My Stilled Life: Chapter 3

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    I've always been one of those guys that once you've made a deal that's it. Come hell or high water, no matter what the cost, you keep your end of the deal.

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    I'd lost the toss. So I thought, "What the fuck,” looked straight at ML and began.

    "When I was born our father wasn't around. When he finally showed up he took one look then just turned away. He was away most of the time and his financial contributions to the family coffers were sporadic at best. Mother had a little family money that kept us just above the poverty line, but other than that she wasn't much of a parent. She hated her parental duties, only doing what was minimally required: feed me in the morning, put me in my crib and turn on the TV. Then she’d go about her errands as if I didn't exist. She'd come home in the early afternoon and then throw a hissy fit when she found me sitting in my own feces, never recognizing her own culpability.

    "Around the time I was three the gods looked down and gifted me with a stammer. Father had just returned from one of his many trips, and the moment he heard me speak, I was no longer his son, just some little piece of flotsam that he had to step around. As soon as they could they bundled me off a year early to kindergarten, which dominoed into me always being the youngest and smallest kid in class and the object of derision. After getting teased and punched enough, I developed a strategy for survival. I hardened myself, and the minute I was confronted I'd strike out for all I was worth. I got my ass kicked a lot, but I always got in the first punch. 

    “School didn't like me any more than my parents did. Dyslexia hadn't become a catch word yet. I stuttered and had a hard time reading, so they'd warehoused me in handicapped classes. Handicapped classes were a dumping ground for all the problematic and delinquent youth of the community. No matter what your IQ, you were unteachable. Thanks to the kindness of one of my delinquent classmates I was introduced to "Fuck Books" in my mid-teens. With hormonal encouragement, I was a fluent reader within 6 months. I devoured everything I could lay my hands on. I'd entered a new universe of possibilities and the hope of charting my own future. Along with learning to read, I had a growth spurt, and father could no longer look down on me. With the growth, my stammer lessened and, much to the amazement of my teachers and parents, I got my GED on the first try. 

     “Reading had given me a new outlook and a craving to know my own limits. I begged and threatened my parents for the few dollars it cost to enroll in Junior College. They finally relented just enough for the class fees, but I was stuck walking. It was fourteen miles round trip and those miles strengthen my physique and resolve. In short order, I had my AA degree. But I wanted to go further, and the only path available was to enlist. 

     “The conditioning I'd gotten from my daily walks to school saved my ass in boot camp. I found that I was tougher than I had ever imagined and a lot tougher than guys who look tough but were milquetoast underneath. The service had become the great equalizer for me. It had broadened my worldview and gave me a new self-assurance that I hadn't known before.

     “With new found confidence, I plunked down my GI Bill and enrolled in Art School, much to the chagrin of my parents. Squandering my opportunities, was their standard refrain.

     “The next four years were spent paying homage to the myth of artistic freedom and progress in an art-world that counts on their investments doubling whenever an artist bites the dust. After Chouinard, Cal Arts and Otis, I had an MFA that made me eligible to join the ranks of the unrecognized.

     “I had met my wife at Chouinard, and after a short courtship, we were a couple. We were happy and things were going along fine. I was making a living doing artist things and she was working with animals, which were her passion. But just like in the movies, things changed. One bright sunny morning, she walked into the bathroom and collapsed. She died a month later on a Sunday night while I was napping in the chair next to her bed. 

     “She hadn't wanted any kind of service. So, after her cremation, I hired a pilot and his plane to fly me over Sequoia National Forest and scatter her ashes. We'd secretly interred the ashes of her beloved dog there and I knew they belonged together.

     “My mother passed from breast cancer not long after. Our father didn't even make an appearance, so I saw to her final needs. I made sure her headstone was spelled correctly and I found a home for the love of her life, a tiny miniature dachshund named Mitzee.

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     “I kept making art and learn to come to terms with my hollow existence.

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     “Years passed. Then on Wednesday morning, two weeks ago, our father called and said he needed to speak with me, face to face. He wanted to meet for breakfast to discuss something important. It had been five years since I'd seen or spoken to him, so I was a little leery, but I named a place and a time and he agreed.

    “But then you know what happened next. Whatever he wanted to tell me was left in an unknowing pool of blood at the corner of Colorado and Raymond. Then I found your info in his papers and wrote. You showed up three days ago, and here we are. That, sister dear, is my story. 

    “I need to take a break, wash up a little and void some urine. All this reliving the past is making me sweat. I'll be back in a few minutes, then it's your turn," I said, forcing a smile.

