Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  Monty nodded.

  “Got everything?”

  Monty nodded again.

  “Alright let’s get you some medicine and under them covers.”

  “You read my mind.”

  Chapter 21

  The Trailer

  MONTY followed Nick back through the main foyer and out into the bitter Colorado evening cold. The snow was coming down in fluffy, white flurries and the wind, like a freight train, whistled through the trees.

  “Shit man,” Nick said, as he zipped up his hoody, “it’s colder than a motherfucker out here. Weatherman says we’re supposed to get a couple feet of this shit by morning. Can you believe that?”

  Monty nodded as he clutched the porch railing and carefully descended the icy, wooden steps.

  “Careful dawg, that shit’s icy. Don’t want you breaking your neck before you get detox’d.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a trailer out back. It’s the detox slash hospital. That’s where you’ll stay for the next couple of days, until you get that liquor outta your system. You’ll like it over there. It’s nice and quiet and you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want. There’s no meetings, no groups, no prayers, none of that bullshit. You can sleep in as long as you want, eat whenever, shower whenever, plus man, who knows, maybe there’ll be a cute little girl in there for you to play with. They don’t keep the men and women separated like they do in the main house. If you’re quiet, you can sneak up in her bed and give her a little something, something. She’ll be so out of it from them detox pills she won’t know what hit her. You know what I’m saying?” The kid clenched both fists and started thrusting his pelvis forward. “Pow! Pow! Pow!”

  Monty shook his head. Didn’t this kid have any decency? Or was he so far gone that he just didn’t care? He sighed and dug his hands into his pockets, then carefully followed the kid around the side of the house. The snow was deep, probably about eight inches—like fiberglass insulation, it seemed to sag as he walked.

  “Come on,” Nick said, looking back at Monty, his hand motioning to a rectangular structure up ahead in the dark. “There it is.”

  The kid wasn’t joking when he said it was a trailer. That’s exactly what it was—an old, dilapidated doublewide. It wasn’t something he’d expect to see up here in Colorado—maybe where he grew up in white trash north Florida, but not up here, not in the mountains. The roof was coming off, the paint was chipping, and the snow was piled so high around it that it looked like it was sagging into a sinkhole.

  “Come on,” Nick said, waving Monty onward, jogging the last couple yards up to the trailer’s front steps. “It’s cold as shit out here.”

  Monty readjusted the gym bag higher around his shoulder then cautiously ascended the set of short, narrow steps.

  The inside of the trailer was ratty and smelled like mildew. It resembled the reception area at a dentist’s office. There was a brown suede couch parked against the windows and a half dozen folding chairs sitting directly across from it. In between the couch and the chairs, sat a dusty, brown coffee table, its legs bowed inward like a four-legged bug. The walls were white, the carpet was pistachio, and there was a sliding glass window set up in front. Beneath the window was a sign-in sheet with a pen attached by a silver chain to the counter and a sign that read, Visitors Please Sign In Before Entering.

  Nick closed the door and stepped into the trailer then cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Yo Mrs. Jill! You in here?”

  Something moved around behind the window. The glass door slid open and a woman’s head popped out from behind a computer monitor. Her face was chubby and she had a bright red, beehive hair-doo with a pair of thick, square glasses dangling from a silver chain around her plump neck. “Is that you, Nicholas?”

  “Hey Jilly bean. How’s my favorite nurse?”

  “Oh just peachy. You got another one for me?”

  “Yes ma’am.” Nick put his hand on Monty’s shoulder and inched him forward up to the window. “This one’s called Monty. He’s a chemical engineer. Came all the way from Denver.”

  “Wow. City boy, huh?”

  Monty picked up his gym bag’s strap and slid it with him as he walked up to the window.

  “Oh my goodness,” Jill said. “What on earth happened to your chin?”

  Monty dropped the strap and lifted his fingers, touching them to the gash on his chin. Oh shit. The cut, it was bleeding. The damn thing must’ve opened up again.

