Roger stepped into the lit hallway of Saint Peters North Hospital. The pain in his right leg intensified as he tried to walk it off. Roger hoped his new attire would be enough to convince any potential barricades, particularly a hospital staff member. Up ahead, a bank of closed elevators lined the hallway as Roger took a moment to check the area. He knew this would be the ideal place for parked individuals and the prime opportunity for small talk, his current worst enemy. Fortunately, he saw nothing and no one, just up and down arrows offering a choice to the elevator’s future patrons. Roger pressed the down arrow and waited. He wished they had made another button, one that would provide a private elevator for those individuals not interested in chatting with a random stranger.
Why do people always have to talk? Why can’t they just stand in silence? he mused. Roger realized this was just the way humans reacted, craving some meaningless prattle to pass the typical thirty-seconds of silence.
What was a person’s fear? he pondered. He reasoned people feared offending others by remaining silent. Roger was hoping that no one would be on the elevator, as he had no brainpower to think of a clever excuse for his visit to this floor.
A ding emitted and the down arrow illuminated. Roger licked his lips as he waited for the doors to open. The doors spread and, to Roger’s dismay, a middle-aged man stood inside the confined space. Roger hoped this man would be on a cell phone or engrossed in a newspaper, but the moment the doors opened, his eyes locked with Roger’s and he appeared eager for the new occupant to join him on his descent.
Roger stepped on and saw the button marked “G” glowing. He took a step back so that he was behind the stranger, hoping this distance would discourage any direct queries.
The doors shut, and then silence consumed the two men. No trite music or voice-over announcement resonated, just the loudness of silence.
The man took a step to his side, and then looked over at Roger’s beaten face and messy hair, moving down to his short pants.
“Man, you look like you just got hit by a truck,” the man chuckled. “Hey, where’s the flood?” he added with a bigger laugh.
Roger kept his eyes straight, completely ignoring the man.
Maybe he will get the idea that I don’t want to talk, he hoped.
The ding of the bottom floor saved Roger, drawing his eyes up to the illuminated “G.” The doors opened to a floor much like the one Roger had left, save for the flurry of people lining the hall.
The man maintained eye contact with Roger, curious about his lack of response. Roger scurried into the ground floor.
“Hey, buddy. Are you alright?” the man yelled, as he realized Roger might have been in distress.
Roger focused all of his attention on running from the stranger. He moved into the hall as a hint of relief filled his mind. With his attention focused on departing the elevator, he did not see two male paramedics lurking nearby.
“Hey! Watch out!” yelled one of the men from the collision.
Roger’s fear of apprehension overwhelmed him as the two paramedics stopped and looked scornfully at him. Roger stumbled, not looking back. He hoped he would not feel a tug on his shoulder from one of the hospital “wardens.”
Roger scampered through the dense crowd, weaving between passing bodies like a stalked deer using oak trees as cover. He hoped his path would lead to an exit of the prison, but he realized he didn’t know his exact location. While he did visit Southern General Hospital a few times when his boss had been in for heart bypass surgery, this didn’t look like Southern General. He convinced himself that once outside, things should become clearer on how to get home.
Finally, Roger came to a crossroads. He saw two signs pointing down two different hallways, one toward the “Front Parking Lot,” the other to the “Rear Parking Lot.” Roger pondered the choice.
The front would probably be easier to figure out my location. Maybe my car is parked outside with Lois waiting to pick me up?
He realized, however, that things were probably much more complicated. Roger decided to take the “front” hallway, but just as he began to walk, he saw several police officers heading his way. He wondered if they were on to his escape and were looking for individuals who matched Roger’s description. Whatever their intention, his choice changed to the “rear” hallway.
Roger hustled down his chosen path. Then, like seeing the ribbon at a marathon’s finishing line, the doorway to the free world revealed itself. He picked up his steps and blindsided a passing nurse. Roger didn’t care, for he could smell the sweet scent of safety.