      As I was walking out of the room she asked, "Do you still have his ashes?"

    

      I said, “Yeah, the box is over at my house somewhere."

     "Oh, one more thing.  He wanted you to have these," she said as she dug in her purse, pulling out a Zippo lighter and a piece of carved ivory, then extended her hand to me.

    “What are these?” I asked, taking them up.

    “I think they're some kind of talismans he specifically wanted you to have.” 

     Nonplussed, I made my way to the restroom and stood in the doorway taking in the sickly green walls that seemed to mirror my life. I took another step in when I felt a sharp crack on the back of my skull. Then, just like Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlow, a black pool opened at my feet and I dove in.

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    When I finally resurfaced, my head was splitting  An insanely loud siren was blaring, ratcheting up my pain and causing me to open my eyes to find out what was going on. A balding middle-aged ambulance attendant looked down at me asking what my name was. I tried to sit up but found that I was belted down, which was a good thing because moving my head made everything whirl as I began to vomit. The paramedic swore and quickly turned me on my side so that I wouldn’t aspirate. Even semi-conscious I could tell he was pissed he'd gotten vomit on his pants, but the pool opened up again and I went in.

    Apparently, the ambulance dropped me off at the emergency room of Huntington Memorial. A gaggle of white coats poked and prodded me back to the surface. They looked concerned and shouted annoying questions that I couldn’t understand, so I closed my eyes and waited for them to disappear.

    When I next peered out, a rather pugnacious looking fellow was sitting next to my bed, smiling and talking on his phone. I had some memory of the face but I just couldn't quite remember who or what he was as the world faded out again.

    Next morning I was feeling a little better and looked around to find that I was in a private room, which scared the shit out of me because I knew I couldn't afford to be there. I'd thrown my legs over the side of the bed and hung on for dear life as everything spun. A tiny nurse rushed over and pushed me back down and asked what I thought I was doing.

     "Sir, don't make me ring for assistance! You've been seriously injured and you will stay in bed!" With her tiny hands, she pushed me back down and was relieved when the doctors making their rounds swept into my room.

    "Good morning, Mr. Price. I'm Dr. Sanchez, head of the Neurosurgery Department. How are you feeling this morning? Do you remember what happened?"

     "I'm not sure of anything right now, but I do know that I'm somewhere I can't afford to be. How soon can I get out of here?"

    "Mr. Price, according to the police detective I spoke with this morning, you were attacked yesterday afternoon. There is a four-inch laceration in your scalp and you have suffered a severe concussion. You've been in and out of consciousness since then. At one point this morning we thought we were going to have to operate to relieve cranial pressure, but hopefully, that time has passed. But we need to keep you immobile and under observation for at least the next 24 hours. If you insist on leaving, I can guarantee you you'll be back very soon. So just take it easy for the next day, and then if you insist, you can leave, once you sign the waiver. "

    Listening had brought back my headache and I closed my eyes. 

    When I next opened them I was staring into the face of Red Nordin. He'd been shaking me awake and his face was not the most pleasant thing to wake up to. 

    "Mr. Price? Mr. Price? Do you remember me?" he asked. 

    “I think so. Are you one of the cops that came out to my father's house?"

    “That's right, Mr. Price, I'm detective Nordin. Do you remember anything about yesterday?"

    "Not really sure of anything. It's all a little fuzzy," I replied.

    Red began, "Well, a call came into 911 yesterday in the late afternoon that a man was found non-responsive in an alleyway. When the black and white showed up, the alley was empty. But after a short search, they found you in a trash dumpster. The officers called for transportation and you were taken to Huntington Memorial emergency. Luckily for you, I happened to be there on another matter when I spotted you. They hadn't found any ID on you, so you were logged in as a John Doe. I called the station and got the lowdown on the incident. I've been sitting with you off and on to find out what happened. Do you remember anything?"

     I spent the next hour trying to piece things together, trying to weed out fantasy from reality, telling him about my long lost sister, the DNA test, and the restaurant with its sickly green bathroom.

    When I was finished, detective Nordin whistled, then said, “Tell you what I'm going to do, I'll drive back to Old Town and search out the restaurant with the carved door and see what they have to say. I will also stop by the Hilton and interview your sister--half sister that is--and see if she can shed any light on what happened. I'll stop by tomorrow and let you know what I find. But after what happened to your father, if I were you, I'd keep a low profile. You've been lucky so far. I wouldn't push it," he said, patting the bed as he walked out.

