Road Trip

by Dan Taylor

  “Ma’am, we need to get going. You need to lie down so I can strap you in.”

  Grace ignores him. Says to me, “I never told you this, but I’m really scared of needles. I was that kid at school who went apeshit and had to be held down by two teachers when we had to get shots.”

  I smile again. “I never told you this, but I’m shit scared of eggplants. Even the small organic ones. I can’t go near them.”

  Grace smiles. “See you in a little while, silly dummy.”

  The paramedic stands up and walks past where Grace is sitting to the back of the ambulance then closes the doors.

  As they pull away, I see a couple of headlights heading down the dirt road, coming towards me.

  31.

  “Sir, put down the pistol,” one of the officer’s says, all overdramatic, partially shielding himself behind the open driver’s-side door of his patrol car.

  “I’m the one who phoned nine-one-one,” I say, my hands in the air, one holding Officer Field’s pistol.

  “That may be the case, but you still need to put the pistol down, and slowly.”

  I think he’s being unreasonable, assuming I’m a threat, until I realize I’m just wearing a vest, and with dress shoes, to boot.

  “Okay, I’m putting it down, now. Don’t shoot.” I do. Then I say, “The guy you want is lying over there, wearing a police uniform. I’m ninety percent sure he’s just posing as a police officer or a deputy or whatever.” I think about whom he regards as his superior, the destroyed scarecrow on the ground. “Seventy-five percent sure, actually.”

  “We know who he is.”

  “You do? Then why are you still pointing the pistol at me?”

  He makes a head movement, some cop signal, and his partner, who’s shielding himself behind the passenger-side door goes over to where Officer Field is lying. He approaches slowly, his gun drawn but pointing downwards, him taking exaggerated, silent steps, like a marine stalking through a jungle, scared of snapping twigs under his boots and giving away his position.

  When he gets there, he takes in the scene, and then says to his partner, “He’s got a sock in his mouth.”

  “Get him in the back, then,” the officer says, who’s still pointing his pistol at me.

  A couple minutes later everything’s calmed down. Officer Field is in the back of the patrol car, but only after having the handcuffs I put on him removed and replaced by the ones the arresting officer had attached to his gadget belt.

  The arresting officer is leaning up against the patrol car and sipping a coffee from a paper cup and eating what looks like a croissant, and the other officer is standing in front of me, a notepad and pen in his hand.

  With the pistol I had confiscated, I’m no longer a threat, and am no longer being treated as such.

  Over the course of the next five or so minutes, I tell him the series of events that led up to him standing in front me, writing it all down.

  When I’m finished, he says, “That’s a hell of a night you’ve had, Mr. Hancock.”

  I don’t know to how to respond, so I say, “Thanks, Officer Sherbet.”

  I’m not being flippant. That’s his name.

  “Will you be able to come down to the sheriff’s office tomorrow and make an official statement?” he asks.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to get that shithead behind bars.” I think a second. “Is the sheriff quarterbacking this thing?”

  “He’ll take over the investigation from here, him and his deputies. Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble. I’d kinda like to be with my wife now.”

  I expect him to send another patrol car over, but five minutes later I’m sitting in the back of the Officer Sherbet’s patrol car, sitting next to Officer Field, and holding the sheriff’s uniform, which Officer Sherbet carefully removed from the broken remains of the scarecrow. It’s been folded up and is lying on my lap. Despite Officer Sherbet’s brushing it off, it still has straws of hay stuck to it, which stick into my bare forearms whenever we go over a bump on the dirt road.

  We’re all sitting in silence, including Officer Field, who’s just staring out of the window and feeling sorry for himself.

  It’s late, I’m super tired, but I’m terrible at not making small talk. “You guys had a nice night?” I ask.

  “Just business as usual, sir,” Officer Sherbet says.

  “Never a dull moment, huh?”

  “Never a dull moment.”

  Silence a couple seconds.

