you're hurt!"
"I'll live. As long as you stitch me up, at least."
He shook his head emphatically.
"What's the problem? You've got needles, right? You've got thread."
"I can't. I'm not a doctor – I'm a mortician!"
"I didn't ask to see your degree."
"But I don't have any anesthetic!"
"You got any whiskey?"
He looked down, said nothing.
"I'll take that as a yes. Get it, and get it quick."
The pale man clambered to his feet, and disappeared from the room. Said room seemed to swim a little bit, and I wondered if he'd be back before I passed out. Then I wondered if he'd be coming back at all, or if he was off calling for an ambulance. But come back he did, with a pair of reading glasses in one hand and a bottle of Michter's in the other.
"Hey," I said, "far be it from me to criticize, but if you need glasses, shouldn't you have been wearing them already?"
"Most of my, uh, patients , aren't in a position to complain," he said, handing me the whiskey. I took a long swig straight from the bottle, and then offered it to him.
"That's probably not the best idea."
"Yeah," I said, "but at this point, it probably ain't the worst."
He pursed his lips for a second as he considered what I said, and then he took a pull himself. "All right," he said, as much to himself as to me. "Let's get started. I'm going to need you to sit as still as you can. This is probably going to hurt."
That, it turns out, was an understatement.
I'm not saying it was the worst pain I've ever felt, but that's more a commentary on the sum total of my life experience than it is on the matter at hand. What I can say is that from the moment he disinfected the wound to the tug of the last stitch being pulled into place, sitting still was a task akin to resting your hand atop a hot burner and keeping it there. To his great credit, my mortician friend soldiered on until the wound was sealed. When he finished, I collapsed sweating and exhausted onto the stainless steel mortician's table, but I'll be damned if the world didn't seem a little more solid than it had before.
Then again, I guess I'll be damned either way.
"Are you all right?" he asked as I lay panting on the table.
"I will be," I said.
"Yes, I think you will. The bleeding's slowed considerably, and you've got a little more color to your face than you did when you… awoke."
"Yeah," I said, smiling. "You, too." I took another slug of whiskey and passed the bottle on to him. This time, he didn't protest.
"I'm guessing you'd like some clothes," he said.
Truth be told, I had forgotten I was naked, what with the more immediate concern of not dying and all. But the air in the mortuary was cold and damp, and the chill of death still lingered in my meat-suit's bones, so all the sudden, clothes sounded like a fabulous idea. "I wouldn't turn them down," I said.
He nodded toward a garment bag hanging from a hook on the wall beside us. I unzipped it and found a black pinstriped suit, a dress shirt, a buff and blue tie. At the bottom of the bag were a pair of boxers and some socks, as well as a set of loafers.
"This stuff gonna fit?"
"It should," he said, surprised, "it's yours."
I dressed in silence. The suit fit well. The tie I skipped.
"So," he said once I was dressed, "is there someone I should call? If not a doctor, then your wife perhaps?"
"What? No! I mean, I'd hate to bother her this late."
"I think she'd like to know as soon as possible, don't you? After all, your return is nothing short of miraculous. I swear, in all my years, I've never seen anything like it! I expect the medical journals will be chomping at the bit to write about you – and let's not forget the media! No doubt they'll be sure to growf !"
I'm guessing the media wouldn't be sure to growf – that's just the noise the guy made when I snatched the sheet off the mortician's table
"I'll live. As long as you stitch me up, at least."
He shook his head emphatically.
"What's the problem? You've got needles, right? You've got thread."
"I can't. I'm not a doctor – I'm a mortician!"
"I didn't ask to see your degree."
"But I don't have any anesthetic!"
"You got any whiskey?"
He looked down, said nothing.
"I'll take that as a yes. Get it, and get it quick."
The pale man clambered to his feet, and disappeared from the room. Said room seemed to swim a little bit, and I wondered if he'd be back before I passed out. Then I wondered if he'd be coming back at all, or if he was off calling for an ambulance. But come back he did, with a pair of reading glasses in one hand and a bottle of Michter's in the other.
"Hey," I said, "far be it from me to criticize, but if you need glasses, shouldn't you have been wearing them already?"
"Most of my, uh, patients , aren't in a position to complain," he said, handing me the whiskey. I took a long swig straight from the bottle, and then offered it to him.
"That's probably not the best idea."
"Yeah," I said, "but at this point, it probably ain't the worst."
He pursed his lips for a second as he considered what I said, and then he took a pull himself. "All right," he said, as much to himself as to me. "Let's get started. I'm going to need you to sit as still as you can. This is probably going to hurt."
That, it turns out, was an understatement.
I'm not saying it was the worst pain I've ever felt, but that's more a commentary on the sum total of my life experience than it is on the matter at hand. What I can say is that from the moment he disinfected the wound to the tug of the last stitch being pulled into place, sitting still was a task akin to resting your hand atop a hot burner and keeping it there. To his great credit, my mortician friend soldiered on until the wound was sealed. When he finished, I collapsed sweating and exhausted onto the stainless steel mortician's table, but I'll be damned if the world didn't seem a little more solid than it had before.
Then again, I guess I'll be damned either way.
"Are you all right?" he asked as I lay panting on the table.
"I will be," I said.
"Yes, I think you will. The bleeding's slowed considerably, and you've got a little more color to your face than you did when you… awoke."
"Yeah," I said, smiling. "You, too." I took another slug of whiskey and passed the bottle on to him. This time, he didn't protest.
"I'm guessing you'd like some clothes," he said.
Truth be told, I had forgotten I was naked, what with the more immediate concern of not dying and all. But the air in the mortuary was cold and damp, and the chill of death still lingered in my meat-suit's bones, so all the sudden, clothes sounded like a fabulous idea. "I wouldn't turn them down," I said.
He nodded toward a garment bag hanging from a hook on the wall beside us. I unzipped it and found a black pinstriped suit, a dress shirt, a buff and blue tie. At the bottom of the bag were a pair of boxers and some socks, as well as a set of loafers.
"This stuff gonna fit?"
"It should," he said, surprised, "it's yours."
I dressed in silence. The suit fit well. The tie I skipped.
"So," he said once I was dressed, "is there someone I should call? If not a doctor, then your wife perhaps?"
"What? No! I mean, I'd hate to bother her this late."
"I think she'd like to know as soon as possible, don't you? After all, your return is nothing short of miraculous. I swear, in all my years, I've never seen anything like it! I expect the medical journals will be chomping at the bit to write about you – and let's not forget the media! No doubt they'll be sure to growf !"
I'm guessing the media wouldn't be sure to growf – that's just the noise the guy made when I snatched the sheet off the mortician's table
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