Cold Ambition

by Rachel Sharpe

  “You know, Miss, you may want to go to the hospital,” he suggested, narrowing his eyes at the biker who was brooding over a few bent spokes. “I think your arm could be broken.”

  At this, the bike boy looked at me in alarm. He stood up quickly and backed up a bit, shielding himself from the man’s accusing gaze with his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Broken? That’s not possible. I didn’t hit her that hard,” he trailed off. “I mean she ran out in front of me. I mean look at my bike! Just look at it! What am I supposed to do? I have an audition this afternoon. How am I supposed to get there now? My entire career could be ruined if I miss this!”

  The older man sighed and politely helped me to my feet. “Miss, my car is parked down there. If you want, I can drive you to the hospital. But first, we need to get boy wonder’s name and address because, if it's broken, and I’m pretty sure that it is, I think he needs to foot the bill.”

  The bike boy threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “This is ridiculous! I have to pay for her? She ran out in front of my bike! What about my bike? What about me? Who’s going to pay for the repairs? She’s fine!”

  The older gentleman appeared to be about sixty-eight years old. He was only five foot nine at most with a full head of solid white hair and a thin white beard, but he was built like a linebacker. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had admitted to being a professional boxer in his heyday. The bike boy was in his early twenties and about six feet tall, but in a fight he wouldn’t stand a chance against the older man. He was clearly aware of his physical disadvantages because as soon as the older man’s temper began to flare, he backed down.

  “Okay, okay, fine,” he muttered, adjusting his scarf and sighing loudly. “I’ll take her to the hospital. There’s no need to become indignant. I can handle it. All right? Are you happy now, old man?”

  The older man crossed his big burly arms and glared at the boy. I had my own bodyguard ready to pounce the first chance he got. I did not know this guy who had run me over, but I was actually becoming concerned for his well-being. Carefully holding my left arm up with my right, I interjected,

  “He can take me.”

  Both men turned and looked at me with outright shock on their faces. The older man raised an eyebrow and pointed to the bike.

  “How do you suppose he’s going to get you there? Place you on his handlebars? That bike is a joke.”

  “Hey! My bike is not a joke. It cost three hundred and fifty dollars plus tax. It's top of the line.”

  The older man crossed his arms again. “Oh, so you do have money. Good. Then you'll have no trouble paying her medical bills.”

  “What? No, I—uh,” he began to sweat, which was amusing considering it was about twenty degrees outside sans the wind chill. My arm was beginning to hurt worse, but I didn’t want to cause a fight and end up having to deal with the police. I turned my attention to the older man. “Sir, I really appreciate your help, but I think I’m just going to take a cab. The hospital isn’t too far away. Really, I’m fine.”

  After a bit of convincing, the man agreed and started to walk in the direction of his car. He stopped suddenly and headed back.

  “Oh no,” the bike boy shuddered. Instead of pummeling him, the man pulled out a pen and a small piece of paper and wrote something quickly. He then handed it to me.

  “If you ever need anything, or if this punk refuses to pay that bill, you call me. I’ll take care of it.”

  I nodded. I was both grateful and alarmed but put the scrap of paper into my purse without a glance. He gave bike boy one more threatening look before heading back toward his car. I waited until he had reached his car before I attempted to hail a cab and much to my chagrin, I found myself wholly unsuccessful. Giving up on the idea, I decided I could make it there without a cab. After two blocks, I noticed that bike boy was following me and dragging his bike alongside of him, vainly attempting to catch up to me. I stopped near Essex Street. After a few moments, he was standing beside me. Gasping for breath and leaning on his bike he muttered, “You are an incredibly fast walker.”

  I held my throbbing arm. It was so cold outside that all I wanted to do at that moment was go into the nearest store and wait for summer. “What do you want?”

  He gently dabbed his face with his scarf. “I said I would go with you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I snapped. He looked at me dubiously and rolled his eyes.

  “Yeah, whatever. A ninety-pound chick walking around Boston by herself with a broken arm? Sure, you’ll do fine on your own.”

  “What do you want?” I repeated with vexation.

  “Listen, there's a medical center a few blocks from here. I figured that would be the closest place to have your arm looked at.”

  “A few blocks away? Are you crazy? It’s on Massachusetts Avenue. That’s more than a few blocks.”

  He looked at me with surprise and then disdain. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” I tried to appear offended and shocked by his remark but instantly knew that I gave myself away.

  “What? New here? No, I’ve lived here…” I trailed off. I decided the argument was moot. My arm was beginning to pulsate and swell. “Fine, whatever. You want to help me? Great. Take me somewhere I can get a painkiller.”

  A wicked grin crossed his face. “Well, if that’s all you need . . .”

  “Take me somewhere I can get a painkiller legally,” I corrected. He smiled again, this time more genuinely.

  “All right, fine. Let’s go,” he replied. With that, he led the way to a clinic a few blocks away that I didn’t even know existed. The arctic wind maintained an unbearably steady and painful blast the entire way. By the time we reached the clinic and walked inside, the weather had worsened, and there was no one else on the streets. When I looked out the window, it appeared to be snowing again. Bike boy had carefully locked his bike to a rack near the front door before entering the building and watching it with concern.

