more condescending man in my life. The hospital gave him whatever he wanted because he headed the cancer research at the medical school. I guess if you can cure cancer, people will put up with a lot of shit.
I was hoping I could keep Gabbibb’s phone conversation short and uneventful.
“Doofy? Dis homosexual patient in here is on your responsibility caseload?”
“What?” I said.
“DAT, DAT, DAT, DAT, shit … excuse me.” The doctor was going on his roll.
“I’m on my way up there, doctor,” I said, hoping to get off the phone quickly.
“No rush, Doofy. Dees man is not worth time,” he said and hung up.
It was probably a good thing he hung up, because I was about to go off and I don’t know how many DATs he had in him.
They let me in to see Mikey for fifteen minutes in ICU. His head was swollen to twice its normal size, he had a tube taped to his nose, his face was mostly purple from the bruising, and he had five different sets of stitches. He was surrounded by computerized machines with little red and green lights and something that checked his heart rate.
I felt cold and sick to my stomach, and though I couldn’t quite identify what it smelled like, I hated the hospital smell. Mikey was unconscious and when I touched his hand there was absolutely no response. I’m not really a religious guy, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I said a quick prayer. I said, “Hang in there, Mikey” out loud and felt foolish, but I had heard somewhere that it was good to try to speak to people in comas.
I went through the sliding doors of the ICU and there was Gabbibb with his stethoscope around his neck and a clipboard in his hand.
“Doofy.” Gabbibb’s big brown eyes grew wide. “Don’t tell me you were here visiting dee homosexual.”
“His name is Michael Osborne,” I said.
“I know dat,” Gabbibb said. He didn’t get it. “Shouldn’t you be catching up on dose files?”
I shook my head and started to walk away. I got about ten feet and I couldn’t help myself.
“Hey, Gabbibb,” I shouted.
He turned and looked down his nose and over his glasses at me.
“Go fuck yourself.”
I turned back around and headed out. All the way down the hallway I could hear it.
“DAT, DAT, DAT, DAT, shit … excuse me … DAT, DAT, DAT …”
The next set of sliding doors closed and the rest of the DATs faded into the rest of the hospital sounds.
I wound my way through the hospital corridors, looking for Rudy’s office. I’d been there a bunch of times but I can never find it easily. After a couple of wrong turns, I found him. Through the window I saw him at his computer with his belly causing maximum stress to the elastic waistline of his trousers and beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. The man was always sweating.
I let myself in and Rudy didn’t even look up from his computer.
“Hey, Rude, I—”
“Hang on.” His face cringed and he pounded a few more keys. “Sorry, Duff. I’m trying to get caught up.”
“Lot of that going around,” I said.
“What’s up?”
“Is Mikey going to make it?” I asked.
“Duff,” Rude exhaled heavily. “I ain’t going to bullshit you. It doesn’t look good. He might even be better off if he didn’t.”
“Are the cops involved?”
“Some detective talked to me in the ER. He didn’t seem all that energetic.” Rudy lifted his glasses off his nose and rested them on top of his balding head.
“I’m guessing the cops aren’t going to sweat the assault of a guy who spent his life in the bushes of Jefferson Park.”
“Probably not,” Rudy added. He was about to say something else when his beeper went off. “It’s the ER, I gotta run.”
I got out of the way. Rudy ran past me, and with the weight he carried, there was likely to be a second code blue if he continued to run. He disappeared down the stairs and I headed to the elevator.
I was walking through the ER to get to the parking lot, and there was some sort of crisis going on.
I was hoping I could keep Gabbibb’s phone conversation short and uneventful.
“Doofy? Dis homosexual patient in here is on your responsibility caseload?”
“What?” I said.
“DAT, DAT, DAT, DAT, shit … excuse me.” The doctor was going on his roll.
“I’m on my way up there, doctor,” I said, hoping to get off the phone quickly.
“No rush, Doofy. Dees man is not worth time,” he said and hung up.
It was probably a good thing he hung up, because I was about to go off and I don’t know how many DATs he had in him.
They let me in to see Mikey for fifteen minutes in ICU. His head was swollen to twice its normal size, he had a tube taped to his nose, his face was mostly purple from the bruising, and he had five different sets of stitches. He was surrounded by computerized machines with little red and green lights and something that checked his heart rate.
I felt cold and sick to my stomach, and though I couldn’t quite identify what it smelled like, I hated the hospital smell. Mikey was unconscious and when I touched his hand there was absolutely no response. I’m not really a religious guy, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I said a quick prayer. I said, “Hang in there, Mikey” out loud and felt foolish, but I had heard somewhere that it was good to try to speak to people in comas.
I went through the sliding doors of the ICU and there was Gabbibb with his stethoscope around his neck and a clipboard in his hand.
“Doofy.” Gabbibb’s big brown eyes grew wide. “Don’t tell me you were here visiting dee homosexual.”
“His name is Michael Osborne,” I said.
“I know dat,” Gabbibb said. He didn’t get it. “Shouldn’t you be catching up on dose files?”
I shook my head and started to walk away. I got about ten feet and I couldn’t help myself.
“Hey, Gabbibb,” I shouted.
He turned and looked down his nose and over his glasses at me.
“Go fuck yourself.”
I turned back around and headed out. All the way down the hallway I could hear it.
“DAT, DAT, DAT, DAT, shit … excuse me … DAT, DAT, DAT …”
The next set of sliding doors closed and the rest of the DATs faded into the rest of the hospital sounds.
I wound my way through the hospital corridors, looking for Rudy’s office. I’d been there a bunch of times but I can never find it easily. After a couple of wrong turns, I found him. Through the window I saw him at his computer with his belly causing maximum stress to the elastic waistline of his trousers and beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. The man was always sweating.
I let myself in and Rudy didn’t even look up from his computer.
“Hey, Rude, I—”
“Hang on.” His face cringed and he pounded a few more keys. “Sorry, Duff. I’m trying to get caught up.”
“Lot of that going around,” I said.
“What’s up?”
“Is Mikey going to make it?” I asked.
“Duff,” Rude exhaled heavily. “I ain’t going to bullshit you. It doesn’t look good. He might even be better off if he didn’t.”
“Are the cops involved?”
“Some detective talked to me in the ER. He didn’t seem all that energetic.” Rudy lifted his glasses off his nose and rested them on top of his balding head.
“I’m guessing the cops aren’t going to sweat the assault of a guy who spent his life in the bushes of Jefferson Park.”
“Probably not,” Rudy added. He was about to say something else when his beeper went off. “It’s the ER, I gotta run.”
I got out of the way. Rudy ran past me, and with the weight he carried, there was likely to be a second code blue if he continued to run. He disappeared down the stairs and I headed to the elevator.
I was walking through the ER to get to the parking lot, and there was some sort of crisis going on.
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