Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  Baby dropped the carton of chicken, grabbed his ever-present beer and chugged the warm brew, but he was having trouble swallowing. The beer sloshed down the front of his shirt.

  He lurched to his feet, clutching at his throat. He stared wide-eyed at the chunks of chicken, red peppers and garlic that were strewn on the floor. What the fuck was going on? He’d eaten the same food from the same restaurant every week. What the hell was different? Why was his goddamned throat closing up?

  Baby staggered into the kitchen on wobbly legs that were on the verge of collapse. A helpless marionette dancing on frayed wires.

  A large window in the kitchen faced out to the street, and Baby shot a look in that direction to see if the delivery kid was still there. Maybe he could explain what the fuck was going on.

  The street was deserted.

  Baby’s breath grew more jagged and more sporadic. He sucked hard at the stale air to no effect. His face grew increasingly red from lack of oxygen.

  He lunged at a cupboard above the sink and ripped it open. He swept away cans of Chef Boyardee Ravioli and Dinty Moore Beef Stew that were long past their “use by” dates. There was nothing else in the cupboard, with the exception of some hardened mouse turds.

  Baby spun around and made a desperate grab for the cabinet over the stove, tearing the door off its cheap hinges. His head was swimming and he was on the verge of collapse. He raked a stack of chipped Melmac dishes clattering to the floor and there, in the back of the cabinet, was the treasure he sought. His EpiPen.

  He barely had enough coordination left to tear the EpiPen from its box. Summoning up every last ounce of strength in his pathetic body, Baby took in one last massive ragged wheezing breath, and jammed the needle into his thigh.

  This would be a close call, but Baby had beaten death. He even managed a slight, pain-twisted smile, knowing that his windpipe would open in a few seconds and the sweet taste of oxygen would fill his lungs. But nothing happened. No rush of air. No relief.

  What the fuck? He jabbed himself again, and again, to no avail.

  Now in a full-on crisis, his only hope was to call 911. It meant cops or the fire department or paramedics arriving and finding his drugs, and his gun, but he had no choice. All that mattered was getting help fast. He needed was his phone. Where the hell was it?

  Baby turned back to the living room to see the phone sitting on the coffee table right next to his pizzo. It was only twenty-five feet away, but to Baby it may as well have been on a distant shore.

  His will to live even this shitty life was strong and it propelled him to his feet. He stumbled toward the coffee table, but only got as far as the window when his legs gave out.

  He grabbed hold of the blinds to keep his balance, but his weight snapped the cheap mooring and the blinds ripped from the wall.

  Baby slammed forward, his face flattened up against the window. He fought unsuccessfully to take in one more breath, and as he did, he saw the curtains in the house across the street close. Was there someone watching?

  He mouthed the word “help”. Did they see him?

  He’d never know.

  1

  The San Francisco Mission District, known to locals as simply “The Mission”, had a long, rich history. After James Marshall found that first gold nugget at Sutter’s Mill in 1848, the west coast of California exploded and people poured in from every corner of the world. People looking to make a buck, steal a buck or simply have an excuse to get on a boat or covered wagon and head out to the shiny new Eden known as San Francisco. As if the attraction of becoming an overnight millionaire wasn’t enough, enterprising hucksters offered bull and bear fighting, dueling, horse racing, round-the-clock prostitutes (complete with every STD known to man and some heretofore unknown) and all the cheap booze you could drink before going blind or insane.

  Come for the gold, stay for the party. Start a new life or die trying.

  During those years, the Mission was a landing place for working class Italians, Germans and Irish who flocked into the area en masse, establishing communities with their own churches, ethnic eateries and, of course, jingoistic bars catering to like-minded drinkers. In the 1940s, the Mission got a south-of-the-border makeover when a massive influx of Hispanics arrived. This set off a white flight, with most of the Europeans fleeing the city and establishing new ethnocentric communities in the surrounding suburbs.

