making eye contact. He speaks to the clipboard or to my bandages.
“I see you’re in much better shape than when I last saw you.” He’s four years older than me, at most. His Adam’s apple distends like a mop handle pushing through the back of his neck.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m cold.”
There’s a curtain to my left, two men talking behind it. One uses his voice for the first time since Death sang him to sleep and a medic slapped him awake, exhuming his rusted throat from the mud and weeds. The voice asks to be discharged.
“It says here your temperature is normal.” Dr. Stanley reads from the communal clipboard. “Fever or chills could be a signal of complications. How long have you been feeling cold?”
“Since I’ve been sitting here in my underwear waiting for you.”
He doesn’t say anything. His Adam’s apple plunges the length of his neck when he swallows.
An orderly steps from behind the curtain. He’s enormous, his skin so dark it shines blue where the light hits it. He fills a paper cup from a drinking fountain and says to the voice, “You’ll be discharged following an interview with another doctor.” The voice says, “It was an accident, I don’t need to see another doctor.”
Dr. Stanley inspects my bandages.
“They itch,” I tell him, “and I’m coughing a lot.”
“There’s early signs of infection,” he says. “That’s not good. After we redress these, I’m putting you on a stronger antibiotic regimen.”
“I’m on one now?”
“That might be the problem. Are you getting enough liquids?”
“What’s enough?”
“Eric, you’re risking a rejection of the skin grafts. Lay off the alcohol, drink more water. Burns like this one disrupt the fluid balance in your tissue. Go easy on yourself. How are you otherwise? Is your memory improving?”
“Some. Hard to say.”
Big nurse says to the voice, “It’s not up to me. We have to report this sort of thing. Sit tight.”
The voice asks for coffee.
Dr. Stanley writes me a scrip for steroids, a fresh battery of antibiotics and painkillers.
Mirrored blisters swell from the ceiling where the cameras hide. I didn’t see them the other day. I stare too long at the overhead chrome, frozen midboil, and the room goes liquid. The gray bucket mop man’s roiling floor tiles throw my footing and I knock a display to the floor, achaotic collage of naked women and tropical beaches, a fusion of a travel brochure and medical textbook.
“You need some help?”
I’ve disturbed the Token Man.
“I was here yesterday.”
“Let me punch your card. Your tenth show is free.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“I didn’t get a card.”
The Token Man’s shirt could have come from a queen-sized bedsheet. He pauses in the split moment before giving me the business end of whatever problem solver he’s stashed beneath the counter. His eyes are on me like sniper dots and the chrome blisters log my every twitch. Antennae tickle my neck and ears. At first, I think it’s sweat until the bugs lose their grip and drop down my shirt and struggle to climb out the top of my jeans. I stoop to gather the video boxes, to keep from slapping myself in a frenzy.
“Don’t worry about ’em,” he says.
“It’s no problem.”
“Leave ’em alone.” He thinks I’m out of my head, but he won’t throw me out. He knows I’ve got money.
“Is Desiree working?”
“Must be, if you’re here.” He exchanges twenty dollars for four dollars in tokens. “Booth four.”
The pinpoint of green light from the pony ride coin box lights booth number four. I drop a token into the box and pull my cash as the looking glass slides open.
“You pull your piece, I pull mine.”
Anslinger stands framed and backlit in the pink window with hissilver screen slicked-back hair and pinstripe orchid tie. His dress shirt is the same liquid amber of his eyes, his suit a deep green verging on black, with a camel hair coat draped over
“I see you’re in much better shape than when I last saw you.” He’s four years older than me, at most. His Adam’s apple distends like a mop handle pushing through the back of his neck.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m cold.”
There’s a curtain to my left, two men talking behind it. One uses his voice for the first time since Death sang him to sleep and a medic slapped him awake, exhuming his rusted throat from the mud and weeds. The voice asks to be discharged.
“It says here your temperature is normal.” Dr. Stanley reads from the communal clipboard. “Fever or chills could be a signal of complications. How long have you been feeling cold?”
“Since I’ve been sitting here in my underwear waiting for you.”
He doesn’t say anything. His Adam’s apple plunges the length of his neck when he swallows.
An orderly steps from behind the curtain. He’s enormous, his skin so dark it shines blue where the light hits it. He fills a paper cup from a drinking fountain and says to the voice, “You’ll be discharged following an interview with another doctor.” The voice says, “It was an accident, I don’t need to see another doctor.”
Dr. Stanley inspects my bandages.
“They itch,” I tell him, “and I’m coughing a lot.”
“There’s early signs of infection,” he says. “That’s not good. After we redress these, I’m putting you on a stronger antibiotic regimen.”
“I’m on one now?”
“That might be the problem. Are you getting enough liquids?”
“What’s enough?”
“Eric, you’re risking a rejection of the skin grafts. Lay off the alcohol, drink more water. Burns like this one disrupt the fluid balance in your tissue. Go easy on yourself. How are you otherwise? Is your memory improving?”
“Some. Hard to say.”
Big nurse says to the voice, “It’s not up to me. We have to report this sort of thing. Sit tight.”
The voice asks for coffee.
Dr. Stanley writes me a scrip for steroids, a fresh battery of antibiotics and painkillers.
Mirrored blisters swell from the ceiling where the cameras hide. I didn’t see them the other day. I stare too long at the overhead chrome, frozen midboil, and the room goes liquid. The gray bucket mop man’s roiling floor tiles throw my footing and I knock a display to the floor, achaotic collage of naked women and tropical beaches, a fusion of a travel brochure and medical textbook.
“You need some help?”
I’ve disturbed the Token Man.
“I was here yesterday.”
“Let me punch your card. Your tenth show is free.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“I didn’t get a card.”
The Token Man’s shirt could have come from a queen-sized bedsheet. He pauses in the split moment before giving me the business end of whatever problem solver he’s stashed beneath the counter. His eyes are on me like sniper dots and the chrome blisters log my every twitch. Antennae tickle my neck and ears. At first, I think it’s sweat until the bugs lose their grip and drop down my shirt and struggle to climb out the top of my jeans. I stoop to gather the video boxes, to keep from slapping myself in a frenzy.
“Don’t worry about ’em,” he says.
“It’s no problem.”
“Leave ’em alone.” He thinks I’m out of my head, but he won’t throw me out. He knows I’ve got money.
“Is Desiree working?”
“Must be, if you’re here.” He exchanges twenty dollars for four dollars in tokens. “Booth four.”
The pinpoint of green light from the pony ride coin box lights booth number four. I drop a token into the box and pull my cash as the looking glass slides open.
“You pull your piece, I pull mine.”
Anslinger stands framed and backlit in the pink window with hissilver screen slicked-back hair and pinstripe orchid tie. His dress shirt is the same liquid amber of his eyes, his suit a deep green verging on black, with a camel hair coat draped over
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