The Fuck-Up

by Arthur Nersesian

  A towel was provided by the hotel, so I stripped down to my bruises and bandages for a shower. With my right hand gripping the towel and the cane in my left, I limped out through the hall to the communal bathroom. Passing the stalls and sinks I moved toward the rear, approaching a racket of babbling voices, but I couldn’t make out a single word. The shower room was tiled water-tight with a single large drain in the center of the floor. Everything tilted toward the center. Grouped around the drain was a crew of Indian-looking sailors who were squatting naked scrubbing their salty uniforms against the rough floor just as their fathers probably had. Under the spout furthest away from them, I carefully washed away all the caked pus and dried blood. As the water jetted against my skin, I felt increasingly more sensitive. I figured that pain killers had to be among the dose of pills I was given at the hospital that morning. When their effects began to taper, agony slowly replaced it. As I stuck my face under the stream of water, the dull pain reminded me that my nose was broken. The pain started getting worse and aside from feeling faint I realized that the hot water was making the bruises swell and the unhealed scabs were reopening. Nodding farewell to the crew, I returned to the front part of the bathroom.

  Gingerly I dried off and found dabs of blood on the towel. Relying increasingly on the cane, I slowly made it back to my room and locked the door. It was dark out and I didn’t turn on the lights. Slowly, carefully, I balanced myself on the hard bed. It reminded me of Helmsley’s hard couch and that reminded me of Helmsley. As I got tangled in the skein of memories I slipped toward sleep. Still in that intermediary state, I suddenly saw all those boots raining down on me and bolted up painfully into a seated position, wide awake. Slowly I angled up and with the cane moved over to the window. Only the city lights were visible, and over low roof tops, and through that empty lot in the distance, I could see tiny cars flowing down some avenue. A black sky of night crushed the scene. I hated long views of life when the infinite overwhelms the finite subjects. Not even forever lasts forever, and again I thought no matter what I do, someday I’d be nothing.

  Aside from all the bad luck, I was a shamelessly ordinary guy, wholly dispensable. Counterparts of me must have inhabited all times and places. Packs of me must have malingered through the Mayan, the Minoan and Babylonian civilizations—societies that flourished and spanned centuries with vast cities, expansive domains, and great armies—now even those great cultures were barely known. Once again, I felt entirely severed from old mankind and needed some kind of distraction. I thought of all the little comforting thoughts that Helmsley had passed along to me, with the help of Plato and the greats: “Beauty is truth” and crap like that.

  But Helmsley had committed suicide, so he must’ve been wrong somewhere in the addition. For tentative peace and sedation, I ended up abusing the sacred memories of a young, leggy girl that 1 had known years ago back home. Then I took another stab at sleep and, after bolting up once more with the boots dream, I finally punctured through into hard sleep.

  A tearing pain awoke me almost twenty-four hours later when I tried turning my head. A steady ooze of blood and other humors that had loosened during the shower had solidified and fused my head with the pillow. My sinuses felt sealed as if by cement. I felt like I had just awakened from a coma. Other pains, new and great, trumpeted as I tried to move.

  The regress report: My back was a shattered windshield with nerves, the stitches in my thigh were cold and sticky. The right side of my rib cage, which looked as if it had boot-shaped tattoos, was not the same shape it was when I went to sleep, the loose bones had shifted. All the medication was gone from my system and now the vultures were descending. Still lying supine, I slowly worked the pillow out from the pillow case and wrapped it around my head like a turban. I limped naked through the hall, clinging to my cane, and passed a group of fascinated Europeans en route to the bathroom. Under a warm shower I slowly peeled the pillow case off my face and head. I could hear the Europeans in the adjacent toilets; wonderful people—free of hangups, like shitting together.

  I limped back, dripping through the hall, too much in pain to mind the cold. Back in my room I locked the door and dried off. I ate one of the ledge sandwiches, lay down, and went back to sleep without a pillow.

