“Who is it?” I called from the bed.
“You’re paid up until noon today. If you wish to continue your visit please come down to the front desk and re-register.”
Convalescence was over. In the space of the next hour or so I tried to get up; my back and the other conspiring pains limited my moves. The aching and pulsating muscles were too swollen for the tight skin. Rising in order to get the last ledge sandwich was excruciating. As I chewed it down, I hungrily remembered the menu of prescriptions that I tossed out upon release from the hospital, pain killers probably among them. Checking through the pockets of my pants, I found ten dollars and fifty-three cents. My body was a study in pain. In order to limit the suffering, I sat very still at the bed’s edge. With little else to do, I differentiated the pain into three levels. First, there were the sharp sporadic stabs that dug deep through my lower back without warning. This pain was the worst and I could find no remedy for it. Next, there was the blunt throbbing, which was like having a toothache in my arms and legs. I found that lying very still could limit the throbbing, but in exchange I had uncontrollable twitches. Lastly, there were the scabs, which probably masked most of my face and head. There was a fiery sensation like a very bad sunburn, but next to the two other, more aggressive, pains this was only a trifle and was soothed by the cool air.
Spiritually the only difference between dying and healing is the energy to resist. 1 was running dangerously low on this energy. The doctor was right, I never should have left that hospital and if I didn’t get into one soon, I could conceivably die.
I spent the remaining hour dressing, and then with the help of my cane, which was my only luggage, I hobbled over to the elevator and down to the front desk. Upon returning my room key and signing out, I asked him where the nearest hospital was.
“Probably Saint Vincent’s over on Twelfth.” But I already had an outstanding balance there, which I couldn’t pay.
“Do you know of any other hospital? Aside from that one and Beth Israel,” I had already gotten my calf sewn together there.
“Boy, you’re picky. Roosevelt, I suppose, over on Fifty-ninth and Eighth.”
I thanked him, left, and waited on the corner for a cab to Roosevelt Hospital. I was down to six dollars when I finally, slowly got out of that cab in front of the Emergency entrance.
I used that cane to the fullest as I hobbled through a full waiting room to the nurse sitting behind a wall with a sliding glass. I saw gurneys in the hall behind her with still bodies on them. Realizing that I had to compete with all this suffering, I dramatically moaned and rasped about my sufferings. With minimal eye contact, she asked me several academic questions and told me to have a seat. Most of the people were just sitting quietly. It was hard at first glance to guess why they were there. I took the last available seat, next to the quietest inmate, an old guy who was very still and very white. A Puerto Rican child sitting on his mother’s knee was holding her with both arms, whining in a sustained key. His mother was pressing a rag against his bleeding forehead and rocking him back and forth. Another man was quietly contorting his face in order to restrain his pain. As time tortured on, the little things took greater proportion; more people came, few left. The still, white man was stiller and whiter. The bleeding child required another rag and his plaintive cry dropped an octave. The facial contortionist was now venting his woe in twisting his arms and limbs; I sensed that his pains were abdominal.
I tried not to look at the new people. We had waited longer and I wasn’t going to empathize with any new suffering. At one point, one of the recent entries started crying aloud. He was a black infant, and his mother started rocking him, but finally put her hand over his mouth in order to silence him. People appeared guilty and ashamed that they were sick and weak. I closed my eyes and tried to think about only nice things until I heard something disgusting. It was a rattling sound, phlegm deep in someone’s throat. Above me a young guy was leaning against the wall. He was well-dressed, wearing a three-piece suit; his tie was slack around his neck and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. I could see that his T-shirt was covered with sweat. His eyes were closed and I watched him concentrating on breathing, accepting only the little pockets of oxygen his lungs permitted. He looked about my age. I knew he was going through an asthmatic attack because my sister had had asthma. I rose and steered him into my seat. With his eyes closed he took it. All his energy was focused on the breaths.
“Would you like some water?” I asked.
He nodded yes. I went over to the fountain. Filling a Dixie cup, I limped back over and gave it to him. Then I walked over to the nurse and asked her whether or not she had forgotten about me.
“There are people in front of you.”
“Okay, did you forget about them?”
“Look, we’re understaffed and overloaded. I’m here on mandatory overtime myself.” Before she could continue, someone started hollering from down the corridor behind her. A gurney had appeared at the ambulance entrance. She ran over, joining a group in white who were working on the body as they wheeled it in. Turning into a side room, I watched through a door ajar as they stuck tubes into the body and cut off the clothes. Then the door was closed.
Pain or no, it cost too much to stay there. I couldn’t compete. In fact, I felt stronger witnessing how much farther others had ventured into agony, realizing how much farther I could go. As I walked down Eighth Avenue, under the twilight sky, street lights slowly started flipping on automatically. The sidewalk was empty, but the street was crowded with cars racing homebound. For no apparent reason, I suddenly remembered that tonight was the night of the contributor’s party for the Harrington. If Miguel went to the party, he’d discover my deceit in getting published. When he added that to the Ternevsky scandal, Miguel might begin piecing together what kind of person I was: someone not to be trusted. While thinking about Ternevsky, I remembered that I was still an outlaw and only Janus could issue clemency. At a corner public phone, I dialled her and put my finger to the clicker; if any male voice answered I was ready to hang up, but she did answer.
“Can you speak?”
“Yes, and I’m so happy. Ternevsky’s proposed to me. We’re going to Europe and there we’ll be married.”
“Just tell me one thing,” I interrupted. “Am I still being hunted by the cops?”
“No, not anymore. When Sergei calmed down, I reexplained it. I told him we both got drunk, but he threw out your clothes just the same. He made me take an AIDS test.”
“All my clothes are gone?”
“Yeah, then we both cried and he proposed to me. Isn’t it wonderful? I’m now Mrs. Ternevsky. God, I am so pleased. I wanted this all along.”
“All along?” I asked.
“Sure, I now feel some legitimacy.”
“But he’s old enough to be your father, and you said yourself that he’s a horrible lover and he just uses you.”
“I said we use each other.”
“How about us?” I asked.
“We had a wonderful time and now it’s over.”
“But if I had the same amount of money and all …”
“Shit,” she suddenly whispered, “I just heard the elevator, I’ve got to go.”
“Good luck,” I replied, and hung up slowly.
I searched through my pockets for another quarter in order to call Miguel and see what developments had occurred in the last four days. But I couldn’t find another quarter. After the conversation with Janus, I had this overwhelming fear. In my back pocket, crumpled up, I found the legal document he signed stating my interest in his company. With cane in hand, and pain in back, I went over to Columbus Circle and caught the IRT number one to Fourteenth. I then hobbled down the long uriney tunnel to the L, which I took to Third Avenue. Walking up to the box office window, I saw the face of a young white lady, which was a race we’d never hired before in filling this post. I smiled at her.