  “What happened, sweetie?”

  “I fell.”

  “He’s an alcoholic,” Nick chimed in. “They tend to fall down a lot, you know.”

  “Yes, yes, they most certainly do.” Jill wagged her head from side to side like a doting grandmother then turned to Nick and said, “Well, thanks for dropping him off. I’ll take it from here. You got anymore coming in tonight?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Is the snow still coming down out there?”

  “Yes ma’am. Been coming down all afternoon.”

  “Well, you be careful out there sweetie.”

  “Will do.” Nick turned toward Monty and patted him on the shoulder. “Later, dawg. I’ll see you when you get outta here. Remember what I told you.” He leaned forward, his lips like a snake hissing beside Monty’s ear. “This might be the best chance you got to get some pussy, so make it count. There’s a cute little pill head up in here. Girl by the name of Jenny. I dropped her off a few days ago. You’ll know who I’m talking about when you see her. Got an ass like a watermelon”—The kid brought his hands up like he was holding a watermelon then opened his mouth and took an imaginary bite—“Juicy! You know what I’m saying, dawg?” The kid rolled his head back and started laughing hysterically like a jack in the box that had been wound up too tight. Then he opened the trailer door and winked at Monty, pulled up his baggy jeans and disappeared off into the night.

  “Well, Mr. Monty,” Jill said, pulling on her glasses, “from the looks of it, I’d say you’re in dire need of some meds. Let’s see if we can’t get you feeling better.” Jill disappeared from behind the window then reappeared seconds later through a set of saloon-style swinging doors. “Now, the doctor won’t be here until later tonight, but I’m going to go ahead and start you on some benzodiazepine. It should help slow down the withdrawals.”

  About damn time. That was all he wanted, ever since he left the hospital more than eight hours ago.

  Jill handed him a small plastic cup about the size of a shot glass with three different colored pills crammed inside. “One’s the benzo and the other two are vitamins. You can get some water from the fountain over there.”

  Monty turned his head to see where she was pointing. There was a freestanding water fountain next to the brown, suede couch. He lifted the cup and dumped the pills into his mouth then walked behind the couch and stuck his head under the fountain. The water was freezing. It sent a jolt of pain through his teeth to his gums. But, he swallowed the pills and walked back to the counter, wiping the water from the corners of his mouth.

  “Come on,” Jill said, propping the door open. “Let’s get your blood pressure.”

  Monty nodded and picked up his green gym bag then followed Jill through the saloon style swinging doors. They took an immediate left and walked down the hallway, entering what looked to be an examination room. The walls were cracked and the carpet was shoddy, and there was an archaic looking hospital bed parked in the center of the room.

  Jill plopped down in a chair next to a four-wheeled, plastic pushcart that was loaded with stethoscopes, needles, tubes, and green bags that said Bio-waste. “You wanna go ahead and sit down for me?”

  Monty nodded and dropped his gym bag then made his way over to the hospital bed. The bed was covered with a thin layer of paper that crinkled underneath his legs as he lowered himself down.

  “Can you take your jacket off for me, sweetie? I need to get your blood pressure.”

  Monty pulled
off his jacket and draped it across his legs. He watched intently as Jill fastened a Velcro strap around his bicep then pressed a green button on a computerized machine. The machine began to make a grinding noise, as if it was angry, the strap winding tighter and tighter around his arm. Then it stopped for a few seconds, exhaled, and slowly reduced the tension. Jill mumbled to herself as she jotted down some numbers onto a clipboard that she held in her lap. “One-sixty over one-twenty. It’s a little high. The benzo should help bring it down. We’ll check it every six hours or so.” She set down her pen and clipboard then dug through a plastic box on the second shelf of the cart. “Alright sweetie…now, we just need to get some blood.” She pulled out a needle and some rubber tubing that she unwound and set in her lap. “Let’s take it from the other arm, okay?”