  Then I say, “You fellas got the time?”

  “It’s a quarter after one.”

  “So early? I thought it’d be later.”

  “No, a quarter after one.”

  “What time you guys get off?” And then, on the tail of that question: “Working nights, that must be real tough.”

  I don’t think Officer Sherbet’s going to respond, until he says, “It is what it is.”

  “You got that right.”

  I go to say something, but Officer Sherbet interrupts me. “Sir, I think I’ll just concentrate on my driving now, if that’s okay with you?”

  “Okey dokey.”

  32.

  I’m sitting in the waiting room while I wait for Grace to come out of surgery. I was wrong about her eating ice cream by now, but I’m sure she knows that was a metaphor for her being out of hot water, if she ever was.

  If you’re wondering, I’m still just wearing the vest. Officer Sherbet and who turned out to be called Officer Dip were kind enough to give me a ride, but drew the line at giving me one of the shirts off their backs, or the sheriff’s shirt, for that matter, which Officer Sherbet said they had to get back to the sheriff forthwith. I’m blending in better than I thought I would at the emergency department, despite the vest and dress shoes. While I’m sipping a cup of machine tea, which I’m contractually obligated to tell you is terrible, a dude waddles past wearing a vacuum cleaner attachment up his ass, with the hose still attached. Terrible fashion decision. And another dude walks past a couple minutes later with what can only be described as a hat only a great grandmother would wear to a funeral presumably superglued to his head and wearing a T-shirt on which it reads “Female Bowel Inspector.”

  I really miss the days of “Female Body Inspector” being an edgy T-shirt slogan.

  After being there around forty-five minutes a doctor comes up to me, asks if I’m Mr. Hancock and, after my confirming that I am, introduces himself as Doctor Cankles.

  I can only assume that if I hadn’t been the man he was looking for, he would’ve moved on to the next sorry son of a bitch that fit my description, having never introduced himself.

  There’s an awkward moment’s silence, and then he says, “Aren’t you going to stand?”

  “Or you could sit. One or the other.”

  He remains standing and raises an eyebrow sassily, so I get up.

  Then he says, “Your wife, Mrs. Hancock, you’ll be glad to know she made it.”

  He holds out his hand for me to shake it.

  I frown and say, “I’m confused. Was she ever in danger of not making it?”

  “Well, she was shot.” Still holding out his hand.

  “So she was, in danger, I mean, of not making it?”

  He leans in, lowers his voice. “Well not exactly, but it was tricky surgery, nonetheless.”

  I smile. “Oh, then good job, Doctor.”

  I go to shake his hand, but he takes it away before I can grip it.

  Then he says, “I don’t want to shake your hand now.” He shrugs. “It’s a hygiene thing.”

  He turns to walk away, but I stop him by saying, “Can I go and see her now?”

  “You can. She was only under local anesthetic.”

  He turns to walk away again.

  So I say, “Do you mind telling me which room she’s in?”

  “One of the nurses will be along to tell you.”

  He walks away shaking his head dismissively.
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  A couple minutes later a nurse comes over to where I’m sitting, asks me if I’m the guy who upset Doctor Cankles.

  I confirm I am, and she tells me to follow her to the room Grace is in.

  Before I’m allowed to go in, she says, “How much did Doctor Cankles tell you about her prognosis?”

  “I know she made it.”

  “He didn’t mention anything about her requiring physiotherapy?”

  “No.”

  “Or that she’ll have to walk with a crutch for the next four to six months?”

  “Not that, either.”

  “Well, she will, both of those. He was supposed to say that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “To see my wife? Sure.”

  We go in, she leading the way.

  The nurse goes and stands by the bed.

  There’s only one bed and one woman in the room, who has her eyes closed, but her hair’s a mess, making her look nothing like Grace. Erring on the side of caution, I point at the woman lying in the bed and mouth the words, “Is that her?” to the nurse.

