Friday, Dec. 6, 2013
Roll: 3,5. Result: Freewrite, Letter.
I already wrote a post today, but I forgot yesterday so I figure I’m allowed. I’m in a writing mood today.
“Forget everything you thought you knew,” he said, smiling. His beard was dripping sweat. Angelo smiled back and struck with renewed vigor. One, two. One, two. They’d been training all day, and he felt that it was beginning to show. Just as he was really getting into his second wind, a punch came out all wrong. CRACK. His face contorted in agony. “Ow, FUCK!”
Under the bright lights, the pain felt tripled. Lars threw down his mitts and offered to help Angelo up. “Get up, come on, lemme see.” He took Angelo’s arm by the elbow and inspected the already purpling wrist. “That’s broken,” he announced brusquely. “I didn’t mean forget how not to break your wrist. God damn.”
“Can I get an ambulance, or what?” Angelo pleaded. Lars looked at him from the cloud of melancholy slowly setting in.
“Know what gets an ambulance around here? I’ll give you a hint: Not that,” he said, pointing at the limp wrist.
“Then will you at least drive me to the hospital? I can’t drive a stick like this.”
“Here.” Lars walked back to his office, reappearing after a moment with some cloth and a sticky note. “This one,” he said, holding up the cloth, “is a sling you can borrow, for the ride.” He handed it over. “And this,” he continued, holding the note in Angelo’s face, “is the number for my favorite cab company. Ask for Ezra.”
“Ezra? Lars, are you for real? I can’t get a ride?”
“Please understand, Angelo, I need to secure a new 10 o’clock trainee now that you’re out of the picture, or else I’m not going to be able to pay my child support. Any time I’m not looking is time wasted. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, yeah, no, I understand. I guess.” He looked dazed. “I’m out of the picture, huh.” He turned to go. “Thanks for the, stuff…”
Lars watched him exit the building before heading back to the toilets. His business could wait until he dealt with the exotic cuisine he’d eaten the night before.
“I need to go to the hospital,” Angelo told the cab driver, holding up his swollen blue hand. The cabbie nodded, and they hurtled down two streets, coming to a stop outside a grungy little storefront with a red cross above it, crammed between a souvenir shop and an Indian food take-out place.
“Can we maybe go to a, erm, cleaner, hospital?” Angelo asked, frowning at the still-bleeding amputee crutching his way out of the building.
“Exactly eight dollars, please,” said the cabbie. He looked pitilessly at Angelo, and extended an open palm.
“Fine,” he sighed, awkwardly reaching with his off-hand into his opposite back pocket for the cash.
Using his good hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he warily approached the decrepit structure as the cab sped away.
“C’mere,” someone loudly whispered. Angelo looked around. There was a short, balding man missing an eye and wearing an over-sized trench coat staring at him. Angelo stood still. “I can fix that. You need that fixed? $20. I’m a doctor.” He started coughing violently.
Knowing that the man probably wasn’t actually a doctor, Angelo continued into the building while the coughing fit raged on. The interior was almost normal, with awful air conditioning and a white and green typical-hospital color-scheme. He gave the man at the desk his name, explained his ailment, and chose a seat at which to wait.
The doctor came out almost immediately, asking for Angeline. He said the name a few times. Angelo looked around at the empty waiting room. He stared the doctor in the eye and slowly raised his hand. “Angelo?” Angelo said, unsure.
He frowned, scanning his clipboard for a mistype. “No, it says here ‘Angeline.'” The man behind the desk leaned over and whispered something to the doctor. The doctor spun on his heel, disappearing around the corner. He returned, holding the same clipboard, and walked to the threshold of the waiting room. “Angelo?” he asked, looking around the room.
Eyes still fixed on the doctor, Angelo raised his hand again. “Ah, excellent,” said the doctor. “Right this way.” He followed the man around the corner into what wasn’t so much a room as just the end of the hallway. There was a chair sitting right there, and the custodial closet was propped open, a desk visible inside. “Have a seat, and then open wide,” He gestured to the chair.
“Pardon?” Angelo asked, stopping mid stride. “I just need my wrist set, or whatever, and maybe a splint or cast? You don’t need to see inside my mouth, I don’t think.”
“Oh, nonsense. This is a holistic clinic. We know much better ways to fix these things, and it all starts and ends with the mouth. So. If you would.” He gestured to the seat again. Reluctantly, Angelo climbed in.
“Look,” Angelo started, as the doctor immediately went to work propping open his jaw, grabbing some funny luminescent sticks and putting them in his cheeks. “Gaudth, thaugh, rauthaorth goartha – GOW!” An intense pain shot along his gumline. “GOW OW OW thoth ith! Thoth -”
In his dream, he had the experience of riding a pelican from planet to planet, cheering it on as it fit more and more moons and asteroids into its bill. The pelican set his eyes on Pluto and looked at Angelo, questioningly. Angelo nodded. “Go for it, buddy!” The pelican smiled and gave him a high five, and they sped towards Pluto. “Woaaahhhh!”
Coming to, he realized that he was still in the chair, his mouth still full of light sticks, though no longer propped open. He began picking them out with both hands. As he stood up, he realized that his wrist was no longer injured. He examined it for minutes.
Excited, he called up Lars’s number and relayed the news. A funny voice responded, “I don’t know what kind of sick joke you’re trying to pull, but this isn’t Lars’s phone number anymore. He’s been dead for 20 years.” Angelo dropped the phone.