His words hit my ear drums like sleeves of fire crackers dangling from the lobes. The migraines were getting worse. I reached into the center drawer and pulled out the small, brown bottle of relief. The cacophony of the man’s voice coupled with the pills’ screams as they resisted their exit churned my stomach. Three hapless, chalky ovals landed in a sweaty palm. I catapulted them to the back of my throat and flushed them down with a gulp of bourbon that sat disguised in a stained coffee cup with the caption “World’s Best Dad!” or “#1 Dad” or something equally full of shit like that. Instant relief.

            I noticed the man was staring and silent. Desperate expectation sculpted the muscles around his eyes. If I hadn’t put those pills down, I probably would’ve projected the gas station burrito I had for breakfast across the room onto his puppy dog face. I didn’t decipher a word he had said, but I recognized the expression.

            “So you think your wife is cheating on you?”

            “Yes!” His eagerness to be heard lifted his voice to a glass-shattering falsetto. I took another gulp.

            “Have you…” I continued on with the usual spiel. As always, it served as a cue to open the lachrymal flood gates. As he whimpered and choked on his own sobs, I prayed for his wife’s sake that she was cheating on him. Whoever she was, she deserved better than this.

 

            When she called I was about a dozen rows back from the over-turned tractor trailer that had dammed traffic. By the sound of it, she was already at the airport. I didn’t blame her for leaving, I envied her. She was free. She should have done it sooner. I tried to cry. I tried to get angry.

            Eventually a uniform began funneling traffic around the semi, interrupting my attempt at inducing catharsis. As my turn to pass approached, I heard the distinct shriek of rubber ripping on pavement.

 

            “Looks like a clean break,” the doctor circled the dark line that cut across two glowing bones. The room began to spin around my head. I tried to ask for a cup of water. An instant later I was on my back staring into a bright light. Gradually, blurred forms hovering beneath the light melded into faces. One of the faces disappeared and was replaced by the doctor‘s. His mouth emitted a string of sound. Nothing intelligible. Again, I tried to ask for a cup of water but all that came out was a dry gurgle. The doctor arched an eyebrow. I used my remaining strength to mime sipping a glass.

 

            “How’s your wife, Jim?“ Our offices were identical, but my desk was maple, his was cherry.

            “She…” every muscle from the diaphragm to my scalp tightened. Dr. Fishburne kept his schedule tight. As soon as he called to “talk about some things”, I knew bad news was on the way. I cleared my throat and decided to make his job easier, “She’s fine. In Scottsdale. With her family for the week.”

            “Scottsdale! Beautiful town. My wife has some family down there as well,” I knew this part of his job wasn’t something he looked forward to, but my compassion was running thin. Bullshit is bullshit. I tilted my head.

            He took a deep breath that sucked all the warm air out of the room, “When you broke your arm, we ran some tests. You know, standard operating procedure,” he paused. His eyes were bloodshot. Moisture gathered around the cracks of his eyelids.

            I nodded.

            It hadn’t occurred to me until then, but you never see bars near hospitals.

 

            “It looks like yours is Terminal…” she ran her finger across the screen that gave her marionette skin a cadaver look, “Terminal D. Can I call someone to help you with your bag?” Her eyes acknowledged the cast that kept my arm useless.

            I ignored her question and grabbed the boarding pass from the counter-top, “Terminal D, you said?”

            She smiled with feigned politeness and nodded.

            The hum of the suitcase wheels on the linoleum was a soothing contrast to the squeals of children and babbling of suits on their cell phones. D is for dog, D is for door, D is for donut, D is for diagnosis, D is for Terminal-fucking-D… I thought of everything I could that started with the letter D. My brain was losing some of its lesser functions; short-term memory, sensitivity to hot and cold, basic reasoning, etc... Nothing important. So I had resorted to what my seventh grade history teacher had called “Stupid Human Intelligence Tricks”. Or, for example, SHIT.

            By the time I reached Terminal C, my breath was gone. The treatments and 18 hour sleep cycles had atrophied my muscles into strawberry jam.  I stopped for a couple deep inhales and exhales, but as soon as I caught my breath something else took it away.

