When I Saw the Animal

by Cohen, Bernard;

  And also

  Red and blue came over the bar in a great sweep. He pulled money from his pocket and handed over a note without looking at its value. His lips, something strange about them. He pressed his hands against the bar. She pushed some change towards him, but he didn’t manage to take it. Strange angles. He heard her say something. Hey mate, what are you doing? Maybe she said something else. You okay? It seemed in context but who could tell. He couldn’t look at her or at anything. The lip feeling covered his face and neck. He found the beer and turned towards his table. The couple he’d followed in were tragic pillars of salt backlit by the desert. Simeon reached towards them and watched the beer arc ahead of him in the direction of their table. He felt, for an instant, his shoulder against her arm, and his chin hit the table, which might have hurt.

  But didn’t.

  That phase of his life ended.

  He was looking up into some lights, which hurt. A man’s voice was saying Mate-mate-mate or something. He tried to open his mouth. Instead of talk something else was coming out and a repulsed voice said Awwww.

  He heard removalists (?) discussing him: Turn him on his side, maybe lift his legs, careful.

  He heard someone say Call an ambulance and he was trying to say No, no, I’m actually fine, but he felt himself shifted onto a surface and lifted through the air and he was still trying to say no as someone said, Can you tell me your name, what’s your name, someone took his wallet and was saying, Here, it’s Simon, is it Simon, Simon? Can you tell me what happened? And the girl’s voice was saying, He’d just arrived and didn’t seem drunk, just kind of weird and he started crying and then this.

  The fuck, said Simeon, strapped down, eyes closed. Let me up.

  You’ve had a fall, said a voice.

  I’m not ninety-seven, he thought. He felt himself lifted and realised his eyes were still closed. He opened them, saw the arseholes who’d strapped him down. Plus it was too bright and nausea came up from somewhere below the strapping.

  Uh-oh, said Captain Efficiency in full paramedical polish. Sit him up.

  Simeon now had his arms, so tried to punch someone. Ineffectual. Fuck.

  I don’t consent to anything, you fucker, said Simeon. I want my money.

  Simon. We’ll bring your things. Don’t worry.

  I’m not Simon.

  Mister. Hey, Frank, check his name? Mate, you’re a bit of a mess. You going to let us clean you up? You fell and you’re a mess. Any allergies? Epilepsy? Has this ever happened before?

  Oh, his name’s Simeon.

  Aah. Simeon, any allergies?

  Yeah, said Simeon. Lawyers.

  The uniforms laughed. A cloth swooped at his face, warm. He let them clean him. Someone stuck something in his ear and withdrew it. A thing gripped his arm and loosened.

  Can I give him the shot? said Frank.

  Nuh. Chuck it in the sharps. Sign it ‘refused’. Mate, we’re going to take you in for a check-up, the voice said. The altitude changed.

  No, said Simeon, trying to swing his legs around.

  You can tell that to the doctors. I have to bring you in, so you may as well relax about it or I’ll strap you down again. You been drinking? Taken anything?

  No, said Simeon again.

  He just got here, said No-Smile, hadn’t drunk anything.

  Not here, anyway, said the paramedic who wasn’t Frank.

  Simeon fought like a baby to stay awake, slept and woke and was in motion. After some time, paramedics or removalists parked him in a corridor or narrow room. Someone fastened a cuff around his bicep. Every few minutes it tightened, beeped, loosened.

  A nurse handed him a cup of juice.

  Fuck, he said, maybe aloud. I stink.

  Yep. I’ll get that sorted for you in a moment. Is there anyone you would like to contact? Wife, partner, friend, relative? Expected anywhere?

  I can’t, said Simeon. The fucking thieves stole my money.

  You were robbed?

  Took everything.

  Oh no! That’s not what was handed over to me. Pete, you got anything about a robbery? Has he been assaulted?

  No. Just something about a lawyer.

  Fucking cunt of a lawyer, said Simeon. No response: fucking behaviourist crap.

  The nurse continued: You were robbed? (Pause.) Were you hit? (Pause.) Did anyone hit you? (Pause.) Have you a head injury? (Pause.) Okay, did you bump your head? (Pause.) Would you like to report something to the police? I can call them for you.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. How much fucking thoroughness do I need in my life? He only thought it, but he thought it intensely. I gotta go, he said instead. He pulled the fucking cuff off. The lawyer.