  The 1960s saw a new wave of immigrants, this time from Nicaragua, El Salvador and Guatemala. The roots of Central American/Latino culture took hold in the Mission and their influence was evident by the stores, restaurants and the abundance of colorful murals that adorned the buildings and alleyways. The artworks depicted everything from the Nicaraguan revolution and the Guatemalan civil war, to the celebration of Chicano traditions, music and everyday life.

  In more recent times, the Mission underwent the inevitable beginning of gentrification that came with the burgeoning wealth created by the tech industry. While Pacific Heights and The Marina were already the established playgrounds of the uber wealthy, those neighborhoods of doctors, lawyers and titans of business were deemed too stodgy for the nouveau riche. Instead, the soul-patched hipsters gravitated to the trendier Mission because it was still “raw”.

  Most of these newcomers had no idea exactly how “raw” it was. Despite the influx of money, much of the Mission was a haven for undocumented immigrants and a melting pot of families from Mexico, South America and Asia. Plus, there was an unending stream of gang activity that showed no signs of slowing down in the foreseeable future. It was Norteños versus Soreños, Red versus Blue, forever clawing for territory and making inroads a half a block at a time, before triggering a firefight that made the streets of the Mission momentarily take on the fury of Fallujah.

  The Mission Street Clinic was located in one of those pockets that hadn’t yet been tapped by the magic wand of gentrification (or as some of the locals called it, “doucheification”). The clinic shared a block with Machu Picchu, a Peruvian restaurant that had been robbed twice at gunpoint, a Korean fluff and fold which had been vandalized half a dozen times, and Bobby’s Quik Stop, a liquor store owned by the Juarez brothers from Oaxaca, Mexico. Bobby’s was temporarily closed until the completion of the pending arson investigation and identification of the corpse of a twenty-three-year-old Asian man found in the ashes. Rumors abounded that the brothers Juarez were back in Oaxaca, their dreams of owning a business in the Los Estados Unidos a faded memory.

  The clinic was one of the few buildings on the block that went without incident, despite the fact they kept an ample supply of medicinal opiates on hand. It’s often said the safest place to live in New York is on the same block as the Columbus Citizens Foundation (aka the Guido Club). No one’s going to mess with anyone in the middle of mob territory. The same general idea held true here – bangers from both the Norteños and the Sureños declared the clinic off limits because the caregivers who worked there selflessly served their community and never turned anyone away, regardless of gang affiliations.

  The exterior of the building was graced with a stunning mural painted by Nico Barnes, a renowned local artist who owed his life to the folks inside. Nico had traveled to Haiti on a charity mission to teach art to young students (and to hook up with the hospitality hostess at the Abaka Bay Resort – charity missions can only fulfill so much of the soul). He returned stateside with a tan, a tattoo of a Caribbean enchantress stitched across his shoulders, and a severe case of leptospirosis.

  When Nico stumbled into the clinic, his skin had yellowed and his kidneys were shutting down. The doctors quickly diagnosed the ailment and successfully stopped its spread. For the next two weeks, Nico was treated daily as an outpatient. Once his strength returned, he began painting the mural, which took him the better part of a month. It depicted a kindly gray-haired, white-coated doctor standing alongside a beautiful young blonde physician with jade green eyes and a stethoscope draped around her graceful neck. The two doctors appeared Christ-li
ke as they watched over a long line of multi-ethnic patients who streamed in one door of the clinic on crutches or appendages in slings, and then miraculously strode out through another door in the pique of health. The mural wasn’t quite New Testament, but it was a more positive recommendation than a Yelp review.

  The Mission Street Clinic was not a typical urgent care operation. Open Monday-Saturday from 9am to 9pm, it was a hybrid facility that had the appearance of a small hospital emergency room. The well-worn waiting area featured plastic chairs (easier to sterilize at the end of the night), a few fake potted Ficus trees (the real ones hadn’t lasted for more than a month), and the usual “No Smoking” and “Please Turn Off Cell Phones” signs, as well as an ironic “No Loitering” sign. This was one place where hanging out for up to an hour was not a form of loitering. And as diligently as the staff worked to move patients through, a long wait was frequently the unfortunate result of over-demand versus understaffing.