            “James?” Her voice. We had few curt exchanges over the phone since the divorce, but actually hearing her voice… Her voice was the reason I asked her out the night we met. It was what kept me in love for 30 years. I took one last inhale and turned around. The air around her sparked like cheap fireworks. At first I thought, this must be what magic feels like. Then I realized, no, this is what feinting feels like.

           

            Smoke hovered around our heads, moving from one set of lungs to another. I hated bars. They were the quintessence of human frailty. Men slobbering over women in clown paint, drinking until a week’s worth of pay splattered on the pavement outside, and enough generic conversation to fill half of a Stephen King novel. Roy, my roommate and the reason why I was here, stumbled back into his chair with a tiny glass of amber liquid in each hand, “Thanks for coming, Jimmy,” he slid one of the glasses my way, spilling most of it on the table, “I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s amazing. They’re up next.” I winced; the only thing worse than a bar is open-mic night at a bar. The Buddy Holly look-a-like on stage was in the middle of what could have been mistaken for a cat trapped in a Chinese restaurant kitchen. As he hit the last note, a few claps crept through the competing volumes of conversation.

            Another Buddy Holly wanna-be grabbed the microphone as Buddy Holly #1 packed up his guitar, “Alright, next up we have Maple Lane.” More weak applause. Two guys sporting the Bob Dylan climbed onto stage, one with an acoustic guitar, the other an upright bass.

            “Bottoms up,” Roy demanded. While he poured the liquor down his throat, I tossed my share on the floor, “How do you put those down so easy, Jimmy?” His voice struggled through the burn of the alcohol.

            I shrugged.

            When I looked back to the stage, an obviously bashful 20-something with cropped brown curls and nothing up front was standing in front of the microphone between the two Dylans. Roy tried to whistle through his fingers but managed only to soak his hand in saliva.

            The bassist slapped the body of his instrument four times, the guitarist followed his cue. A few beats later the girl shed any hint of modesty. A melody that would have hushed the Sirens poured from her mouth. 20 short minutes later, the angel on stage thanked everyone and floated off. Roy grabbed my arm and B-lined through the crowd.

            “Mare! Mare!” Roy’s lips tripped over the M’s. I knew I would spend the night listening to him swear off alcohol into the toilet, “M-mare!”

            “Hey, Roy,” her lack of enthusiasm revealed that their “relationship” was another one of Roy’s delusions.

            “Jimmy, this is Marilyn. Marilyn, this is my roommate Jimmy.” Burning cheeks and rolling eyes made it apparent that Jimmy was not my preferred moniker.

            Marilyn stuck out her hand. I reciprocated.

            “You have cold hands,” she commented.

            “Cold hands, warm heart,” I recited.

            She smiled, “Nice to meet you, James.”

 

            Regaining consciousness, my sense of smell came back before anything else. The distinct sterility of “hospital” punched my nose. Next, blurs of light. Then voices. Then, the pain. All I could do was groan.

            Two nurses appeared next to my bed. One of them ran off calling for the doctor while the other held my hand. A few minutes later Dr. Fishburne walked in holding a clipboard and an envelope. He dismissed the nurses, “How are you feeling, Jim?”

            Between groans, I managed to choke out, “My head.”

            He cupped his hand on my shoulder. “I can’t imagine the pain you’re in right now. There’s no nice way to say what I have to tell you. So, here goes: The growth is putting a tremendous amount of pressure on your brain. There’s an almost guaranteed chance that operating will only making it worse.”

            “M-fuck-morphine?” I tried to ask.

            “We’ve got you on a heavy drip already. Anymore could kill you,” he pulled his hand from my shoulder and ran it through his hair, “We do have a cocktail, though. The pain will be gone, but so will everything else. We only offer it to terminal patients in situations like yours.”

            “Where’s Marilyn?” I wasn’t sure if I had actually seen her before I went down.

            “I’m sorry, Jim. She…” he paused.

            I motioned for him to stop, “How about that cocktail?”

Bars Near Hospitals
By: Dylan Gierok