  I wouldn’t, said the nurse. Rest first, then decide.

  No. He took a couple of steps towards the door and felt the nausea building up inside him. Fuck. Bile in, bile out. The taste of his own halitotic mouth. He sat back on the bed, throat burning.

  Good idea, said the nurse.

  Not good, rasped Simeon, not at all.

  Never mind. Sounds like you’ve had a shock, but we’ll get you cleaned up and you’ll feel much better.

  Small fucking prophecies. Simeon knew he stank, but once they’d put him in a gown, he’d be fucked.

  Clothes, he said. I need clothes.

  We’ll send them down to laundry. You can have them back first thing.

  Now, I’ll need them now, said Simeon, but he wasn’t even sure if the words had come out audibly. They were circumlocutory bastards, all of them. Doctors, nurses, fucking lawyers.

  Pete, can you shower him? said the nurse in what Simeon realised was a true, non-nurse-act voice.

  No trouble, said Pete, who looked like he could handle himself should any trouble actually form itself in Simeon’s head.

  This was worse and worse. Pete drew a couple of disposable gloves from a dispenser on the sill.

  Come on, mate, said Pete, unbuttoning the top couple of buttons of Simeon’s disgusting shirt. You can do your own trousers, can you?

  But I haven’t got any other clothes, said Simeon. He sounded very small to himself.

  Don’t worry, we’ll sort you out. But let’s get this lot fixed up first.

  The lawyer, said Simeon.

  Your lawyer’s not going anywhere either, said Pete. And I know a thing or two about lawyers.

  Simeon found himself naked and sitting on a plastic chair in the shower enclosure. The water came out cold, warmed slightly without ever becoming quite hot enough, but it was better than being covered in crud. He wiped at his face and neck with the sponge Pete handed him. After a couple of minutes he began to shiver. Pete switched off the water and helped him into a hospital robe and tied it at the back.

  Fuck, said Simeon out loud. One step below a fucking straitjacket.

  He had been compliant as all fuck, just like with the lawyer, same fucking problem as had got him into all this.

  At least five steps below, said Pete. And I’d try to tone down the language. That’s if you want to get out of here. There’s a neurologist coming to have a chat.

  What the fuck for? said Simeon, or maybe he didn’t, and the robe was sticking to his residual dampness.

  Pete had him by the bicep and led him back to the bed, backing him up with just enough force to ensure he sat.

  Nothing’s going to happen out there in the world that you won’t deal with better when you’re well, said Pete. Nothing.

  I’m fine, said Simeon. What do you think is wrong with me. These fuckers. This isn’t fucking Bleak House, mate. These bastards aren’t going to wait.

  Phone them up, said Pete. I’ve had to deal with lawyers in my life, probably been in more strife than you, or maybe not quite as much, but anyway. The promise of a letter from another solicitor usually pauses them for a while.
r />   A phone call won’t do anything, said Simeon.

  My response to your letter of the 14th will be with you tomorrow, said Pete. Does that sound credible?

  What, said Simeon. What the fuck.

  I’m a natural, boasted Pete. Come on, it can’t do any harm and it could work. I could write it down for you if you like.

  Tell you what, said Simeon. You phone them.

  Ha, said Pete. His mouth twisted with half-serious consideration. Ha. All right, I will. Always good to broaden your role. Give us the number then.

  Doing something would be better than nothing, that’s what Simeon was thinking. Pete dialled the lawyer.

  Hello, said Pete. Aah good, you are just the person with whom I was hoping to speak. I’m Peter calling from G and L Solicitors. We’ve received instructions from our client Mr Simeon Axel with regard to your conversation with him earlier today. (Very long pause. Pete eyebrowed towards Simeon, who raised a thumb in reply.) Our understanding, continued Pete, is that you were quite specific. (Long pause.) Uh-huh. Well, we will be responding to your statements and purported actions within seven days. (Pause.) My client through us will view most unfavourably any further actions you take within those seven days and we will respond accordingly. (Short pause.) Yes, of course. I’ll send this through to you in writing tomorrow morning, as my secretary has left for the day. Have you made a note? (Very short pause.) Thank you. Goodbye.

