Predator Press
According to his ticket, it is September 14.
Everything about Vegas hurts. The garish lights, the animated people, the relentless overloading spectacle rivaled only by the competing relentless overloading spectacle next door ... it's somehow simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting. But a Greyhound station is not a happy place anywhere, and a Greyhound station in Las Vegas is a singular gallery replete with only the
most bitterly unfortunate and miserably disenfranchised.
His hand, swollen and agonizing, somehow doesn’t drown it all out. In another universe it was to be drained earlier that day in the clinical safety of a doctor’s office.
Houston, we have a problem.
He didn’t know what “drained” meant when the surgeon scheduled it.
Come in, this is Houston. And you think you have problems ...
He knows now. It was lucky, considering the inflammation, that they did the surgery at all. A subsequent infection was no surprise to anyone.
He had lost most of what he cherished in The War. And the two bags carrying what little was left, the things rescued by simple virtue that no one else wanted them, are as heavy as they are currently useless. Packed months ago –before any of the surgeries- as a precaution. In case of emergency. The contents –aside from the autographed books he regarded as sentimentally irreplaceable- were carefully thought out at the time, but the location of anything else in the jumbled randomness was anyone’s guess at this point. It took an hour, for instance, to find the disposable razor he so desperately needed now. Discretely removing the blade from the blue plastic handle was another thing altogether. It seemed an odd and irrational undertaking as he had a nice and very sharp pocketknife, but, again a sentimental gift, something distantly Samurai forbade him for letting the first blood it ever tasted to be his own.
A Greyhound bus station bathroom is far from ideal, but the draining has to happen now: he had just taken his last two Vicodins.
500 milligrams.
-Laughable.
Further, this would be the only scheduled layover with a reasonable amount of time. The station is sparsely occupied, and the bathroom –actually fairly clean compared to most- is fortunately empty. Cutting away the splint with the makeshift blade, he hurriedly soaps and rinses the newly-exposed, tingling flesh without interruption. The bulbous, colorful swelling strains at the stitching, and even with cursory inspection it's easy to tell where the incision will be required.
Luggage already waiting for him in a selected stall, he entered and locked the door. Carefully extracting the blade from his shirt pocket, he sterilized the tip with the flame from his lighter and tipped the toilet lid back with the toe of his shoe. He was acting quickly, as if to fool the higher functions of his brain which -if engaged- would sanely question his resolve to avoid another emergency room visit.
Even in the most neutral of positioning, the throbbing ache from his hand was unbearable. And this might explain why the cutting was surprisingly painless. Texturally, it was how he imagined slicing into a jellyfish might be. The discharge, a curious mix of clear yellow and blood, oozed instantly at the touch of the blade's tip, and he drew a short line parallel to the stitches. But it wasn’t as much as he hoped, and a larger cut would only require more stitching -thus defeating his purposes entirely.
Even as the thick fluids dripped audibly into the toilet, he set the razor on the gray plastic toilet paper dispenser, grappling with the grim situation … he was going to have to squeeze it out.
That, conversely, was unbearable. Tears seemed to well instantly as he choked down a scream, and as the blinding pain threatened his consciousness he found himself leaning against the graffiti covered plastic stall wall in a vain attempt to remain standing. As a man that has dedicated his life largely to make others laugh, it is in this strange, pure moment he allows himself to feel rage, to want revenge. To stick his knife into the neck of the black man on the bus that keeps yelling, “I’m bringing sexy back!” at random intervals. To hurl the loudmouth woman in the seat behind him -debating who ate her cheeseburger two weeks ago with some other idiot on her cellphone for five hundred nighttime miles- into oncoming traffic by the hair. (
I bet that fucking bus would arrive on time.) To personally inflict some micron of merciless suffering back upon this ambivalent and unjust world for a change. Sensing his knees failing, in a deeply-recessed, strangely lucid reflex he lowered the toilet seat and collapsed into a sitting position where he guided the thick, grizzly discharge past the crotch of his jeans.
An unclear amount of time passed. And the mind is odd; even as he fought to catch his breath and slow his thundering heart, he was preoccupied with an extremely overdue book review. The opening line could go something like,
”Over the span of reading this book, I had four broken bones, three surgeries, initiated what will likely amount to a divorce, and had a shitty fantasy football draft. Without a doubt, this book is the best thing in my life.” While not sure how many units that would move, it would certainly fit nicely on the jacket.