  A counter of aging Formica was the line of demarcation between the waiting area and the treatment area that lay beyond a sickly green-colored wall. Over the years they’d tried different colors on that wall, but the traditional pale green seemed the least obtrusive and most soothing. The counter was the domain of a thickset woman named Ramona Vargas, a Dominican transplant who prided herself on her efficiency, intensity and peacekeeping abilities. The latter was a role she embraced with vigor and enthusiasm.

  A story was still told in hushed tones; it was a tale about two rival gang members who were waiting to be treated for wounds. Heavily tatted thugs decked out in their reds and blues. Seething looks across the waiting room soon turned to verbal taunts that disparaged the legality of each other’s parentage. Ramona could not, and would not, abide.

  Before the taunts could escalate and one of these bangers did something incredibly anti-social, like yank a nine from his sock, Ramona vaulted (yes, vaulted) over the counter, grabbed both lads by their grimy napes and hauled their asses outside, leaving behind a waiting room full of stunned patients with “did that just happen?” looks on their faces.

  A few moments later, Ramona marched these two back in. The bangers were clearly in more pain now than when they’d first arrived. With a cold glare that would’ve turned Ulysses to stone, she firmly planted them in seats next to each other, ordered them to “sit and stay”. And they did, squirming in torturous silence until they were called to be treated.

  As time went by, no one was really sure if the apocryphal event was fact or an urban myth that may have been started by Ramona herself. A lot of people claimed to have been there and seen it, while others called it bullshit, but the veracity of the story was a non-issue. No one had misbehaved in this waiting room for many years now. However, that wasn’t to say that there weren’t some notable characters. Two in particular stood out.

  There was Moaning Myrtle. A waifish middle-aged woman with a pronounced Eastern European accent that only made her high-pitched whiney voice all the more grating. Moaning Myrtle (as she was dubbed due to her incessant complaining about phantom diseases) came in two or three times a week, recounting her most recent aches and pains. At first, the doctors didn’t know if she was hypochondriacal or conniving. After a few visits, it became obvious.

  Faking symptoms to acquire pharmaceuticals was a common occurrence in hospitals and clinics. Known as “frequent flyers” or “Oxy-Cons”, doctors and nurses were savvy to these ruses, but had to be careful not to turn away someone who was genuinely in need of medical assistance. One ER doctor at SF General had refused treatment to a thirty-year-old man who he deemed to be nothing more than a “bad actor”. The man died a short time later and his family sued the doctor and the hospital. It was easier to give these patients a cursory exam and prescribe some over-the-counter painkillers than to risk a lawsuit.

  Myrtle had taken her ersatz afflictions to operatic heights and was well known throughout the city as a fraud. It wasn’t long before the hospitals and clinics kept her on ice in the waiting room for hours. The downside of that tactic was she drove the real patients crazy. The upside was she eventually got the message and moved away, taking her one-woman show to another city.

  And then there was The Hollow Man. A confused and wide-eyed homeless soul who wandered in, bringing with him a sense of sadness and desperation, as well as a stench that combined acute body odor with the fragrances of wet dog and spoiled milk. His hands were badly scarred from old burns, as was the side of his face. The waiting patients recoiled from his repugnant aura, but Ramona waved him up to the front desk and politely attempted to obtain some basic information. All the man would say, in a voice that sounded like a rusty gate hinge, was that Dr Harper had removed his heart and now he was hollow inside. He needed to see the doctor to make things right.

  Ramona tried to calm him down, but the man became progressively more agitated. The situation quickly intensified as if a fire was suddenly ignited inside this troubled burnt man. Ramona played her wild card, threatening to call the police. The Hollow Man (as he was later christened) abruptly turned tail and fled.

  He reappeared every day the following week and went through the same litany, and with each visit he got bolder. At first he requested to see Dr Harper. By Day Four, he demanded it. On his final visit, he was completely out of control, ranting about how hell’s fury would rain down upon them all. When the doctors came charging into the waiting room to see what the commotion was all about, Ramona kicked into high gear. This was her domain and his behavior was not acceptable!