  She frowns and nods her head, and I give her a thumbs-up.

  Then I affect a tone like I’ve just come in the room and recognized her instantly and say, “Grace, welcome back to non-surgery land!”

  She opens up her eyes, as though after a light snooze, sees me, and smiles. “Hey, silly dummy! You made it!”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “Come over here and give me a kiss.”

  “I will, just as soon as the nurse has gone.”

  “What nurse?” Grace says, and then looks around. “Oh hey, nurse.” Grace must be on some heavy medication, as she says, “Do you mind if my husband comes over and gives me one of those physically awkward bed hugs while you’re here?”

  The nurse give a little shake of her head. “I don’t mind.”

  Grace holds out her arms.

  I hesitate.

  And Grace says, “Well what are you waiting for, Joe McGlain? Bring it in.” She giggles. “I totally meant John. John McGlain.”

  I go over to Grace and receive a twenty-second-plus hug, which tests the staying power of my lower back, and then she releases me.

  When I’m standing, the nurse holds up a Ziploc bag, inside which is the bullet that was extracted from Grace’s hip. “Doctor Cankles asked me to ask you if you wanted to keep this?”

  “Sure, we can put it under her pillow and get a hell of a payout from the tooth fairy.”

  I take it from her and the nurse leaves.

  I then take a seat on Grace’s bed, resting one ass cheek on there. It’s uncomfortable.

  I say, “So, are they treating you well and other clichés?”

  “I can’t complain. I bet there are circumcisions that have lasted longer than the surgery I had. That surgeon—?”

  “Doctor Cankles?”

  “Yeah, him, he had really soft hands.”

  I smile. “Gloves. He had soft gloves, honey.”

  She takes a deep breath and on the exhale says, “Dreamy…” and then her voice trails off.

  I sit there contemplating whether she means portly surgeon Doctor Cankles and-slash-or his latex-covered touch, or the effect of what medication she’s on. I assume the latter but change the subject, anyway.

  “How long do you have to be here?” I ask.

  She looks at me a second, a silly look on her face, and then says, “Forever?” and giggles.

  “No, seriously.”

  “Oh, they haven’t told me.”

  “Have they informed you you’ll have to walk on a crutch for a while and receive physiotherapy?”

  “They did. I’m ignoring that right now. It would ruin the buzz of whatever medication they have me on.” She thinks a second. “Oh, did they arrest the bad guy?”

  “They did, but acted like they kinda wanted to arrest me first.”

  “Cops are funny.”

  “They’re a hoot.”

  “Oh, did the nurse give you an update on my icecream?”

  “When I said that, it was symbolic, meaning you’d be out of hot water by the time I got here. I don’t think you’re going to be getting any. I think you only get that if you have your tonsils removed.”

  She sighs. “Bummer. The symbolic stuff doesn’t taste half as good.”

  “We’ll get you some when you’re out of here, assuming you don’t succumb to a hospital-acquired infection.”

  She pats my hand. “Don’t make jokes, Jake. What I need from you right now is a regular-Joe husbanding style.”

  “Oh, then let me rephrase what I said. ‘We’ll get you some, and I’ll even let you have three scoops instead of two.’”

  She smiles. “That’s better.”

  I sit and she lies in silence a couple minutes, Grace with her eyes closed, and me with a cramp in my right buttock.

  I go to get up to sit in a chair but, without opening her eyes, Grace puts her hand on mine, stopping me. “Don’t go anywhere. The way the mattress is compressed at one side, I find that comforting.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  33.

  Turns out I’m wrong about the icecream being symbolic. Half an hour later, an orderly comes into the room, pushing a makeshift icecream cart comprised of a stainless steel surgery trolley with various tubs of icecream on it, stacks of stainless steel bowls I don’t want to imagine for what they’re usually used, and a bed pan filled with hot water, in which lies an icecream scoop.