  “What’s your problem?” I asked him as I sat on an uncomfortable metal chair and began to fill out the paperwork. He did not answer but stayed glued to the window. “You can leave now.”

  He finally turned around and stared at me as I handed the clipboard back to the receptionist. She accepted it and told me to have a seat. After a few moments, she realized that I was still standing before her, clutching my arm. She sighed audibly and motioned toward the metal chairs with her long, red fingernails.

  “You can take a seat. Someone will call you shortly,” she declared before turning her attention back to the forms and ignoring my existence. I walked toward the chairs and sat down tentatively. This place did not resemble any medical center I had ever seen. It was located in a big office building, and right next to it was the office parking garage. Covering the walls was faded and peeling pink, yellow, and white-striped wallpaper, and the floor was worn, tan linoleum. Crudely tacked to the walls were medical posters suggesting the importance of the polio vaccine and how to avoid shingles.

  I became aware, as I stared at the archaic posters, that bike boy had finally sat down near but not next to me. He was still looking at his bike. By this time, it was thoroughly covered in about a half an inch of snow. I held my arm and cleared my throat awkwardly.

  “It’s really coming down again, huh?”

  He frowned and carefully removed the scarf from his neck and folded it neatly before placing it inside his coat pocket. This whole situation was becoming very awkward. Sitting beside me in a dingy and somewhat questionable medical clinic was this guy who had run me over with his bicycle and had probably broken my arm. But I had learned from years of living on my own that, in certain circumstances, it’s best just to go with the flow. So, on that cold November afternoon, that’s exactly what I did.

  “What’s your name?” I finally asked when it became clear that he had no intention of
breaking the proverbial ice.

  He frowned at me again but eventually answered, “Jonathan Riché. Why? You want to know whom to sue?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. He stared at me, and I continued to laugh. Finally, he threw his hands up in dramatic frustration.

  “What’s so funny? You’re kind of weird, you know that?”

  I stopped laughing but couldn’t suppress a smile. My arm was aching terribly, but I ignored the pain. This entire episode was quite comical. In fact, I found myself debating whether or not I should write it up and send it over to Heather for her television show, provided I received all royalty checks for the concept.

  “Is that really your name?” I asked pointedly, loosening my grip on my arm because of the swelling. He noticed my uncomfortable expression and glanced down at my arm in concern. To this day, I couldn’t tell you if he was concerned for my well-being or for his bank account.

  He finally answered, “Yeah, that’s my real name. Why would I give a fake name?”

  “I don’t know. You said you were an actor, so I just figured…”

  “I never said I was an actor. What makes you think that?”

  “You said something about an audition and, well, by the way you’re acting, I naturally assumed you were one. If you’re not, my apologies.” I attempted to shift my weight in the chair to relieve the intense pain I was experiencing in my lumbar spine from the rigid chair, but it was hopeless. “So what were you auditioning for then?”

  He crossed his arms and legs and stared out the window at the heavy snowfall. Without turning back, he replied, “A commercial.”

  I smiled despite my earnest efforts not to. “What kind of commercial?”

  Still refusing to look at me, he answered, “A Christmas cookies commercial.”

  “If you aren’t acting, what will you be doing? Baking?”

  He stood up abruptly, causing the metal chair to fall backwards and clang against the floor. The receptionist didn’t look up once but called out, “Pick it up.”

  Jon leaned down and picked up the chair. He then shot me a dirty look. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am an actor. But you don’t know me, and you have no right to make assumptions about me based on five minutes of dialogue.”

  A wave of pain was overtaking me. I couldn’t argue any longer. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? ‘You’re right.’ You’re not gonna argue with me or something?”

  I slowed my breathing and closed my eyes. The pain had worsened, and it was becoming harder to dismiss. When I opened my eyes, Jon was standing in the same place with a look of concern on his face.

  “Are–are you all right? You don’t look so good,” he said slowly. “I mean, I know that this place has terrible lighting, but you’re starting to look a little green.”

  I tried to smile but couldn’t. Closing my eyes again tightly, I admitted, “My arm is really beginning to hurt.”

  If I hadn’t been in such severe pain, I might have been shocked by what happened next. Without a word, Jon stormed up to the receptionist and slammed his hand on the desk. She glanced up at him without emotion.

  “May I help you?” she muttered, immediately looking down and beginning to apply a fresh coat of ruby red paint to her inch-long nails. From this small performance, I could tell Jon had been trained in the theatre, not in commercial acting. He slammed his fist down on her desk again, and the vibration shook her hand. She painted part of her finger and glared at him. Losing all composure, she snapped, “What?”

  Jon pointed at me. “Look, we’ve been here for almost twenty minutes. She’s probably got a broken arm, and she hasn’t been seen yet. She needs to get in now.”

  The receptionist had picked up a nail file during his outburst and was attempting to scrape the excess paint off her finger. “She will be seen soon,” she repeated automatically. “We’ve had a busy day.”

  Jon looked around the empty office. “Really? Who has the doctor been seeing? Rats?”