  For the next three days or so, I slept without a pillow and awoke to increasing pain. The ledge sandwiches, which slowly filtered the New York air, tasted more and more like car fumes. The slow persistent pain made sleep increasingly shallow, until it dwindled into just a constant dazed state of repose. On the morning of the fourth day I awoke exhausted to a knock at the door.

  “Sven Cohen,” asked a voice behind the door.

  “Who is it?” I called from the bed.

  “You’re paid up until noon today. If you wish to continue your visit please come down to the front desk and re-register.”

  Convalescence was over. In the space of the next hour or so I tried to get up; my back and the other conspiring pains limited my moves. The aching and pulsating muscles were too swollen for the tight skin. Rising in order to get the last ledge sandwich was excruciating. As I chewed it down, I hungrily remembered the menu of prescriptions that I tossed out upon release from the hospital, pain killers probably among them. Checking through the pockets of my pants, I found ten dollars and fifty-three cents. My body was a study in pain. In order to limit the suffering, I sat very still at the bed’s edge. With little else to do, I differentiated the pain into three levels. First, there were the sharp sporadic stabs that dug deep through my lower back without warning. This pain was the worst and I could find no remedy for it. Next, there was the blunt throbbing, which was like having a toothache in my arms and legs. I found that lying very still could limit the throbbing, but in exchange I had uncontrollable twitches. Lastly, there were the scabs, which probably masked most of my face and head. There was a fiery sensation like a very bad sunburn, but next to the two other, more aggressive, pains this was only a trifle and was soothed by the cool air.

  Spiritually the only difference between dying and healing is the energy to resist. 1 was running dangerously low on this energy. The doctor was right, I never should have left that hospital and if I didn’t get into one soon, I could conceivably die.

  I spent the remaining hour dressing, and then with the help of my cane, which was my only luggage, I hobbled over to the elevator and down to the front desk. Upon returning my room key and signing out, I asked him where the nearest hospital was.

  “Probably Saint Vincent’s over on Twelfth.” But I already had an outstanding balance there, which I couldn’t pay.

  “Do you know of any other hospital? Aside from that one and Beth Israel,” I had already gotten my calf sewn together there.

  “Boy, you’re picky. Roosevelt, I suppose, over on Fifty-ninth and Eighth.”

  I thanked him, left, and waited on the corner for a cab to Roosevelt Hospital. I was down to six dollars when I finally, slowly got out of that cab in front of the Emergency entrance.

  I used that cane to the fullest as I hobbled through a full waiting room to the nurse sitting behind a wall with a sliding glass. I saw gurneys in the hall behind her with still bodies on them. Realizing that I had to compete with all this suffering, I dramatically moaned and rasped about my sufferings. With minimal eye contact, she asked me several academic questions and told me to have a seat. Most of the people were just sitting quietly. It was hard at first glance to guess why they were there. I took the last available seat, next to the quietest inmate, an old guy who was very still and very white. A Puerto Rican child sitting on his mother’s knee was holding her with both arms, whining in a sustained key. His mother was pressing a rag against his bleeding forehead and rocking him back and forth. Another man was quietly contorting his face in order to restrain his pain. As time tortured on, the little things took greater proportion; more people came, few left. The still, white man was stiller and whiter. The bleeding child required another rag and his plaintive cry dropped an octave. The facia
l contortionist was now venting his woe in twisting his arms and limbs; I sensed that his pains were abdominal.

  I tried not to look at the new people. We had waited longer and I wasn’t going to empathize with any new suffering. At one point, one of the recent entries started crying aloud. He was a black infant, and his mother started rocking him, but finally put her hand over his mouth in order to silence him. People appeared guilty and ashamed that they were sick and weak. I closed my eyes and tried to think about only nice things until I heard something disgusting. It was a rattling sound, phlegm deep in someone’s throat. Above me a young guy was leaning against the wall. He was well-dressed, wearing a three-piece suit; his tie was slack around his neck and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. I could see that his T-shirt was covered with sweat. His eyes were closed and I watched him concentrating on breathing, accepting only the little pockets of oxygen his lungs permitted. He looked about my age. I knew he was going through an asthmatic attack because my sister had had asthma. I rose and steered him into my seat. With his eyes closed he took it. All his energy was focused on the breaths.