  That will delay them, said Pete. So many patients need that kind of assistance it ought to be part of my job. Now, how about you get some rest? Once the neurologist sees you, things will become clearer. Reassurance: better than morphine and less paperwork.

  Right. Thanks, said Simeon. He was feeling a kind of apprehensive or conditional gratitude. Or was that a combination of fear and emotional abdication? The tension was still there, but covered up with verbiage.

  Still, he must have been to some extent mollified. Simeon allowed himself to be helped into the bed, the heavy coolness of clean sheets, a pillow not quite right, fluorescent lighting flicked off overhead as Pete hit the switch, but still coming through the internal windows.

  He closed his eyes, was instantly asleep and dreaming of Pete meeting with the lawyer, bounced back after what felt like two minutes but instead was the middle of the night. Weird time-compression shit. Clock: 3:33AM. He swung his feet over the side of the bed. Someone had placed hospital slippers there. On. He stood up. The corridor was empty and he couldn’t decide which way to turn, but what did it matter. Someone groaned from the next room. A bell sounded and a light came on somewhere. Funny how everyone wakes at the same time for no reason. He took a few steps along the corridor. What exactly did he want? Maybe one of those hospital cheese sandwiches. There was no one at the nurses’ station and he called out, Hello?

  A cross nurse with a question-mark face emerged.

  Sandwich, he said.

  She gestured towards Patient Kitchen.

  A tray of sandwiches sat there on the bench, and he took one. The bread had dried out, but this was in a way comforting, the expectedness of that texture. He put a few of the dry sandwiches onto a saucer and returned to the room, placing them on his tray-table. He pulled the folder from the foot of the bed and flicked through the notes.

  Up the top of the page someone had written assess neuro. cog imp? Fall? Vom and vom times. In another hand was Possible aggro Avoid startle.

  Oh great, he thought. But bullshit. I’m a perfect gentleman. Blood pressure and temperature graphs seemed fine enough. There was a drug chart, but a headache tablet was the only thing on it. It seemed to Simeon that he had been given something other than a headache tablet, but what could it have been? He couldn’t recall details of when or by whom. Might it have been before he’d fainted, perhaps in the lawyer’s office? Simeon couldn’t remember if he’d accepted so much as a glass of water from that agent of thieves. He couldn’t picture the exchange, so rang for the nurse.

  How come the only thing charted is a headache tablet? he asked.

  You’re quite right, dear, said the same punctuation-faced nurse. I’ll write down sandwich for you. Did you just have the one?

  No …

  I’ll write two then, shall I?

  No. I think someone gave me something, said Simeon, but this sounded unreliable even to him.

  Uh-huh. I’ll ask around, she said. Is there anything else?

  No. No thank you.

  Okay, dear. Ring if you need anything.

  Simeon struggled to think and fell asleep before he achieved anything like clarity.

  Pete woke him by opening the curtains, behind which Simeon could see a dismal fountain of smoke rising from the hospital incinerator. He felt a little better for the sleep.

  Do I have time for a quick sauna before check-out? he joked.

  You have a couple of scans booked, said Pete, in nurse mode.

  Fuck. I don’t consent to anything, said Simeon, switching to oppositional defiance. Where are my clothes?

  Patience, said Pete. We’re all on your side.

  I know what that means, said Simeon. I’ve got to get out of here.

  Cooperation will get you out sooner, said Pete. You seem fine to me but you’ve been charted as MCI? Release only into care.

  What the fuck’s MCI?

  Easy on the language. Mild cognitive impairment. All that stuff about the lawyer seems to have been noted as non-sequential and possibly paranoid. Neurologist thinks you banged your head when you fell.

  Bullshit, said Simeon. I didn’t bang anything. Get me my clothes. I’ll walk out fucking naked.

  You could, but it wouldn’t go too well. I’m officially directed to restrain you to prevent risk of harm to yourself or others. You are an official risk.

  What, said Simeon. What fucking bullshit. Let me see it. Who the hell put that out? This is freaking me out.

  Never mind, said Pete. I can sort that out for you. You’ve been charted for sedation on request.

  You mean you can treat the anxiety but not the directive? Simeon’s face twitched itself.

