Dora: A Headcase (11 page)

I point my Dora purse in the direction of Sig’s stall. We’re all recording – me, Little Teena, Ave Maria, Obsidian. We’re transmitting via Bluetooth to the laptop on the floor of the Jag in the parking lot. This, my friends, is how it’s done. Quiet on the set.

Three. Two. One. Action.

“Mr. Freud, have you taken any medication for erectile dysfunction?”

“Certainly not,” Sig snaps.

White coat nods and asks the same question using different words.

“Do they pay you to be an idiot in training?” Sig blasts.

Oh man. Poor Siggy.

The white coat types information into a computer and talks right over Sig’s objections. “Priapism” we hear. “Treated with aspiration. Needle. Penis.”

“Fuck me,” we hear Little Teena whisper over the Bluetooths. “They’re gonna drain his dick!”

I grind my teeth. Then I realize I’m grinding my teeth.

“Let’s go over the options, Mr. Freud,” the doctor says to the doctor.

It’s right about then that a disturbing commotion occurs. Down the hall, shooting straight for us, is an adolescent in a wheelchair. Picking up speed. The closer he gets, the more I see that he’s … oh christ. Um, he’s, you know, Special Olympics? Too smiley? Bangs cut too high? Man. What the fuck? Did he escape his keepers? My palms get sweaty. I shake my Farrah head “no.” This is gonna fuck our shit up.

There’s something I have to tell you. When I was in third grade, I was playing foursquare with the girls in my class, and from way over where the Special Ed kids’ classroom was and over into our supposedly normal kids compound – came an adolescent too-smiley. He walked right up to our foursquare game, all the other girls started shrieking, then he grabbed me, bent me back like in the movies, and French kissed the fuck out of me. With the big tongue of a special ed. It was the most humiliating thing ever. Everyone pointed and ran.

Except me. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard it bled. To this day I have no idea what that was about. But I do know it was intense – what happened between us.

So as bellowing barreling Special Olympics comes zooming by, getting all up in our scene, I feel a tinge of admiration. Look at him go! Yelling like an idiot. Then I see hospital orderlies in pursuit – but Special Olympics ditches them and shoots right past us laughing his ass off. We catch each other’s eyes for a second, and he winks! I can’t help but laugh a little under my breath.

And here come the orderlies, slip slide running after him in aqua-colored scrubs with little booties over their shoes – christ – one of ’em nearly busts his ass rounding the corner.

I mean c’mon. What the hell was that? Close one.

I signal Obsidian to try to mop nearer to Sig. The doctor is saying something about intractable erections when – jesus. Here he comes again! Special Olympics! He’s outsmarted the
orderlies in the maze of hospital hallways. I take a closer look at him as he approaches – it’s like he’s drawn to us like a magnet – like he understands where the action is – some sixth sense in that big old head telling him to run with it. He yells something absolutely incomprehensible. Suddenly I see him differently. He’s a rebel without a cause. He’s the id unleashed, bringing utter chaos to the pristine pukey halls of an institution.

When he gets to Obsidian – oh jesus. He grabs her ass. With a little yelp and sly smile. I’ll be goddamned. Even Special Olympics dudes get horn dog. He nearly loses his arm when she bats at him with the mop handle. He squawks, but he’s still smiling. My man.

Then there’s more shouting. Sig bursts out with, “You plan to stab my prick with a giant needle and suck blood, you fucking jackal!” Special Olympics seems to bellow out a response. The blue blanket of Sig’s dignity falls to the floor. I can see Sig’s scrawny old man legs. I can almost see up his hospital gown. Sweat forms on my upper lip and under my boobs and between my ass cheeks. I’m hot. I’ ve got a fucking angora sweater on and this headful of hair – how many pounds does this thing weigh?

Then I hear “Mr. Freud, have you ingested any narcotics?”

Momentarily, the entire place freezes. Even smiley.

“Fucking get moving you goddamn imbeciles,” Sig shouts, breaking the trance, and oh man, then he’s really Tourettezing out on them … more nurses appear outta nowhere.

“Tango one to Tango two,” Ave Maria whispers, “it’s
on
… ”

People in Sig’s room say things I can’t hear. “Everybody move in,” I go.

Sig’s waving his arms around as Little Teena corners an orderly closer to the scene. He’s asking to see a real doctor when Ave Maria pretends her cart is stuck right in front of his drama. And for the briefest of moments, Sig locks eyes with me, the mug with a monkey in my hand. He stops shouting and stares.

