kingdom he is dealing. Thus the precautions on Ward F will continue until I am thoroughly checked out, olfactory and otherwise, by the nursing staff.
The elevator doors slide open. I was right—rooms are locked up tight, silence reigns, and the ward is as empty as the last Bay City Rollers concert I went to. Good show, by the way. A solitary nurse lies in wait behind her station, pretending to read a mass-market paperback. She’s in the guise of a well-stacked blonde, and even though I’m not attracted to the human female form, hourglass or otherwise, I can tell through the costume that this dino’s got one great infrastructure.
Not wanting to cause any further delay, I glide up to the desk, pirouette, and bare the back of my ears, allowing the nurse to get a good snifferoo of my manly, manly scent. Once, in a drunken stupor, I tried this disco spin on a human woman and got slapped as a result, though to this day I still can’t figure out exactly what part of the gesture could be construed as obscene.
“He’s clean!” calls the nurse, and the room doors fall open in rapid succession, spreading out like dominoes from the center of the ward. Patients spill into the corridors, grumbling as one about the incessant security checks. Beneath flimsy hospital gowns, I can see tails swishing, spikes glistening, claws scratching, and for a brief moment I fantasize about becoming a patient on Ward F, if only so that I might live for a few days in this milieu of personal freedom.
The nurse notices my wistful look. “You gotta be sick to get in,” she says.
“I almost wish I were.”
“I could break your arm,” she jokes, and I politely decline the offer.It would be wonderful—truly, positively magical—to tear free from my girdles and my clamps and lounge around as the Velociraptor that I am for a few days of blithe self-acceptance, but I have to draw the line somewhere, and that somewhere is physical pain.
“I see it all the time,” the nurse continues, reading my thoughts. “Gets so we’ll do anything just to be ourselves.”
“What would you do?” I ask, flipping on my internal flirtation switch. I have a job to take care of, I know, but Burke’s not going anywhere, and he can wait a minute or two while I turn up the charm.
The nurse shrugs and leans into the desk. “What would I do? I don’t know,” she says, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “Breaking an arm can be pretty painful.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
She thinks, tosses her faux hair across one shoulder. “I could catch a cold.”
“Too easy,” I say. “And it won’t land you in the hospital.”
“A really bad cold?”
“You’re on to something.”
“My goodness, not a disease!” she yelps in mock terror.
“A minor one, perhaps.”
“It would have to be curable.”
I nod, draw in closer. “Eminently curable.” We’re inches apart.
The nurse clears her throat seductively, leans in even farther, and says, “There are some pretty benign social diseases running rampant out there.”
After I have secured her home phone number, I head toward Burke’s semiprivate suite, fourth door down on my left. All manner of patients, undaunted by my presence, shuffle by wordlessly as I saunter down the hall. There are wounds wrapped in bandages, IV bags attached to arms, tails tied up in traction, and everyone is understandably more preoccupied with their own current state of health than the appearance of yet another stranger on an already crowded hospital ward.
The wipe-off placard on the room door bears the names of Mr. Burke and his temporary roommate, one Felipe Suarez, and I poke my head through the open doorway, making sure to plaster a wide smile onto my face. There are two kinds of witnesses in this world:those who respond to smiles, and those who respond to shakedowns. I’m hoping Burke is the first kind, ’cause I don’t like to get physical if I don’t have to, and I haven’t socked anyone for the last nine
The elevator doors slide open. I was right—rooms are locked up tight, silence reigns, and the ward is as empty as the last Bay City Rollers concert I went to. Good show, by the way. A solitary nurse lies in wait behind her station, pretending to read a mass-market paperback. She’s in the guise of a well-stacked blonde, and even though I’m not attracted to the human female form, hourglass or otherwise, I can tell through the costume that this dino’s got one great infrastructure.
Not wanting to cause any further delay, I glide up to the desk, pirouette, and bare the back of my ears, allowing the nurse to get a good snifferoo of my manly, manly scent. Once, in a drunken stupor, I tried this disco spin on a human woman and got slapped as a result, though to this day I still can’t figure out exactly what part of the gesture could be construed as obscene.
“He’s clean!” calls the nurse, and the room doors fall open in rapid succession, spreading out like dominoes from the center of the ward. Patients spill into the corridors, grumbling as one about the incessant security checks. Beneath flimsy hospital gowns, I can see tails swishing, spikes glistening, claws scratching, and for a brief moment I fantasize about becoming a patient on Ward F, if only so that I might live for a few days in this milieu of personal freedom.
The nurse notices my wistful look. “You gotta be sick to get in,” she says.
“I almost wish I were.”
“I could break your arm,” she jokes, and I politely decline the offer.It would be wonderful—truly, positively magical—to tear free from my girdles and my clamps and lounge around as the Velociraptor that I am for a few days of blithe self-acceptance, but I have to draw the line somewhere, and that somewhere is physical pain.
“I see it all the time,” the nurse continues, reading my thoughts. “Gets so we’ll do anything just to be ourselves.”
“What would you do?” I ask, flipping on my internal flirtation switch. I have a job to take care of, I know, but Burke’s not going anywhere, and he can wait a minute or two while I turn up the charm.
The nurse shrugs and leans into the desk. “What would I do? I don’t know,” she says, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “Breaking an arm can be pretty painful.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
She thinks, tosses her faux hair across one shoulder. “I could catch a cold.”
“Too easy,” I say. “And it won’t land you in the hospital.”
“A really bad cold?”
“You’re on to something.”
“My goodness, not a disease!” she yelps in mock terror.
“A minor one, perhaps.”
“It would have to be curable.”
I nod, draw in closer. “Eminently curable.” We’re inches apart.
The nurse clears her throat seductively, leans in even farther, and says, “There are some pretty benign social diseases running rampant out there.”
After I have secured her home phone number, I head toward Burke’s semiprivate suite, fourth door down on my left. All manner of patients, undaunted by my presence, shuffle by wordlessly as I saunter down the hall. There are wounds wrapped in bandages, IV bags attached to arms, tails tied up in traction, and everyone is understandably more preoccupied with their own current state of health than the appearance of yet another stranger on an already crowded hospital ward.
The wipe-off placard on the room door bears the names of Mr. Burke and his temporary roommate, one Felipe Suarez, and I poke my head through the open doorway, making sure to plaster a wide smile onto my face. There are two kinds of witnesses in this world:those who respond to smiles, and those who respond to shakedowns. I’m hoping Burke is the first kind, ’cause I don’t like to get physical if I don’t have to, and I haven’t socked anyone for the last nine
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