    "Make it early. I'm going to get out of here tomorrow," I said to his back.

    "Don't count on it!" he echoed down the hall as he left.

    I turned over and the black pool opened again.

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    True to his word, Red was sitting by my bedside when I opened my eyes the next morning. "Morning," I thought I heard him say.

     I tried to sit up, asking, "What fuckin' time is it?"

    Red smiled, saying, "5:30 am. I wanted to talk to you before I headed to the station. I found that door you described, but the place was locked tight. I went around to the alley and found the back door had been jimmied. Inside, there were blood smears in the bathroom and the rest of the place looked like some kind of ruckus had happened. But other than that, the place was devoid of any sign of life. After that search, I drove to the Hilton on Los Robles to speak with your sister. The manager informed me that, yes, she was staying there, that her room had been prepaid by using an on-line service for a week’s stay. As of then, she still had three days on her reservation.

    “The Do Not Disturb was hanging from the knob. After knocking several times and getting no answer, I persuaded the reluctant manager to use his pass-card to gain entry. Inside, the place was immaculate. Nothing in the closet, no toiletries in the bathroom. I couldn't even find a hair in either of the bathroom's drains. So either she was never there or she cleared out with extreme care. 

    "So, Mr. Price, something strange is going on, and If I were you I'd watch my six. I'm leaving my card here on the side table. If you see anything that looks the slightest bit menacing, give me or detective Van Ness a call. After what happened to your father and since your sister seems to be missing, now is no time to be foolhardy. Good luck, Mr. Price, I'll see you around."

    With that, he started to leave but stopped in the doorway and turned. "Oh, one more thing. After the ambulance took you away, the officers continued to search the alleyway. They found this bag with your wallet and some other stuff. I thought you might need it.

As he tossed it onto the bed he said, "Whoever sapped you didn't seem interested in the contents. Funny, huh?"

    I picked up the grease-stained bag and dumped out the contents. My wallet, Zippo lighter, and ivory charm tumbled onto the sheet. Amazingly, my wallet still had my cash, which was one of the only good things that had happened lately.

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    They served me oatmeal, toast, orange juice, a small fruit cup, and weak tea for breakfast. It was just as delicious as you'd imagine. Around 10:30, Dr. Sanchez and his entourage greeted me with their dour demeanor.

    "How are we feeling this morning, Mr. Price?"

    "I'm not dead, so I guess I'm doing OK. Can I get out of here today?" I queried. "I think I'd do better at home."

    "Is there someone who can look in on you and make sure your condition doesn't worsen?" Dr. Sanchez asked.

     "Yeah, my next door neighbor, she's a part-time nurse. I'm sure she'd be happy to look in," I lied.

     Dr. Sanchez put on his serious face. "Here's the deal, Mr. Price, as far as I'm concerned, you should be here for another week or two. But if you insist on leaving, there's nothing I can do to stop you. You'll have to sign a couple of waivers to relieve the hospital of any liabilities. And I advise you to take it very slow. Anymore head trauma and you could be looking at permanent damage to both your memory and motor skills. This is no joke. Believe me, for your own good be careful."

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    When I finally walked out of the hospital, I was shaken. Between ambulance fees, hospital stay co-pays, and the CT scan, I'd been extorted out of $2820.48 and forced to sign a cornucopia of waivers before they'd give me back my pants. My clothes were filthy and blood-stained, so once I dressed I looked like an extra from the Walking Dead. Thank god I had my wallet because I had to flash the cash at the cabby before he'd even unlock the door. It was rush hour and the cab had a curious odor, so I just sat back, closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth.

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    The cabby had to shake me several times before I realized I was home. My head was splitting as I squinted, struggling to count out the fare and tip. The walk to my front door was like a movie special effect; where, when I started walking, it seemed to stretch out farther before me with every step I took.  At the door, I couldn't remember which flower pot had the spare key under it, so by the time I finally found it and got inside, I was exhausted and headed straight to bed.

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    I don't remember much of the next week, just sleepwalking to the bathroom to piss, getting a drink from the faucet and stumbling back to bed.  A week later, I woke starving, so I got up, only to find the fridge empty. It was time to go to Denny's for a Grand Slam. I stripped down and stepped into the shower, trying to disregard the pain as my stitches were baptized. I dressed, took a couple of aspirin, and put on my sunglasses as I stepped outside.

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    "Yes, I'd like two eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns, whole wheat toast, a large diet coke and a short stack." I watched the waitress walk back to place my order, then turned my attention back to trying to figure my next move.