Tampa, FL
December 10, 1968
“Oh no!”, exclaimed a disheartened female voice. “You don’t like him either!”
Over my instinctive screams, I could barely hear the words. Thru the haze, I couldn’t exactly make out who said them, to whom they were spoken, or who they were about.
Then…as I paused for breath while someone wiped fluid from my eyes and snot from my nose…I could barely make out the pretty young woman lying debilitated on the bed. She looked exhausted.
Approaching her was a handsome young man…tall, dark hair, five o’clock shadow, and blue eyes that warily met mine. About that moment, a frightened, somewhat horrified look filled his face.
He had just been called into the room, bringing with him the smell of a half-smoked cigarette. He looked at me like I was the one who forced him to put it out. In a way, I guess I was.
It also hit me that he and this woman were here together, that he was the person to whom she made her discomfiting exclamation…
…and that she had been talking about me!
But how could that be? I don’t even know these people. What could they possibly have against me? I feel like I just got here, yet have no idea where I am, how I arrived, or where I came from. All I know is this place is loud, bright, and hectic…yet sterile, dull, and drab.
A kaleidoscope of busybodies keeps poking at me, probing multiple orifices with the proficiency of prairie dogs burrowing into South Dakota plains. And they refuse to let me rest.
Well, two can play that game!
Truck Driver
I bet these people value sleep as much as I do, and I’m discovering I can expel things from my newfound openings more easily than they can insert them. I’ll bide my time. Over the next several months, I’ll exact my revenge.
I never heard the mortified man answer the weary woman’s assertion. But I soon understood why she made it. As I was tossed clumsily around the room, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a passing steel trey. I was battered, bruised, and disfigured. Is that me? What happened?
Plus, I’m enormous! I look like a truck driver…and the poor bed-ridden girl looks like I ran her over. She can’t weigh much more than I do. I almost feel like I could lift her. How did she get stuck trying to manage this strange situation, to deal with this large unwieldy being?
As I contemplated the scene, someone in a white coat suddenly hoisted me up, flipped me over…and smacked my ass!
“Whoa there!”, I yelled. “Where do you come off? Can I speak to a manager? Who’s in charge here?!”
I know everyone heard me, but I don’t think anyone understood me. That’s fine. Maybe they’ll understand my attorney.
Regardless, what kind of dysfunctional place is this that permits…apparently encourages…unsolicited assault on perfect strangers? The poor girl lying down looks like she made several trips thru multiple wringers. I can’t fathom what these lunatics must’ve done to her. I tried to avenge our honor by vomiting on my attacker, but instead emitted only another, louder scream.
Rather than make my point, the hostile ventilation appeared to provoke some sort of sordid satisfaction from the sadistic assailant. He actually seemed happy about what he’d done, and how I reacted. He smiled, praised his victim, and handed him to the nice, terrified young woman on the bed, who held me a while longer.
Begging to Stay in Prison
People in white coats…wielding assorted instruments, bottles, and cloths…hovered over and around us. They asked a slew of questions I couldn’t understand, and answered the steady stream that the worn-out woman reciprocated. Several of these clinicians smiled at me, made patronizing noises, and disoriented me by waving things in my face.
I’m not sure why everyone is carrying on about me. This poor woman seems to need more help than I do. Whenever I cry, squirm, or fidget, she is there for me. But who is there for her? She looks like she’s about to pass out from fear and fatigue.
Sure, these cloaked strangers are comforting and consoling her now. They say that if this scared girl needs anything, she should just ask. But then I thought I heard someone say she’d soon leave this place, be cast out, and left to her own devices. And that she would have to take me with her!
Uh oh. Then what?
Maybe…despite their tools, credentials, and clipboards…these people aren’t as smart as they try to look. Are they really planning to send this unfortunate young person out on her own, to care for a helpless human being? If anything, that’s exactly what she appears to be!
The prospect elicits looks of astonishment and despair from the overwhelmed woman, as if these people are consigning her (and me!) to certain perdition. Her expression is that of a parolee begging to stay in prison, certain she’ll be unable to make it on the outside.
A Moment of Thanks
This poor girl is clearly frightened. I guess I probably should be too. But for some reason, when I look at her, I feel safe. The more she looks at me, the more she seems to like me. I can’t help but like her, notwithstanding the grotesque looks, sounds, and smells to which I keep subjecting her.
I don’t know how she’s going to pull this off. Yet, somehow, I’m sure she will. She looks like the type who does what needs to be done, asks the right questions, finds good answers, and figures things out.
After she inevitably does, I’ll make sure I take a moment to thank her for giving me this weird day. And for instilling in me the ability to make my way thru however many more I’ll be blessed to receive.
JD
..."Maybe…despite their tools, credentials, and clipboards…these people aren’t as smart as they try to look."...75 years later, I still get that impression.
Thank you for posting this again, JD. It is absolutely—and continues to be—one of the funniest pieces of writing I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. Cheers!