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It’s a tough learning curve. Finally one of the plastic arms snaps off inside me somewhere. It’s deep in there and feels like I’ve dropped a twig down an open well. A couple more plunges into the other ear and then I quit. Leaving four or five inches of black plastic buried somewhere in there with just the bloody foam earpiece hanging outside. I stagger to the bathroom realizing I’m losing quite a bit of blood. In the mirror there I am—the new me. A+ for artistic merit. C- for style. I’m thinking I’d better slow the bleeding down or I’ll never get to enjoy my new makeover. So I jam a handful of cottonballs into the craters where I once had delicate ears and decide I’d better try to get help somehow. Of course the phone hasn’t worked since I tried to wire the ringer into one of Bill’s old hearing aids. So I slide my ass down the steps and crash into the front door, realizing I just don’t have the balance I used to. One of my mounds of cottonballs slips out with a sploosh of blood so I jam it back in with my pointer finger. Then I begin the crawl up the hill to Bill’s house. It’s a crawl I’ve made before, but only ever down the hill—and usually then dead drunk but not bleeding to death. It’s slow progress but the scenery is nice. Passing the Castillo’s house I see they’ve repainted again. This time it’s a two-tone aquamarine and burnt orange disaster. The porch is still sagging dangerously and now seems like it’s ready to fall off the front of the house, too. I’ve got to remember to keep my eye on it—maybe it’ll end up collapsing into the street soon. I count two or three more houses but then my arms start to get weak and stiffen up on me. I know I won’t be able to make it so I flop over and roll into the street, laying with my arms and legs spread out wide. I figure the worst-case scenario is I get run over by a truck. Not that bad all things considered. But I guess I should consider myself lucky, because I wake up as I’m being strapped to a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance. There is a lot of commotion—sirens, horns, and the slamming of doors—but it’s a silent slow motion film for me. One of the paramedics straps an oxygen mask over my messed up face, says something that is probably very grave by the look on his face. He ends it with a reassuring pat on my shoulder. I think I say thanks or something but it’s hard to remember without hearing it come out. Either way the word must get out that my injuries are self-inflicted because I go straight out of Intensive Care into Psychiatric Monitoring. Where the rooms have heavy doors with tiny square glass windows—the shatterproof kind with the diamond patterns. Everybody has their own clipboard. Some doctors come in with clipboards holding other clipboards. Nobody has a stethoscope though. These aren’t those kind of doctors. There is no noise. Not for me, of course. But seemingly I imagine this place as if I could hear and still it is dead silent. Tomblike. Painted over in coat after coat of lustrous white, a fresh coat applied every time you blink. The orderlies and nurses, they flit in and out like phantoms. They are solemn and avoid eye contact with me. The doctors are more solid—they carry giant yellow pads and write notes to me in sweeping hands. Things like, “You’re making remarkable progress” or sometimes, “If you cooperate we can have you back home in a few weeks”. Other times, “If you don’t help us, we can’t help you”. DING!
You have no new messages. CLICK!
Please insert a new audio cassette. Maybe
you’ll hear it. Maybe you won’t.
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