  She gave him a dirty look. “The doctor will see her when he can.”

  Jon massaged his smooth jaw and nodded. He began to walk back toward me, and when he caught my eye, he winked. I was in so much pain, I wasn’t the best audience for such a performance. He whirled around dramatically and practically flew back up to her desk. She didn't look up.

  “You want to know something funny?” Jon asked the receptionist. She didn’t acknowledge him, so he repeated the question again. Twice.

  Exasperated, she answered, “What? What’s so funny?”

  He rubbed his jaw again and laughed. “Well, I’m in my first year of med school in Connecticut. My sister and I came here for a little vacation, and she fell and hurt her arm. As a med student, I felt certain that she broke it so I wanted it examined immediately. We came here, and now we're left waiting in an empty medical clinic for a doctor whose office is unsanitary and whose staff is behaving questionably. When I get back to school next Monday, I plan to mention this to my mentor. She might want to have the A.M.A. check on you guys, just to make sure you’re following the rules.”

  Again, I was in extreme pain at this time so my recollection might be a bit skewed, but it seemed that as soon as he finished this speech, the lights flashed. The receptionist stared at him and then glanced at me. She appeared to be debating whether or not his story was true. Finally, she picked up the dated, cream-colored rotary phone and placed a call. She whispered something and hung up quickly. Moments later, we all turned when the door in the far right corner of the room opened, and a short man with large eyeglasses and a receding hairline stepped out.

  “Jordan James?” He called, looking around the room as if it were full of prospective patients. I stood up slowly, clutching my arm, and walked up to him. I became aware that Jon was standing beside me and followed me as I trailed behind the little man down a narrow, darkened hallway.

  “Jordan?” Jon whispered when he was positive the little man was out of earshot. I glanced at him and saw that he was grinning. I didn’t react to his mocking because I had entered a state of delirium due to the pain.

  The wallpaper in the hallway was a hideous yellow with green and brown vertical stripes. He motioned for us to enter the second door on the right. We walked into the small room and sat down in the same type of uncomfortable metal chairs as were in the reception area. He sat down in a far more comfortable-looking black swivel chair and picked up the clipboard. He lifted his glasses and squinted at the paper.

  “You have tiny handwriting,” he commented, frowning. “All right, let’s see. So you think that your arm is broken?”

  I glanced from him to Jon and back again. “Wait–you’re the doctor?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

  “Don’t—don’t doctors usually have nurses?” I found myself feeling a bit panicked at the concept of a clinic where the doctor couldn’t afford a nurse. He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked over to a small sink and washed his hands and then came over and reached for my arm.

  “We’re going to need to cut this jacket off you so I can inspect the bone,” he stated, reaching for a pair of rusty-looking scissors.

  Now, I usually pride myself on being composed in all types of situations, but the thought of a sub-prime doctor fiddling with my possibly broken arm caused me to have a meltdown.

  I jumped up and ran out of the room, down the hall, and through the front doors into the arctic cold. Moments later, Jon was beside me. His expression was one of shock and even a great deal of concern. The snow was falling steadily, but I didn’t care. I was going to make it to the hospital. I had no intention of risking the future use of my arm to a back-alley doctor.

  “What was that?” Jon exclaimed, pointing toward the clinic as I walked. “Wait! Where are you going?”

  I stopped a fe
w feet away and pulled my cell phone out of my parka. I dialed information and pushed the phone flush against my ear to minimize the winter wind. After four rings, someone said, “This is Todd with information. How may I help you?”

  “Yeah, I need a cab to get to the hospital,” I replied, trying in vain to stop my teeth from chattering. In my peripherals, I saw Jon a few feet away, also trying not to shake. He was not looking at his bicycle.

  “All right, Miss. Where are you?”

  I looked around. There were no street signs, so I had no earthly clue what street I was on. I had developed a bad habit in college of finding my way around by landmarks, not street signs. My arm throbbed, I was freezing, and thoroughly tired of this entire situation. I was actually wishing I had never moved here. At that moment, a strong hand grabbed the phone.

  “Hello?” Jon asked as he walked away from me so that I couldn’t grab the phone. “Uh huh. Yeah, we need a cab. We’re on St. James. That’s right. It’s near the Common. Yeah, it’s an emergency so please connect us to the nearest company. Right. Thanks.”

  I stared at him, blankly. I couldn’t imagine why this guy was trying to help me. His initial attitude suggested that he couldn’t care less about anyone but himself. Plus, I normally pride myself on being completely independent.

  I decided to attend Brown against my family’s wishes because I knew that I could make it on my own. I decided to move to Boston for the same reason. At that moment, however, I had no intention of arguing when I knew that I needed help. He finished giving the cab company our location and then handed me back my phone. I quickly pocketed it. Although the storm had not gotten worse, it also had not lessened any.

  “Well, thanks for your help,” I chattered through my teeth. “You can go to your audition. Good luck with that.”

  “Yeah, I missed it already, but I’m not sweating it,” he muttered. Seeing my confused expression, he offered, “I was up against the casting director’s nephew.”