you know what’s happening outside?”
“That’s the point. You don’t. It’s like one long Sunday morning—walk, talk, eat, read. You’re guaranteed a week’s work.”
“Got anything else?”
“There’s the Sperm Bank—one hundred and fifty dollars a yank.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Listen, I’m doing you a favor. We don’t advertise this one. People don’t know about it. How many times do you have a chance to get your rocks off and get paid? Artificial insemination. You know—test-tube babies. First we get the pill. Now we’re getting rid of pregnancy.”
“We are? That’s against the Church, isn’t it?”
“Ever heard of the Immaculate Conception? Now our hands’ll be clean, too.”
“I’m surprised Our Lady of Victory allows it.”
“Don’t lecture me, mister. I only work here. The Sperm Bank’s the latest thing.”
“Really?”
“Soon there won’t even be survival of the fittest. Everybody’ll be fit as a fiddle. They’ll mix up the chemicals before birth. No more weaklings. Everybody’ll be normal.”
“Who discovered it?”
“I’m only in reception, but even I know Darwin and his beagles. That’s one of the first things they teach you in biology at the convent.”
“You mean stars won’t be born, they’ll be made?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t believe it.”
�
��You can’t argue with science. That’s not scientific.”
“It wouldn’t be good if everybody was a star. If everybody was equal that wouldn’t be American.”
“Dr. Rudd? It’s reception. I have a man here who’d like to make a donation … I don’t know … I’ll ask.”
Anne puts the phone in her neck like Mr. Vic and talks to me.
“Did you go to college?”
“No.”
“Did you finish high school?”
“No.”
“Did your parents have a history of diseases?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ve got Mom’s history with me.”
“It’s ‘no’ across the board, Doctor. Sorry to bother you.”
“What if I donated two bodies?”
“You and your shadow?”
“Would you take me? Could I get the money fast?”
“It’s the same with everybody—rush, rush, rush. In science things take time. There’s no joke about giving something to science. It’s bigger than marriage. It’s forever. You can always donate your whole body to the hospital. They give you five hundred dollars and a tattoo. But they only pay you for yourself.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Think about it. It’s a big step. Once they give you a contract, that’s it.”
“Like an audition?”
“Yeah, but it’s a show you can’t quit.”
“Quitting wouldn’t be professional.”
The nurse in room 753 tells me to relax.
I’m not sweating. I’m not talking loud. I don’t look nervous. She makes me fill out a form.
“For the purposes of our files, Mr. Walsh, what inspired the decision?”
“Money.”
The nurse smiles and waits. “Many people joke when they give their body to us. I wrote a paper on the phenomenon for my psychology class at Hunter. Anguish has many existential outlets.”
“That’s it. I wanted an outlet.”
“That’s very interesting,” she says, clicking her ball-point pen. “For what, Mr. Walsh?”
“An outlet for money.”
“There must be some conviction—let’s not call it religious at the moment, Mr. Walsh—for you to want to give your body to the city of New York. These things are important for us to know.”
“I guess if I could pin it down to one person …”
“Yes?…”
“It’d be Vince Lombardi.”
“I don’t know him. What did he write?”
“He said—‘Quitters never win. And winners never quit.’”
“I’m sure the medical attendants will understand all this,” she says. “Have a seat.”
All around me are pictures called GREAT MOMENTS IN MEDICAL HISTORY. These are paintings with details so real they could be photographs. The people look as if they were alive now. “Benjamin Rush—Physician, Pedant, and Patriot.” “Suskruta—Surgeon of Old India.” “Hippocrates—Medicine Becomes a Science.” The patients who made history don’t look as healthy as I do. They’ve got no color, no business to keep them interested in things. And the settings are very simple for such important moments. Everybody’s lying on the floor. If they paint my picture, I’m having it in the contract that it’s done in my apartment. I’ll be surrounded by interesting photos of Marilyn, Bogie, the Babe. It’s for them that I’m donating my body, and they should get some of the credit when the doctors discover the cure in me. My caption could read—“Modern Medicine Discovers Cure for the Big C.” “C” could stand for cancer, cardiac, cataract, or just common cold. Maybe Mom could be in the paintings, too. They’d paint her in her house, sitting in her chair holding the TV remote control switch. We’d be known as The Walshes—The Flying Wallendas of medicine. But our deaths wouldn’t be entertainment. Our stories would be in textbooks. Our faces in paintings.
Donating your body’s a great way to start the day. It gives a guy a boost. Our Lady of Victory should mention it in their advertising. What the doctors don’t use of me, they could give to other people. I’ve seen headlines—BOY GETS KIDNEYS, MAN GETS GIRL’S HEART. I’ll make a list. If they want my religious preferences, they’ll take my personal preferences, too. The top ten. Joe gets my ligaments. They’re strong from standing most of the day and making short sprints for autographs at night. Frankie can have my stomach, it’s used to Italian-American cuisine. Dean Martin can have first dibs on my liver. I don’t know who’d want my eyes. They’re not much to look at or to see through. I’ll leave that one up to the hospital. I’m as worried about my brain as Mom used to be. Zambrozzi could make it look beautiful. By then he’ll have his new kitchen. He’d invent a special sauce with liqueurs that flame when you light them. I’ll only allow it if Zambrozzi agrees to serve the dish to someone he considers famous. They say brains are the most nourishing food in the world. Wouldn’t it be great if some part of Benny Walsh was swallowed by one of the greats? And then to be a recipe! Better than ashes to ashes.