Shit. Does he see me?

I point the mug monkey at him and hold my breath. Get well soon.

I have a pop-up thought. See me. These are my eyes. My mouth. I hold the stupid mug out between us.

Mercifully, Special Olympics yells “GULL” at the top of his lungs, clapping and wheezing wildly, creating a rather magnificent diversion. Saving my ass.

“For christ’s sake can someone close the goddamn curtain!” is all Sig says.

Then they close the blue curtain between us.

I shoot Special Olympics what I hope is a look of sincere gratitude … he smiles so big it looks like his mouth might split his face.

“I gotta get in there,” I whisper shout up my Bluetooth.

“Are you nuts?” I hear Little Teena growl.

“There’s no fucking way I’m missing this goddamn it,” I snap.

Then we all hear a weird whisper shriek in our ears coming from Ave Maria at her cart. “Use the monkey! Use the monkey! I slit its throat and stuffed a mini spy cam in its head!”

I look down at the mug in my hand. Big-headed monkey. Get well soon. Sure enough, there’s a camera lodged in its head, its eye poking out of the deranged monkey mouth. But how to get the thing in Sig’s stall? Suddenly it seems obvious.

I look at Special Olympics.

He looks at me.

We have an unspoken understanding. He wanted in on it from the get-go. He’s not fucking up our shit. He’s a motherfucking player. I nod at him. His face goes serious and he puts his head forward and clenches his jaw. Faster than you can say “human tard bomb” I chuck the monkey mug into Special Olympics’ lap. He grips the arms of his wheelchair and puts his head down, ready for action. Orderlies are on the horizon down the hall. I grab the handles of his vehicle and shove his wheelchair as hard as I can until he shoots through the blue curtain right into Siggy’s stall.

All hell breaks loose as they try to get the poor kid out of there. But he’s playing his part to the hilt – he’s shoving the monkey mug at Sig’s groin shouting “Get well soon! Get well soon!” Louder and louder. He’s unstoppable. He’s beautiful. He’s a goddamned natural. One of the nurses tries to get the monkey mug from Special Olympics but his grip is superhuman. “Get well soon!” he wails.

“Get this moron away from me,” Sig screeches, and since the curtain is wide open again I see Sig’s hospital gown is all hiked up and there it is – his high-rise wang – looking, I must say, much younger than I expected. Not gray-skinned or wrinkled up at all. Red. Enormous. Monstrously virile. Kinda smells like hot dogs.

My esteemed wheelchair colleague is literally shoving the mug at Sig’s dick. But the dick does not yield. Finally a nurse manages to pry the mug loose from his grip. “That’s OK now,” she’s saying to my boy. “Isn’t that nice of you,” she lies, petting his head. “How thoughtful you are,” in the most condescending yet creepily authoritative voice. I briefly consider stabbing her with a fork. Then she wheels my man-boy decoy back out into the hall where the gaggle of orderlies secure their suspect.

Special Olympics is applauding wildly. What a performance. Fuck it. You gotta give the guy his props. I know it’s a risk, but I don’t care. I walk straight up to him like I’ve known him all my fucking life. “Comrade,” I announce.

“GULL,” he sings up at me.

I raise my hand up in the air in front of him.

He raises his.

I high five him a hard one, then salute, clicking my heels when I turn to leave.

As I walk away I whisper, “Everybody fall back. Rendezvous at the Jag. Go.”

Ave Maria wheels her cart around the corner and abandons it. Little Teena thanks the ER desk ladies for their time. Obsidian rests her mop against a wall and walks away. I stand up and
run soap opera dramatic style down the hall like an emotionally distraught woman unable to take it anymore. Wherever they are taking my bellowing lad, at least he had this.

In the parking lot inside the Jag we all four hunch around the laptop, its LCD light glowing up at us. On the screen, Sig’s ER room looks fish-eyed and claustrophobic. And you can see some monkey fur around the edges of the shot.

“Fuck almighty,” Little Teena says, “it looks like we’re looking through a vag.”

What we see next is a silver needle that looks big enough to be a rhino tranquilizer gun. The white coat points it at Sig’s dinger.

“Good christ,” the little cartoon Sig shouts from the computer screen.

“Holy fuck,” Obsidian says.

“Youch,” Ave Maria says, sticking her hands behind the bib of her candy striper uniform.