  “Would you like some water?” I asked.

  He nodded yes. I went over to the fountain. Filling a Dixie cup, I limped back over and gave it to him. Then I walked over to the nurse and asked her whether or not she had forgotten about me.

  “There are people in front of you.”

  “Okay, did you forget about them?”

  “Look, we’re understaffed and overloaded. I’m here on mandatory overtime myself.” Before she could continue, someone started hollering from down the corridor behind her. A gurney had appeared at the ambulance entrance. She ran over, joining a group in white who were working on the body as they wheeled it in. Turning into a side room, I watched through a door ajar as they stuck tubes into the body and cut off the clothes. Then the door was closed.

  Pain or no, it cost too much to stay there. I couldn’t compete. In fact, I felt stronger witnessing how much farther others had ventured into agony, realizing how much farther I could go. As I walked down Eighth Avenue, under the twilight sky, street lights slowly started flipping on automatically. The sidewalk was empty, but the street was crowded with cars racing homebound. For no apparent reason, I suddenly remembered that tonight was the night of the contributor’s party for the Harrington. If Miguel went to the party, he’d discover my deceit in getting published. When he added that to the Ternevsky scandal, Miguel might begin piecing together what kind of person I was: someone not to be trusted. While thinking about Ternevsky, I remembered that I was still an outlaw and only Janus could issue clemency. At a corner public phone, I dialled her and put my finger to the clicker; if any male voice answered I was ready to hang up, but she did answer.

  “Can you speak?”

  “Yes, and I’m so happy. Ternevsky’s proposed to me. We’re going to Europe and there we’ll be married.”

  “Just tell me one thing,” I interrupted. “Am I still being hunted by the cops?”

  “No, not anymore. When Sergei calmed down, I reexplained it. I told him we both got drunk, but he threw out your clothes just the same. He made me take an AIDS test.”

  “All my clothes are gone?”

  “Yeah, then we both cried and he proposed to me. Isn’t it wonderful? I’m now Mrs. Ternevsky. God, I am so pleased. I wanted this all along.”

  “All along?” I asked.

  “Sure, I now feel some legitimacy.”

  “But he’s old enough to be your father, and you said yourself that he’s a horrible lover and he just uses you.”

  “I said we use each other.”

  “How about us?” I asked.

  “We had a wonderful time and now it’s over.”

  “But if I had the same amount of money and all …”

  “Shit,” she suddenly whispered, “I just heard the elevator, I’ve got to go.”

  “Good luck,” I replied, and hung up slowly.

  I searched through my pockets for another quarter in order to call Miguel and see what developments had occurred in the last four days. But I couldn’t find another quarter. After the conversation with Janus, I had this overwhelming fear. In my back pocket, crumpled up, I found the legal document he signed stating my interest in his company. With cane in hand, and pain in back, I went over to Columbus Circle and caught the IRT number one to Fourteenth. I then hobbled down the long uriney tunnel to the L, which I took to Third Avenue. Walking up to the box office window, I saw the face of a young white lady, which was a race we’d never hired before in filling this post. I smiled at her.

  “Four dollars,” she commanded rather aggressively.

  “Be careful,” I replied. “You never know when you might be talking to an employer.”

  “Four dollars!” she repeated with added hostility.

  “I’m the other manager,” I replied and tried to grin. “Is Miguel in?”

  “Who?”

  “Miguel?”

  “Miguel, oh yes Miguel. Yes, I was told about you, one second.” Miguel had hired a dope I decided as I walked through the center door and down the corridor to the office. Opening the door was a two-way shock. I jumped back a bit and a nerdy guy leaning back in the manager’s chair bolted upright. Miguel replaced me, was the first thought that entered my head.

