He sat up and was about to swing his legs over the edge. "I think I'll take a little walk before heading home."
"Oh no," the nurse said, "you can't just walk out of here. Either someone picks you up, or you wait until eight a.m. and we can have the hospital's VIP car take you home. We offer free pickup and delivery, but not before eight. Do you have a friend?"
He looked bewildered.
"Let us call you a taxi."
He drew the curtain closed, found his clothing in a plastic bag at the foot of the bed, pulled on his sweater — speckled with vomit — and patted his hair back into place. He stuck his head out into the room. "Do you have a toothbrush or some mouthwash, something I could rinse with? I have a foul taste…"
The nurse handed him a stick of gum. "Enjoy."
He sat on the gurney, chewing gum, waiting for the taxi.
"Do you ever eat?" he asked the skinny overnight clerk.
"Batteries," she said. "I run on batteries, triple A." And he believed her.
RELEASED INTO the custody of the Beverly Hills Cab Company, Richard stepped into the Los Angeles night. There was an evanescent glow to the sky as light seeped back into the atmosphere, hinting at the day to come. He sat in the back, with the windows down, his head into the breeze like a dog. The driver babbled like a bad bartender, talking about everything, anything, nothing. "So — what was it, too much to drink, hit by a car, stepped on a nail, kidney stone, pistol-whipped?"
He didn't answer; the last thing he wanted was a confessional conversation with the cab driver.
"Fine, keep it a secret, see if I care. Everyone thinks they're entitled to keep it to themselves. What do they know? That's how you get sick, really sick — ulcers, colitis, cancer. I tell people everything, what do I need to keep secrets for? Ask me anything."
Richard didn't respond. He didn't ask.
"OK, well, let me tell you a couple of things about this little trip we're on — people with problems, that's who's on the road at this hour; it's either hardworking guys like myself trying to make a living, or maniacs who've been up all night doing Christ knows what."
He heard the echo of the emergency-room kid's voice in his head — I'm God.
"This time of day, the traffic goes two ways, and I don't mean two directions. You've got your early birds and your night owls, couldn't be two more different species, crossing paths. You got the gals going to the gym and the freaks just coming home."
Ahead of them, like slow-motion, a car sped through the intersection, just missing another car, spun a half-circle, and sped off. For the flash of a second Richard made eye contact with the driver who was almost creamed; the man glanced at him, dumfounded, shaking his head in a repetitious, palsied kind of way.
"Musician — had to be. They're like that, can't drive. Musicians and Mexicans don't belong behind the wheel. That and the old people — the old people should be taken off the road. And women, women are the worst drivers…"
He watched as buildings passed by: low, flat buildings, tan, brown, green, earthy red, the colors of camouflage, of ground cover. One after another, mile after mile of car shops, yoga studios, cell-phone stores, wig outlets, car washes, hairdressers, furniture outlets.
They passed a store with an orange neon sign — "Donuts." A buttery warm glow emanated from the window. They passed the store, and when it was gone, Richard wished they'd stopped. He couldn't go home, not yet, not so fast. He needed a minute to clear his mind, to put the events in order.
"In fact," the driver continued, "most people shouldn't ever get behind the wheel. Driving should be left to professionals."
He leaned forward. "I need to go back."
The driver ignored him.
"I just realized I forgot something."
Still no response.
"Excuse me," he said. "I want to go back."
"To the hospital?"
"No, to the donut shop we passed about ten blocks ago."
The man continued to drive. "You want me to turn around?"
"Yes," he said.
"So you don't want me to go up Sunset?"
"No, I want to go back to that donut shop."
"Are you just running in, or am I dropping you there?"
"I don't know, why?"
"I'm just wondering if I'm dropping you or waiting. I'm supposed to take you home — that's why they call us, to take people home."
"I'm hungry, and there's no one at home, so unless I'm under arrest or something I think I'm allowed to get out at a donut shop."
The driver made the U-turn. "You're not, like, a suicidal diabetic or anything, are you?"
He didn't answer.
"OK, so let me know. I mean, let me know if you're just running in."
"Do you want something? If I run in is there something that you want?"
"No, I don't think so," the driver said. "Well, maybe a cup of coffee, and, you know, if they have something not too sweet, a plain donut, a couple of plain donuts, that's all. Or if they have the glazed ones, the high puffy ones with chocolate on top. I'll take two of those."
As they pulled up to the donut shop, Richard said, "I think I'll just get off here. If you'd just drop me off — that would be great."
"Does that mean you're not getting me a cup of coffee?"
"No, I'll still get you yours. I'll run in, get you yours, and I'll be right back." He got out of the car. "Shouldn't you turn the meter off?"
"When you come back, we'll settle up."
"So, basically, I'm paying you for the privilege of buying you a coffee?"
"Look," the driver said, "let's not start the day on the wrong foot."
The donut shop was empty. The man behind the counter smiled.
"I need something for that man out there — a coffee and two raised, glazed chocolate donuts."
"Anhil," the man said, extending his hand.
"Richard," he said, shaking the man's hand, surprised by the physicality of the welcome.
"Milk and sugar?"
"Why not." He took out his wallet.
Anhil shook his head. "After."
Richard brought the donuts out to the driver. The meter was still running. "How much do I owe you?"
The man sipped the coffee; the meter ran higher. The fare on the meter was nine dollars and twenty cents. "Let's call it ten," the driver said.
"Should I deduct the cost of the donut and coffee?"
"Figure it's part of the tip."
The sky was a whitewashed charcoal-gray.
"WHAT CAN I make you?" Anhil asked when Richard came back into the shop.
Richard stood at the window, looking out at the taxi parked at the curb, the driver eating his donuts, and — what? — waiting for him? Was he just sitting there to be annoying, or was he so dim that he was sitting there without a clue?
"Your mind is outside. Come in, sit down, have coffee," Anhil said.
"I don't get it. Why is he sitting there? He didn't want to stop, and now he's just sitting there, eating donuts." Richard suddenly wanted to kill the guy, wanted to go rushing out and pound on his car — "Don't you understand, you're making it worse, you're making everything so ordinary and boring. Why are you just sitting here?"
"Donuts are like that. What can I get you?"
Richard sat on a stool and looked at Anhil. "Coffee."
"No donut?" Anhil asked.
"OK, donut."
"What kind?"
"Your best donut."
Anhil poured the coffee and placed a donut in front of Richard with the simplest of ceremony. "It's warm," Anhil said, proudly.
Something about Anhil prompted Richard to surrender his annoyance at the driver. There was a purity to the donut shop; the wood-paneled interior was genuinely old, the lighting had a dim yellow glow, the display cases were heavy glass. All of it was as it must have been in the 1940s.