“You don’ know what you’re askin’.”
I nodded as furiously as my head would let me. Panic began to bubble up in my throat.
“Rather have the pain.”
Some people are afraid of snakes. Or airplanes. With me it’s drugs. Especially painkillers.
“Get it out.” I shook the tube. The Jamaican’s powerful hand clamped down on my arm. He studied me carefully. Warmth flowed from his hand.
“Don’ do dat, now. You’re my responsibility.”
I stared at him. His face softened.
“I go get the attending. But you gotta stay still and not do anyt’ing loony, you know?”
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch.
“’Bout five-tirty.”
“I gotta get out of here.”
A broad smile lit his face as he shook his head.
“Oh no, Mr. Acquillo, you don’ go anywhere till we say. You got a concussion der prob’ly.”
“I left a dog in my car.”
He shook his head again.
“No, ladies brung the car wit’ the dog. He’s at the vet’s ’round the corner. Good place. He’s all set. We do dis all the time.”
“He’s gonna hate that. I got to get outta here.”
“I go talk to attending, he come in here and explain your situation.”
I couldn’t seem to keep my head up off the pillow, so I set it back down.
“Okay.”
“Okay, but you gotta not try to take off on me.”
I nodded.
“You promise me, or I’ll tie you down,” he said.
I nodded.
“Sorry. Not your fault,” I told him.
He let go of my arm and patted it. I lay there when he left and took stock. I was conscious. I knew I was in a hospital—I assumed it was Southampton. I could move my head and all my limbs and digits. I could see, though the outlines were a little fuzzy. I could open and shut my mouth, despite that wad of something on the side of my tongue. It made it difficult to probe around the inside of my mouth, but it felt like I had all my teeth—both the real and the gold ones I got because of Rene Ruiz.
I was in an area contained by rolling room dividers and white curtains. There was a window open nearby and wind from the Atlantic was busting in and flipping through a newspaper on the table next to my bed. No flowers. No get-well cards. No worried-looking relatives.
Aside from a hernia I fixed a long time ago, I wasn’t very experienced with hospitals. I don’t like them. I don’t like giving myself to somebody else to look after. Plus, it’s wicked hard to get a vodka on the rocks or a pack of cigarettes out of anybody.
The attending doctor was a skinny little guy with shiny skin and hair like balls of single-ought steel wool. He looked me right in the eyes and shook my hand.
“Hey, welcome to the conscious. How’d you sleep?”
“Hard to say.”
He read the chart and nervously clicked a retractable ballpoint pen.
“Markham tells me you tried to go AWOL.”
“Don’t want the IV. Don’t like painkillers.”
“Prefer the pain?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell for?”
“That stuff makes me dopey.”
“Some consider that a nice side benefit.”
“Please. Get it out.”
He spun the bag around and looked at the label.
“Well, we got a lot of important stuff in here— like an anticoagulant. Don’t want you pulling a stroke on us. You do realize you’ve had a traumatic blow to the head?”
“Two.”
“Pardon?”
“Two traumatic blows to the head. Plus one to the gut and a kick in the teeth.”
“That reminds me,” said the doctor, pulling open my jaw and looking into my mouth. “You left a piece of your tongue back there at the Playhouse.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Not a big one. Otherwise, you’re in pretty good shape. Just a slight concussion and a gash. No bone damage.”
“Hard head.”
He reset his heavy horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and looked at my chart again. I wondered if it recorded my manifold sins and omissions. He looked up at me again as if struck with a new thought.
“These things can be cumulative. Going by your face you’ve been through this before. You made it this far without brain damage, but I wouldn’t push your luck.”
“Wasn’t my idea.”
“Okay. None of my business.”
“Guy suckered me. Hit like a bastard.”
Markham came into the room.
“Hey, dat’s more like it. Actin’ civil with the attending.”
“So it was definitely an assault,” said the doctor. “The police were curious.”
“Who told them?”
“We told them. We always tell them when there’s a fight. They’ll want to talk to you.”
“If you call a Town cop named Joe Sullivan you’d be doing me a favor. He knows me.”
“I could do that.”
“After all the trouble you give us we supposed to be doin’ you favors?” said Markham.
I looked up at him.
“I could’ve used you the other night.”
“Yeah? Who say I’m on your side?”
“We put about five stitches in your head,” said the doctor, “where you probably caught a towel dispenser or stall divider. Your tongue’ll just have to grow back on its own. Other than that, we’ll keep an eye on you for another four hours, then throw you out of here.”
“The curse of the managed care,” said Markham.
“Don’t start,” said the doc.
I wiggled the IV.
“Do me a favor and unplug this thing. I’ll sign whatever you want.”
They were both looking at me. Markham looked bemused.
“He don’ want any additives. Give him the heebie-jeebies.”
The doc shrugged.
“Okay. Your body.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
It took about an hour for a nurse to come and unhook the IV. After that I fell asleep and dreamed of flying fists and frightening confrontations with slobbering demons and polar bears. Mangled corpses of old, white-haired people stacked up like cordwood. The constant look of disgust on Abby’s face, and other nightmarish images. This is why I don’t like having clear liquids pumped into my veins from little plastic bags. It never goes well.