  “Where’s Miguel?” I demanded angrily.

  “Oh yes, Miguel. One second, I’ll get him.” He rose. “Please take a seat, I’ll be back in a moment.” He dashed out and I leaned back in his swivel chair. But immediately I felt something strange. The surroundings had been altered. Where the hell was the Yin Yang calendar? Gone too were the refrigerator and the TV. A lot of little things were missing, items that epitomized Miguel’s personality. There were neither granola crumbs along the desk top, nor herbal cigarette butts rubbed out in an improvised ashtray. Who the hell was the new box office girl? Where was everybody?

  In front of me, piled up high on the desk, was a stack of files and the theater’s financial records spanning the last five years. Pushing them to one side, and seeing the wall behind it, only then did the mystery vaporize. A new digital dial system was encased in recently packed plaster. They must have caught Miguel, and I was next. I noticed that one of the buttons on the business phone was lit up. The nerd was probably notifying Ox on the extension in the box office. I slipped into the darkness of the theater. I was being captured by the new manager and his white box office woman standing near the exit. The only way out was across the roof. I limped up the steps to the projectionist booth and banged quickly.

  “Who the fuck is it?”

  1 announced myself and she opened. “We went through this before. You’re supposed to call up in advance.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.” I entered quickly and shut the door behind me.

  “What do you want?” she said. And then inspecting my enfeebled state, asked, “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “I slipped while breakdancing,” I replied. “What happened to Miguel?”

  “I think that he was ripping off money. All I know is that there were a bunch of police cars and they closed the theater yesterday and apparently fired everyone. They even requested a new projectionist, but the union stood behind me all the way. I’m surprised they didn’t fire you.” Poor Miguel, was all I could think.

  “You didn’t turn him in did you?” she asked me.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why didn’t they fire you?”

  “They’re probably going to soon. I think they just want me to break in the new managers.”

  “Why then did you have to ask me what happened to Miguel?”

  “I wasn’t here yesterday—you were. I just said that they asked me to break this new guy in.”

  “It’s all a damned shame. See what happens when you don’t have a union to protect you? By the way, be sure to fill them in on the union contract and my rights in dealing with them.”

  “It’s already done. Listen, I’m a little busy right
now and I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “They’re waiting for a report on the condition of the roof.”

  “Oh, they’ve finally got around to wanting to fix that, and you’re probably going to take all the credit.”

  “What credit?”

  “I was the one that told you that roof was leaking. That’s what credit.”

  “Calm down. I mentioned you in my preliminary report.” As I started climbing up the metal ladder, she kept hollering things up to me. While I undid the binding ropes and pushed the hatch free, I heard her nagging about the new manager looking like a repressed homophobe. What the hell did she want me to do, convert him? Despite my pains, I scrambled up and got beyond hearing distance. I wasn’t sure if eccentric people became projectionists or if the job made them that way. I supposed long hours in closed quarters would effect anybody. Looking out the front of the theater, under the flapping “Zeus” flag, I saw a cop car double parked. Next to it, another car pulled up and a fat little guy plopped out. It was Ox. Then the passenger door opened and a slim young male figure got out. He looked just like Miguel. Both of them quickly went into the theater. What the fuck was Miguel doing down there? He was supposed to be in jail.

  Quickly I limped around old tar cans and other debris toward the back of the building. I slowly worked my way down the rusty, rickety fire escape. It ended in the pitch blackness of some alley. I tossed down my cane. It took too long to hit bottom; I estimated a drop of about eight feet. Stretching myself from the bottom rung, I released and hit the ground on all fours. I painfully started to move. The fall awakened pains that had been napping. I picked up my cane and slapped it against the ground like a blind man. Following the alley to a large cyclone fence, I realized that the street was over this wiry hindrance.

  I tossed my cane over the fence and then started up painfully. The wire dug deep into my skin and when I got to the top I felt a tiny stab. The top was meshed with barbed wire.