The gory flow seeming to have stopped, and he noted the persistent silence. The bathroom, it would seem, is still empty, and the wound would need to be cleaned again before being redressed. He took to that promptly, before his dubious luck changed. Even well-watered down the soap was searing ... but he had forgotten the hydrogen peroxide, and this was likely his next best bet.
Returning to the stall with his luggage, he withdrew his last roll of gauze and some medical tape –among the most recent additions to his gear, they were thankfully right at the top. Once re-splinted, he folded the razor blade and wrapped it generously with excess medical tape so no one changing out the trash might cut themselves. While not the best field surgeon, he was a courteous one -and as this was an uncharacteristically clean public restroom, protecting those responsible for its ardent sanitation seemed the least he could do.
Somewhat relieved the triage was over -
cleansed even- the desire for a cigarette was overwhelming. Trying to quit, he hadn't had one in a day or so –and he only had seven dollars to his name anyway. But today was the culmination of several months of horror -quite literally a sanity-cracker. He didn't put much stock in that inner-child pop-psych bullshit, but at that moment he could almost hear the plaintive plea, “No more! Please! No more!”
Once more to the mirror -checking for undetected squirty bloodstains, overall appearance, et cetera.
Do I look like a guy that has been hacking myself up in a bathroom? he thinks.
Can I pass for 'Normal?' But the mirror was brutally honest, and he seemed to have aged five years instantaneously. There was a drawn, gaunt look he hadn’t noticed before, as if he lost too much weight too fast and his body hadn't yet had time to proportion it out. Twice before putting him under, the surgeon asked if he had any loose teeth. This must be why -the rapid and unexplained weight loss.
There was far too much bad mileage. Period. And decimation thinly veiled already, the damage weathered structurally was now eating at an increasingly unstable core. The universe doesn’t give a shit how many people you made laugh: clown or killer, you’re fodder to time either way. He tried a smile for the reflection, but it seemed disingenuous –even suspicious- for subtle reasons he couldn't seem to quite pinpoint-
Suddenly the bathroom door bursts open, and a stocky Mexican in a purple Lakers shirt walks past at a purposeful gait, conspicuously avoiding eye contact. And for a second, the ailing wanderer is concerned the Mexican is going to lock himself in the stall where his gear still lie, but the Mexican notices the bags and moves on to a stall further down. Still, when traveling, one's bags being out-of-sight is bad policy: it’s not that Mexicans, as a race, can’t be trusted -it’s that
Lakers fans can’t be trusted. Or, to put yet a finer point on it, people that wear Lakers tee shirts. Lakers, Yankees, Cowboys ... who doesn't like these teams? It’s borderline cliché, and analogous to wearing something that brags you breathe oxygen.
-“NOT a Lakers fan.” Now
that would be a bold statement in apparel.
The larger of the two luggage bags has wheels and a retractable handle. So with the smaller one –the one with toiletries and medical supplies- set on top, once they are tipped back they are somewhat easily moved. Even with one hand. And getting out of there now seems imperative: he could just imagine the Mexican pointing him out to his traveling companions and describing his encounter with the smiling bathroom mirror weirdo. But minus vanity, why care about something so superfluous? For better or worse, perhaps the healing has already begun.
Based on the past,to make claims on a future now seems arrogant and foolhardy.
-But it is definitely time for a cigarette … and with luck, perhaps a cup of coffee too.
Wheeling out of the station entirely, he is greeted by the screaming lights and some familiar music from the left. Golden Gate, the walkway with the overhead lightshow, is featuring The Doors; the eerily-appropriate
Break on Through is pulsing through the concrete. And it occurs to the traveler that no matter how hard he runs, no matter where he hides, he will still be there. There is nothing new anywhere -there is nothing different anywhere. What must be escaped is
him.
"Arms that chain us, eyes that lie ..."
Instead of cigarettes, perhaps he should walk right into the Golden Gate, under that gigantic flashing effigy of the mighty poet Morrison, and put that last seven dollars on black.
This is Vegas, after all.
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