  You got it. Fix the freak-out, leave the law.

  No.

  Your choice.

  Simeon sagged into the bed, or he felt as though he had. What he assumed was breakfast lay hidden under an apricot-coloured plastic cover on a trolley. Apricot-ish. The pillow was still wrong.

  You should eat something, said Pete. He smiled briefly and wasn’t there any more.

  Fuck everything and everyone, Simeon said, aloud. He poured himself lukewarm tea, ate a piece of soggy toast, got up.

  In a wardrobe in a corner of the Patient Kitchen hung somebody’s gabardine coat. He put it on. Slightly large, better than way too small. No one in the corridor. Good. What the hell, he was thinking, enough ridiculousness in the world. Face-mask on a tray in the hallway outside the ward. On it went. Cough-cough for a bit of realism. Hospital slippers, no money, chopped out of the old woman’s will because of the lying thief of a son. Fuck him, fuck him. It would not stand. Simeon on the bus without swiping any ticket anywhere, off the bus, into the stale old charity shop on N Street, sob story about clothes stolen in the night. You poor dear, no accusations or bullshit from her, that’s how you treat people down on luck. New old trousers and shirt, and life began again. Now, let’s talk about lawyers. Let’s get some fucking headphones.

  In the Time It Takes to Finish a Sandwich, We Could Build Worlds

  You and I, my dear sister, you and I, just as we have always been: with my vision and your pragmatism, your receptiveness and my intensity, your catering and my generosity of spirit, my artistry and your critique. I have the sandwich in hand and, with it, trace out my words in the air …

  … and if the idea about the furniture rental system doesn’t work out – and unfortunately it’s not for the moment in my control but is rather in the purview o
f those without the expansive, entrepreneurial outlook you and I share, that is, those who follow a set of procedures based on what has worked in the past and not at all considering what will or is likely to work in the future (and I know this because I emailed it through using the official corporate online contact form, attentioned properly to the Innovation Team) – but should it come to pass that at some point the idea about the furniture, or plan, really, more like a plan, much beyond an idea, should this not proceed owing to failures of vision or for whatever reason, you may also like my idea, or plan, for the Orchard, which doesn’t depend so much on the capacity or incapacity of others but only on the use of a patch of land which is not being used for anything at all and so there is no reason whatsoever why it should not be available to plant a few trees once we’ve cleared away the weeds that have taken over the site.

  At this point, I reel in my free-flowing sandwich and take a bite. As I had been running through the plan or plans, your left-hand index finger had been doing the conversational work for you – tappity tap tappity, allegro nervoso four bars and two bars ritardando, minim rest and a tempo – but now I can see you’ve been assiduous in your attention, for despite appearances and despite the weird breathiness in the tone as you set out, you ask me where this land is, what access we have to it and what checks, if any, I have made. I’ve always been the risk-taker and you the risk-averse of us, and now I chew for a while, chewing in the manner that shows that I’ll swallow as soon as practicable in order to answer your questions, no matter how constrictive they appear to me. You draw out your sandwich, wrapped in greaseproof paper, from the café-branded bag, carefully fold back a paper edge so as not to lose a strand of whatever those sprouts are called, take a perfect-sized bite.

  So if this table is the city, the land is approximately on your left shoulder, far enough away that it has been ignored for all these years – for all eternity as far as I know – except by lantana and bamboo and blackberries and privet which pay attention everywhere at all times, and even if someone does actually own this land, they may be completely unaware of it, so the choice to be made is whether to clear and plant or whether to try and find out who the owner is (the owner in black letter law, that is, if not in practice or in any connected sense), and to offer them some proportion of the proceeds, gross or net, even though this may draw attention to the value of the land and they may try to take over my plan notwithstanding that they wouldn’t have even thought of doing anything, and might not have been aware of the land at all, but for us drawing their attention to it, that is, if the land is actually owned by anyone and not just sitting there unowned (even by the black letter of the law), and if that’s the case I’m almost certain that the land would become ours (or mine if you decide in your careful way against joining me) after only a very short time, something like three years or maybe seven years – it’s called something like ownership through possession, maybe there’s an extra adjective that goes in there, not sure, but not that important by comparison to the potential fruit to be taken to market.