  Monty nodded and shifted his body sideways so that his left arm was closest to Jill. Jill grabbed his wrist and pulled it over gently such that his forearm was resting flat across her thigh. She fastened the rubber cord around his forearm then knotted it tightly at the end. She took two fingers and slapped them against his forearm looking for the green vein hiding underneath his skin. When she found it, she took some isopropyl alcohol and dabbed it with a cotton ball onto his skin. The stench was strong and caused Monty to recoil. He breathed through his mouth instead of through his nose.

  “You alright sweetie?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jill positioned the syringe over his forearm then asked “You ready?” Monty nodded and turned away. The stick of the needle was no worse than a bee sting—it was in and out, then gone. Jill placed a cotton ball over the puncture and fastened it down with a piece of blue medical tape. “There,” she said as she fastened down the corners. “Can you hold that there for me?”

  Monty put his fingers over the tape. Jill unfastened the small serum of blood from the end of the syringe and laid it in a little spice drawer inside the cart. She tore off another piece of tape and crisscrossed it on top of the other, making a blue X over the cotton ball.

  “That about does it,” she said, patting his knee. “You hungry?”

  Monty grimaced. The thought of eating right now made him feel sick. “No thanks. Maybe later.”

  “How about some ginger ale?”

  That actually sounded good. Plus, it was something he could keep down. He nodded. “Okay.”

  “Alright, let’s get you tucked in first then I’ll bring you some ginger ale.”

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Oh, it’s down the hall and to the left. You go and I’ll get your ginger ale, okay?”

  “Alright.”

  When Monty got inside the bathroom, he flipped on the light switch then pushed in the small silver lock on the knob. He was a little nervous. This would be his first piss since he pulled out the catheter and he didn’t really know what to expect. Hopefully, everything would come out normal. Hopefully, there was no permanent damage to his dick. He unbuttoned his jeans and reached inside his boxers, but was surprised when he didn’t feel his hand against his flesh. It was completely numb—there was no feeling, and the foreskin was all shriveled up like a stack of dimes. The blood had dried around the soft part of his pelvis creating a crusty adhesion between the hair and the foreskin. He took a deep breath and bent his head forward and, one by one, surgically peeled away the hairs from the skin. Once it was free, he grabbed it by the tip, pulled it out of his boxers, and aimed it down into the porcelain bowl. He could feel the pressure rising in his belly—it wasn’t gushing to come out, but he knew it was there. Maybe some water would help him get going. He reached over and turned on the faucet then closed his eyes and listened to it flow. He could feel something sharp creeping upwards, like a golf ball being sucked through a garden hose. Then, it came, jagged and relentless, like razors wrapped in barbed wire and doused with gasoline. His eyes bugged out, his mouth dropped open, his legs and arms wobbled and tears ran down his cheeks.

  It was so painful that he had to steady himself with one hand against the counter, afraid that he was going to black-out and collapse. He gritted his teeth and let out a soft, pain-filled whimper, as the razors cut into him at a slow and painful crawl. He had to stop; it was too much anguish. So, he sucked it back and squeezed his urethra shut. But a remnant drop of blood clung to the tip of his penis like a red-colored spider trying not to get flushed. He flicked his middle finger against the foreskin and the spider fell off and into the bowl. The blood was so dark it almost looked like oil, spiraling downward into the pale yellow bowl. Monty inhaled and exhaled deeply, burying his face into his arms. The razors retracted up into his belly, like the teeth of a great white into its gums.