As Roger emerged, rays of the setting sun warmed his pale face. He basked in the openness. Roger let his eyes adjust to the natural light as he focused his ears on the sound of distant birds chirping. He felt like a free man, just released from an undeserving prison sentence. As he enjoyed his new freedom, the throbbing pain in his head returned, this time even worse. Then, his right leg locked. It was as if the plug that energized his ailing body had been ripped from its socket. He thought that maybe it was the artificial drugs that had once pumped into his veins, but now were abandoned in his hospital cell like everything else. Whatever the cause, his mind felt overwhelmed as mounting questions clouded his judgment.
“I’ve got to get home,” he convinced himself. He would do whatever it took to get as far away from the hospital as possible.
Roger staggered through the packed parking lot. All of the cars started to blend, white SUVs looked black, and compacts appeared as full-sized. He hoped he would find his parked SUV, the mighty machine. He felt safe inside that vehicle and wanted so badly to grip its leather-wrapped steering wheel. Roger made it to the end of the lot and had no idea what to do. He turned to take in the soaring building mocking him, which only strengthened his desire to flee. As his senses shrieked, Roger saw two cars nearby. One was a beat-up sedan that was idling, its exhaust pipes spewing murky, oil-burnt smoke. A junky truck was parked next to it. Two men used the rusty vehicle for support as they conversed. One was a rough looking African-American; the other was a stocky Hispanic man with a shaved head. Roger watched as the men cackled and seemed to forget about the idling sedan. He picked up bits of their conversation, which focused on the bizarre downpours the city had experienced over the past few days.
Without hesitation, Roger moved toward the deserted car. Normally, committing a crime would be the last thing he would ever consider, but he didn’t care about some street-tough’s junker. He had to take matters into his own hands. His only care in the world was trying to get to Lois. He needed her, and he knew she needed him, wherever she was.
“Hey, asshole. Can I help you?” snarled the husky Hispanic man as Roger let himself into the running car.
The man was baffled. He hesitated, as he expected a baggy-clothed hoodlum to be a carjacker, but the man he was watching, one dressed in business clothes with high pants, was not the stereotypical thief. The Hispanic man’s mind quickly refocused on his vehicle as he saw Roger firmly planted in the driver’s seat. He ran to the half-open window and reached for Roger.
“Hey! Whoa! Whoa! What are you doing?” he screamed, but Roger slammed the car into drive and nailed the gas.
The roaring engine mocked the enraged man as a cloud of black smoke covered him.
“I don’t believe this!” the man yelled as he watched his car speed away.
It was nearly dark as Roger raced down the urban road trying to navigate the clumsy vehicle. His driving resembled an alcoholic heading home from a bar after a hard day’s work. Roger’s drug, however, was not alcohol; it was a mixture of pain, rage, and bewilderment. Cars zipped by, people walked, as the clunker squealed with each turn. Roger kept the gas floored and focused on balancing the car down the road, something he never had to do with his stout and perfectly engineered SUV. The car had horrible body sway, reacting to a turn like a soapbox car with skateboard-sized wheels.
Roger glanced at his wrist, but the scribbled street address only taunted him. A shopping district came i
nto view with grocery stores and fast-food restaurants. Roger scanned the area. A horn suddenly blared. Two headlights blinded him. Roger refocused his drifting attention.
Up ahead, a small ice cream shop stood under the darkening sky. The sign out front in bright lights read “Scoopers.” A group of kids burst from a soccer mom’s mini-van as Roger widened his eyes.
“I know this place,” he mumbled.
It was his favorite dessert spot. The rear of the business had an eighteen-hole miniature golf course, and he and Lois would frequently enjoy a Saturday evening game of golf in the summer. After Lois’ usual win, both indulged in their favorite treat—two scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough in a dish.
Our house is close.
Roger wished he was driving back home on one of those summer nights with Lois by his side. He smiled as the memories flourished in his mind, and then he glanced to the right. Instead of seeing the image of Lois in colorful capris and a blouse, he saw duct tape covering the puke-green vinyl seat. Roger gripped the wheel tighter and said, “I’ll be home soon.”
Chapter 8
Clouded Rainbow Page 7