approach her, this really hot guy in a khaki-colored business suit takes her into his arms and kisses her lips and then her neck. He picks up her luggage, and they stroll away while the loudspeaker announces the departure of a flight bound for Memphis.
Good for her.
“Hey,” a guy says. He’s also in a suit, also sexy. I recognize him from the flight. He’s very tall and lanky with sandy hair and an almost blond beard that is trimmed close to his face. “Sorry to hear about your boyfriend.” He must have been listening to our in-flight conversation. “Want to go for a beer?”
Good for me.
t’s 12:01 A.M.” and the pain is excruciating. I’m doubled over, riding in the passenger seat of the lanky guy’s car. After ten minutes that seem like twelve hours, we turn into the circular drive of the hospital, and he helps me out of his car and through the electronic doors. The emergency room is incredibly bright, and my agony is highlighted by the nuclear glow of a thousand fluorescent bulbs. As I limp toward the admitting desk, while leaning on the arm of this guy whose name I can’t remember, I notice a woman with a bloody broken nose who’s waiting in a chair beside a man. His cologne smells like Wife Beater he’s even wearing the white tank top underwear shirt. There’s also a guy who’s having some kind of allergic reaction; his head is redder than a ripe tomato while the rest of him is as white as a marshmallow. He uses a single fingernail to scratch his nose. And in the corner, a couple hold a sleeping child in both their arms and rock it back and forth as if it were in a hammock. Add the Duran Duran song playing in Muzak, the out-of-date National Geographies strewn about the room, and the noisy motor of the drinking fountain, and this place is a real party.
Our hostess, the woman at the admitting desk, looks like Divine’ s stunt double, with her big perfect hair and cat-eyed makeup. Her
motionless forearms lay on the table like hunks of yeasty, rising bread dough. But her fingertips fly around the keyboard like manic hummingbirds. She looks like a huge thrift store mannequin that’s retaining water. I never want to come to one of her parties again.
“Age?” she asks, not looking at me. “Twenty-three.” “Height?” “Five-eight.” “Weight?”
“One forty-two.”
Eyes brown, hair brown, shit brown. Come on, lady, can’t you see I’m dying here? All you people care about is whether a guy has insurance anyway.
“What is your complaint?” she asks.
The pain strikes my lower abdomen like lightning. “Oh, my God!” I shriek, falling over. I can feel something explode inside of me.
“I’ve got to go,” my new former friend nervously tells the admitting gal. He beelines for the door.
“Wait!” she calls. “Are you family? Friend?”
“He’s got an insurance card in his wallet. I checked!” the guy yells over his shoulder before slipping out and into the night.
What’ swrong? Why is he fleeing the scene? Did he do something to me? We just had good old normal sex, as any two guys would. But now the fireworks are in my stomach, and they’re burning me up. As I start to pass out, I see a nurse and an intern running toward me.
When I wake, I hear a TV blaring the All My Children theme and see a curtain between me and my roommate. I discern I have a roommate because the scrim like curtain makes silhouettes of the bloated, large-headed creatures gathered round his bed, and when they raise their fat hands to gesture, or eat fried chicken (I can smell it), their hands appear to be webbed. When they move slightly and allow me a view of the silhouetted patient, all I see is a large stomach on a slab. The visitors standing at the foot of his bed, beyond the curtain, all have big, wide, matching bottoms, so I figure they’re all cursed with the same genetics and must be the poor sap’s family flesh from the lake bed.
One of the creatury shadows speaks. “That little gal is
Good for her.
“Hey,” a guy says. He’s also in a suit, also sexy. I recognize him from the flight. He’s very tall and lanky with sandy hair and an almost blond beard that is trimmed close to his face. “Sorry to hear about your boyfriend.” He must have been listening to our in-flight conversation. “Want to go for a beer?”
Good for me.
t’s 12:01 A.M.” and the pain is excruciating. I’m doubled over, riding in the passenger seat of the lanky guy’s car. After ten minutes that seem like twelve hours, we turn into the circular drive of the hospital, and he helps me out of his car and through the electronic doors. The emergency room is incredibly bright, and my agony is highlighted by the nuclear glow of a thousand fluorescent bulbs. As I limp toward the admitting desk, while leaning on the arm of this guy whose name I can’t remember, I notice a woman with a bloody broken nose who’s waiting in a chair beside a man. His cologne smells like Wife Beater he’s even wearing the white tank top underwear shirt. There’s also a guy who’s having some kind of allergic reaction; his head is redder than a ripe tomato while the rest of him is as white as a marshmallow. He uses a single fingernail to scratch his nose. And in the corner, a couple hold a sleeping child in both their arms and rock it back and forth as if it were in a hammock. Add the Duran Duran song playing in Muzak, the out-of-date National Geographies strewn about the room, and the noisy motor of the drinking fountain, and this place is a real party.
Our hostess, the woman at the admitting desk, looks like Divine’ s stunt double, with her big perfect hair and cat-eyed makeup. Her
motionless forearms lay on the table like hunks of yeasty, rising bread dough. But her fingertips fly around the keyboard like manic hummingbirds. She looks like a huge thrift store mannequin that’s retaining water. I never want to come to one of her parties again.
“Age?” she asks, not looking at me. “Twenty-three.” “Height?” “Five-eight.” “Weight?”
“One forty-two.”
Eyes brown, hair brown, shit brown. Come on, lady, can’t you see I’m dying here? All you people care about is whether a guy has insurance anyway.
“What is your complaint?” she asks.
The pain strikes my lower abdomen like lightning. “Oh, my God!” I shriek, falling over. I can feel something explode inside of me.
“I’ve got to go,” my new former friend nervously tells the admitting gal. He beelines for the door.
“Wait!” she calls. “Are you family? Friend?”
“He’s got an insurance card in his wallet. I checked!” the guy yells over his shoulder before slipping out and into the night.
What’ swrong? Why is he fleeing the scene? Did he do something to me? We just had good old normal sex, as any two guys would. But now the fireworks are in my stomach, and they’re burning me up. As I start to pass out, I see a nurse and an intern running toward me.
When I wake, I hear a TV blaring the All My Children theme and see a curtain between me and my roommate. I discern I have a roommate because the scrim like curtain makes silhouettes of the bloated, large-headed creatures gathered round his bed, and when they raise their fat hands to gesture, or eat fried chicken (I can smell it), their hands appear to be webbed. When they move slightly and allow me a view of the silhouetted patient, all I see is a large stomach on a slab. The visitors standing at the foot of his bed, beyond the curtain, all have big, wide, matching bottoms, so I figure they’re all cursed with the same genetics and must be the poor sap’s family flesh from the lake bed.
One of the creatury shadows speaks. “That little gal is
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