“I didn’t expect two doctors.”
“When you get Crane,” says Dr. Crane, “you get Farber.”
“And when you get Farber,” says Dr. Farber, “you get Crane.”
“You’re a team?”
“We’re a one-two combination,” says Dr. Crane, chuckling.
“When do I know if I pass?”
Dr. Farber tugs on his stethoscope. “That depends on how we feel.”
“How do you feel?”
“If we’ve had a bad breakfast and slept fitfully, we usually don’t feel too good. If it’s a nice day and nobody bugs us, then we’re inclined to be happy.”
“I hope everything works out.”
“Dr. Farber’s the gambler. He plays the long odds. He’d run on fourth and four, if you know what I mean,” says Dr. Crane. “In college, he did his thesis on probability and risk.”
“I’m no risk. You can count on me.”
“I’m more conservative. Three yards and a cloud of dust. I’ve been with Dr. Farber ever since he chose me from the graduating interns. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no yes-man. I’m a choice, not an echo.”
Dr. Farber sits down beside me. “Any body marks? Scars? Tattoos? Skin diseases?”
“No.”
“That’s good. The hospital doesn’t accept anyone with external markings of any kind.”
“Mom used to say my skin was as soft as a duck’s backside.”
“Your old lady doesn’t have medical credentials.”
“Sure she does, Dr. Farber.” I hand him Mom’s history. “If you take me, I’d like to donate her. Two for the price of one.”
“We only deal with the living.”
“Look how many doctors inspected her. There must be eight people who wrote her up. Long paragraphs. See how many categories she had—medulla, sacral nerve, skeletal muscles.”
“Let’s punt, Dan,” says Dr. Crane.
“This is a donation center. What’s crazy about donating a gift?”
Crane whispers loud enough to hear. They’re not as polite as Dr. Kildare.
“What’s wrong with me? I’m an American. The report’s for real. I thought you’d be interested … sir.”
“We need bodies for medical research, Mr. Walsh. Not bits and pieces. Now drink this barium solution.”
“I’m in good shape.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” says Dr. Crane, tapping his clipboard with a pencil.
I don’t like taking my shirt off in public, even for the fluoroscope. On other people, skin looks all right. It’s a pleasure to see people like Harry Belafonte without their undershirt. Their skin stretches tight as plastic. Light bounces off them. Their bodies shine. My skin sags. In the summer when I took my vacation from the composing room, Mom used to beg me to take off my shirt and go outside. “Be a man, Ben,” she’d say, rapping her cane at my feet, trying to shoo me out on the porch. “Let the skin breathe. Skin is God’s undershirt.” Mom liked my chest, and to keep her happy I’d take off my shirt and walk arou
nd. Sometimes she made me walk to the mailbox with nothing up top. I tried to act casual and take my time. If I rushed, she’d make me do it again. I’d flex my muscles like Charles Atlas. “Look at that. Look at my big Benny, Mr. Universe. Some tits you got.” Mom used to poke my body with her cane the way the medics are doing with their fingers now. Mom said I looked the same at eight as I did at twenty-eight. She said she had pictures to prove it. But we never found any.
Since I left home for New York, my stomach has puffed out. My chest has dropped. I tried jogging when it first came out.When I run, I can feel my body just behind me. My skin’s flopping up and down, but I’m always ahead of it, going forward. I can’t control the bouncing. Autograph collecting’s better exercise than the jog. I run in sprints. My mind’s always on the personality I’m trying to get. Then I’m sweating without even trying. I have that pain in my side. I can feel my heart beating in my throat. I head back toward Horn & Hardart. I walk a few yards, then jog a few so my muscles don’t get tight. That’s what the professionals do. Mom always worried about my health. She sent me clippings about football leagues in Central Park where you joined and worked out every day to get tough. She never understood. Autographs are a contact sport.
Dr. Farber and Dr. Crane are pressing a black window up against my chest. The glass is cold. My skin goes bumpy like a plucked turkey.
“All right, Mr. Walsh, breathe regularly when the lights go out.”
“What’s going to happen? You’re not leaving me here in the dark alone?”
“It’s a very simple process, Mr. Walsh. We do it to hundreds of people. Essentially, we’ll be taking a look at your insides.”
“It won’t hurt, will it? If I get hurt you won’t want my body.”
“How do we know we want you until we get a good look at your insides?”
“Can’t you take my word? I’m healthy.”
“That wouldn’t be scientific.”
“Can you keep the lights on?”
“No.”
“Can I have the negative? I mean, if things look good, will you send me a copy?”
“It’s a fluoroscope. There’s no photograph.”
“When the Rockefellers give a building or Jerry Lewis writes a check for cerebral palsy, there’s always a picture.”
The light from the fluoroscope shines on Dr. Farber and Dr. Crane.