  “Okay, okay,” he whispered to himself, one hand on the counter, the other around his nuts. He knew what he had to do. He had to get a good stream going. Get it all out in one good push. The slower he went the more painful it would be for him, but he couldn’t do it standing, his legs were too weak. So, he pulled down his jeans and eased onto the porcelain. The seat was so chilly it sent goose bumps up his thighs. He leaned over and twisted the other knob of the faucet. The water gushed out and splashed into the sink. A bank of steam rose up from the water and floated around the lights above the mirror. He reached between his legs and grabbed his penis, directing the tip down into the bowl. Then, he shut his eyes and took a deep breath inward and pushed and pushed as hard as he could. The razors came shredding back up to the surface—the great white was back and ready for its meal. Monty covered his mouth and let out a muffled whimper as the first couple drops dribbled into the bowl. He grabbed hold of the counter and pushed harder and harder, squeezing his fists and gnashing his teeth. The drops became more frequent and evolved into a dribble then eventually developed into a full-fledged stream. The pain subsided and the razors became blunted, like the blade of a knife dulled with a metal file. He looked between his legs. The viscous, brown oil was now a mixture of reddish-yellow, flowing into the toilet in a nice, smooth line. But, as the stream began to weaken, the razors regained their sharpness and the last couple drops felt like they were eating away at his urethra walls. He shook vigorously trying to eject them, but they clung to his tip like they didn’t want to go. In one swift motion, he flicked his penis and the last couple drops fell off and splashed into the water. A feeling of relief began to ripple through him as he watched the razors disappear into the bowl. He leaned forward and hit the flusher, and just then, there was a light knock at the door.

  “Monty sweetie? Are you alright in there?”

  It was the nurse. What did she want from him? Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? He grabbed his jeans and pulled them up quickly then zipped his zipper and buttoned his button.

  “Monty, are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  With both hands on the counter, he leaned over the faucet and studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked awful. His face was flushed, his eyes were swollen, and the gash on his chin was crusted over with mucus and blood. He let out a soft whimper as he stuck his hands under the faucet then threw some hot water up on his face. The knocking continued in a gut wrenching intonation, like an angry punk band who didn’t know how to play their instruments.

  “Monty? You okay sweetie?”

  “Yes. I said, I’m fine. Jesus.” He dried off his face with a hand towel then took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Jill was standing there in the hallway, a look of concern on her freckled face. “You okay?”

  Monty shook his head. He couldn’t hide it. He sniveled into his shirt and wiped away the snot.

  “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  “Something’s wrong. I’m pissing blood.”

  “What? When?”

  “Just now.”

  “What happened?”

  “At the hospital. I pulled out my catheter.”

  “The hospital? What hospital?”

  “In Denver.”

  “Oh my God, you poor thing. What did it look like?”
>
  “It was sort of reddish-brown.”

  “Any chunks?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Oh, Monty. Was the balloon deflated when you pulled it out?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh Monty. You poor thing. You probably scraped it.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Well, it’ll probably bleed a couple more times. You’re just going to have to keep going until it clears up. I’m sorry, sweetie. Here, drink this.” She handed Monty a small, paper cup filled with crushed ice and ginger ale. He took it and lifted it to his lips and let the liquid slowly trickle into his mouth. He swished it around for a few seconds then closed his eyes and gulped it down. It was cold and wet, sweet and frosty—the perfect remedy for his dry, chapped lips.

  “You want some more?” Jill said.

  Monty nodded. It was the best thing he’d tasted in a long, long time.

  “Okay sweetie, I’ll get you some more, but first, let’s get you in bed.”

  Monty followed Jill down the short, dark hallway as the wind outside gusted against the flimsy, metal trailer walls. An exit sign glowed red above the back door staircase, splashing red against the silver of an oval bedroom doorknob. Jill stopped in front of the door then carefully pushed it open. She put her hand on Monty and quietly ushered him inside. There were three beds—two of them looked occupied, just lumps of blankets rising and falling with the cadence of short breaths.

  “Quiet,” Jill said. “Don’t wanna wake the others.” Monty nodded and followed her to the vacant bed. He crawled in, one leg after the other, then grabbed the covers and pulled them up to his neck. The mattress was hard and flat and way too short for him. His feet dangled by more than a foot off the edge. The sheets were cold and coarse like sandpaper, but he didn’t care. He’d been through so much hell today, it felt good just to be able to lie there, stretch out his muscles and finally relax.