  Not only is the icecream not symbolic, it’s not just regular vanilla. Grace gets chocolate chip and I, in line with hospital policy for the treatment of visitors, receive a popsicle.

  FYI, only animals eat fruit-flavored ice covered in a thin layer of kiddy chocolate.

  I stay the night at the hospital. Grace isn’t allowed to discharge herself until tomorrow, and I don’t know the number of a taxi service in this part of the country. If I did, I still think I’d stay here. Right after a bed with all those silly pillows and a comfortable, unnecessary duvet, a hospital chair is my second-favorite place to sleep.

  When I wake, Grace is sitting up in bed, a smile on her face, looking rested. I don’t know how many times I woke in the night, to neither pee nor raid the refrigerator, but I’m pretty sure I safely dodged REM sleep the whole night. Score.

  I’m pretty sharp after eight hours, but any less, and my sarcasm radar is on the fritz, which is why, after Grace says, “You look rested,” I reply, “Really? I don’t feel it.”

  “Your hair looks like early-2000s Jack Osbourne.”

  I rub my eyes and sit up from my slouching position. “How did that happen? The top of my head hasn’t made contact with anything the whole night.”

  “Maybe someone ran a comb through it and scrunched matte-look hair product into it in the night?”

  I yawn. “Probably.”

  “You’re bad at banter when you’re grumpy.”

  “I’m trying to ride out the dull pain in my lower back, and then I’ll be on point.”

  After breakfast, Grace gets discharged, and we take a cab back to the motel we never successfully checked out of.

  As we pull into the parking lot, I realize something. “We didn’t manage to shut the side door to Winnie before we were abducted.”

  “Jesus, I hope no one has taken it,” Grace says.

  “Nope. There it is.”

  We pay the guy, and then go up to Winnie. We both look inside.

  “So, our luggage has been taken,” I say.

  Grace tries to look on the bright side: “It could’ve been worse…” Her voice trails off, and then she says, “Is that—?”

  “Yep. Looks like someone ate fried chicken in the back of our vehicle and left the bones.”

  “And is that a takeout sushi box?”

  “Either that or someone ate fried chicken with chopsticks.”

  “Those monsters! Why would they do such a thing?”


  “It beats eating on the sidewalk.”

  “Not that. Why would someone take our luggage?”

  “To steal the contents? I don’t know.”

  “Assholes.”

  I shake my head, not knowing what to say. “Bad people steal things.”

  She turns to me. “What are we going to wear?”

  “I suppose we’ll have to buy more clothes.”

  “From where?”

  “There must be a GAP somewhere in this town.”

  She sighs. “Jesus, I hate people.”

  “I’m not too fond of them right now, either, but let’s go inside. When I checked out the shower before, it looked high-flow.”

  We do, Grace getting to grips with the crutch she was given, and me not knowing whether I should help her or not. This one time, I pushed an early-twenties guy in a wheelchair over a pedestrian crossing in Hollywood without asking and he got super pissed about it. You never know with these people.

  With this in mind, I let Grace struggle all the way to the motel room.

  When we get into the motel room, we get a nice surprise. You know what clichéd phrase people don’t use often enough? “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  It seems, in our rush, we forgot to pack one of the baggies of weed and the packet of rolling papers.

  Being able-bodied, I get there first and hold it up for Grace to see. Then I say, “Looks like those motherfuckers missed half the mother lode.”

  “Nice. Which weed is it, the one you got or Candy’s? Please say the latter.”

  I open it up, take a sniff, and smile. “You’re not going to like this.”

  34.

  In hindsight, it was probably a bad idea to get high before I went down to the sheriff’s office to give my official statement. People who say weed helps them relax haven’t driven to a sheriff’s office in a vehicle that smells like a KFC restaurant, signed in at the desk, and then gone and sat down on a chair, waiting for the principal law-enforcement officer in a county to come and interview them. If they had, they would describe marijuana’s effects as anything but relaxing.