I just feel … itchy. A little like I’m watching a senior shit himself. My upper lip sweats. My head is too heavy with Farrah. And for some weird reason? My twat is throbbing.

When they stick the needle into his cock his face seizes up like his penis might blow fire. I suck in air and clench my hands between my legs. He closes his eyes and groans and sways. He grips the sides of the gurney. The skin of his member is red and purple and swollen. My head hurts. My ears are hot. Sig moans and throws his head back. I see blood suck up the throb of his cock and slowly travel into the hull of the syringe. I pull my hair.

What. The. Fuck. I’m all creamy. Like need a new pair of panties.

The word “shunt” gets batted about by the doctor and nurses. There’s a flurry of white as they spring into action. Sig shouts “Why don’t you goddamned medievalists just use leeches?” He’s attempting to flee the scene. Blue-suited almost-nurses are holding him down. I realize I’m gripping my own thighs hard enough to leave marks.

“Can you zoom in?” I say, surprised by the coldness of my own voice.

I watch the scalpel inch closer to the head of his penis. As the blade carves a tiny red smile into the tip of his dick, Sig screams bloody murder.

Ave Maria hits a high note.

The urologist gasps.

“FUCK!” I shout.

Sig’s cock – I shit you not – shoots blood across the room, a jet of red spraying the white coat of the Dr. A tiny blob of it making it all the way to the monkey camera. Ew.

Now I know why we need the word bellow in the English language, because the sound that comes out of Sig? Bellow.

There is a moment of silence inside the Jag.

“Cut,” I say. “Open the goddamn windows.” We all take deep breaths.

“Ida,” Obsidian goes.

“That’s a wrap,” I say, rubbing my hands together and wiping sweat off of my upper lip. “Did you guys see that shit? That was some fucked up shit.” My voice sounds a little manic. I’ve got strange business in my underwear. Ave Maria is rocking and humming “The StarSpangled Banner,” softly.

“Ida,” Obsidian repeats.

“Let’s blow this pop stand,” I say, but Obsidian grabs my head in her hands and points my face toward the window of the Jag. “What?” I say. “We gotta get this footage on a timeline.” I notice my voice and hands are shaking.

“Ida,” she says, holding my big Farrah head in her hands, and then she gently turns my head and directs my gaze to a man on a gurney being unloaded from an ambulance next to us, “Isn’t that your
dad
?”

IT’S HARD TO LOOK AT YOUR DAD WHEN HIS SKIN IS THE color of cigarette ash. It’s hard to watch him fighting to breathe right with hospital crap all up his nose and stuck to his face and chest.

Mostly though it’s hard to wait the long wait of emergency rooms. There’s nothing – and I mean
nothing
– to “do”. You sit on the shitty-ass Naugahyde chairs and read the shitty-ass
Home Decorating
and
Sailing
and
Newsweek
magazines and watch time stop. The clocks are fucked. They don’t move like regular clocks, I swear.

The other people here look like shit on a stick, too. Bags under their eyes and hope shoved a little too high up in their chests. They hold Styrofoam cups of dirt-tasting coffee and wear the same clothes for days. Their hair looks like utter fuck. The women stop wearing makeup and the men stop shaving.

I can see my Farrah wig shoved down into the bottom of my backpack. Mere hours ago I directed the action. Now I just feel about two feet shorter and like my mouth is filled with metal. I think I bit my fucking tongue. Without my Farrah wig, I feel like somebody’s lame-ass bald little sister. Christ. I bet they all think I’m a chemo case.

My father’s heart attacked him.

I know I’m saying it bassackwards but it seems more honest this way. In a regular heart attack, the blood supply to the
heart gets hosed. Heart cells die. In my dad’s case, I think there’s more to it.

My ass vibrates. It’s Little Teena. He texts: “r u ok?” I stare at my iPhone in my hand. My hand is shaking. Great. I’m not even eighteen and I’m already a middle-aged neurotic. I text back: “ok. e.r. sux. need vcdn.”

Emergency rooms. Yeah. I try to remember the layout from earlier. Surely there’s away to score something around here. Where where where did I see the single-dose medicine cabinet?

This waiting room smells like day-old fart. Unfortunately, there’s a loser across from me in the waiting room whose coping mechanism is nonstop talking. I cut shapes into the sides of my cup of dirtwater with my fingernails. I try not to clock the ass-wipe across from me blathering on about how his wife wants to raise their kid so much differently than him. His wife he’s separated from. Jesus did she make the right move.