  She stormed around the counter, steam rising off her head, and The Hollow Man’s inherent desire to experience another sunrise kicked in. He bolted, wildly sprinting down the block, never to be seen again.

  2

  The central treatment area in the clinic was comprised of six curtained medical bays, and there was rarely a time when all of the bays weren’t being used. The medical equipment was state-of-the-art back when Clinton was President. As was the case in most underfunded private clinics, the majority of the equipment was refurbished second- or third-hand and came from medical supply rental companies. The machinery got the job done, but was strictly designed for basic diagnosis and triage. Any sophisticated procedures were best done at a full-service hospital. Bottom line: you could get patched up at the Mission Street Clinic, but it wouldn’t be your first choice for a kidney transplant or coronary bypass.

  The clinic was currently staffed by four physicians, two nurses and a medical assistant, and they treated a wide variety of ailments, including: broken bones, lacerations, animal bites, allergic reactions, drug overdoses and gunshots. They prided themselves on forming personal relationships with the community, and as a result the care they provided was all-encompassing and administered with passion. The MSC wasn’t exactly a throwback to simpler times when people came in to see the local doc and paid their bills with farm-fresh eggs and recently slaughtered chickens, but it was the closest thing the Mission had to doctors who cared more about their patients’ wellbeing than how quickly Blue Cross would send them a check.

  Doctor Kelly Rose Harper (whose face loomed on the outside of the building, much to her dismay) was a brilliant young physician. At the tender age of 33, she’d only been practicing as a licenced doctor for five years, but she’d fully immersed herself during her four years of Medical School at UC Davis and her three years of residency at Mass General (in conjunction with the Harvard Med Fellowship Program). During her stint in Boston she specialized in Emergency Room medicine, and by the time she came back to California, she operated like a seasoned pro.

  Kelly had gotten an early start toward her medical education. Her father (the kindly gray-haired man in the mural) had been a renowned surgeon and she’d spent much of her childhood hanging out in hospitals, doing her homework in the break rooms and quietly (and contrary to hospital rules) standing in the shadows of the ORs, perched on her tiptoes to watch with fascination as the steadfast doctors and nurses worked tirelessly to patch up the stream of m
angled masses who came through the swinging doors.

  Slim, blonde and beautiful, Kelly turned heads when she walked down the street, but unlike most other women her age, she didn’t work on it. If anything, she worked against it. Dr Harper was the epitome of function over style. When she was at the clinic, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she wore very little makeup, and dressed in comfortable non-revealing clothing. She adhered to a strictly professional credo and fully embraced the Hippocratic Oath to uphold ethical standards and preserve the traditions of her medical calling.

  Kelly could’ve practiced medicine at any major hospital, but she chose to spend eighty hours a week at this cramped, cluttered clinic, sharing her gifts with the people in the Mission district. And every once in a while she’d have a patient who, for whatever reason, came rolling in from the more upscale parts of town.

  Patients like Tara Epstein, the seventeen-year-old who lay prone on the exam table, slipping in and out of consciousness. Her $2,500 David Yurman necklace and $800 Valentino Rockstud leather cuffs ostentatiously set her apart from the locals.

  As Kelly checked Ms Epstein’s reactions to various stimuli, a nurse named Annie Egan made note of her vitals. Annie was a buxom fifty-year-old with flaming red hair who’d come over from Ireland when she was ten years old. The ex-wife of a San Francisco fireman, she spoke with an Irish lilt, had an unquenchable charm, and was well known for her propensity to party late into the night, preferably with men half her age.

  The fourth person in the cramped med bay was Tara’s friend Paris Papazian, who hadn’t stopped sobbing since they’d arrived. Dressed in a Juicy Couture velvet hoodie, Rag and Bone skinny jeans and Yeezy ankle boots, her casual party wardrobe tipped the scale at over two grand, making her also look oh-so-stylish and ridiculously out of place in the inner-city clinic.