by Rex Pickett
With blood spattered all over his hand and the sleeve of his white lab coat the doctor withdrew the needle from Jack’s penis. A thin stream of blood geysered out of his cock and spray-painted the white foam ceiling panels, splotching them red–Bansky would have been impressed. Latisha had a thick layer of gauze ready and was desperately applying it to Old Faithful. The fabric was quickly impregnated with blood. Another nurse, a slight blonde, came rushing in and visibly stiffened once she got a horrific eyeful of the Grand Guignol scene. A red light was blinking on a monitor. Latisha and the blonde nurse began an emergency relay system with the gauze. The blonde would assemble a compress, Latisha would apply it, the blonde would discard the blood-soaked gob and prep a fresh one. They worked swiftly, expert blackjack dealers in a crowded casino.
Jack finally ventured a look. He started screaming.
That’s when I left. I staggered down the fluorescent-lit corridor, passing the human flotsam that litters the hallways of medical facilities, until I found a bathroom. I went straight into one of the stalls, knelt down and vomited. Vomited until it felt as if there was nothing left of my stomach.
I clambered to my feet, wobbly, ready to faint, flushed and left the stall. Still queasy from the aspiration gone haywire in the OR, I walked slowly back, hoping that things had been resolved, that Jack’s cock had been tied off or something. Amputated and cauterized. Anything!
I craned my neck around the doorway. The room had quieted. Latisha was finishing taping up the head of Jack’s cock, which, miraculously, now lay semi-flaccid on his hairy gut.
I entered the OR on tentative steps as if the room were booby-trapped and approached the doctor, shakily removing his surgical gloves. “How is he?”
“It was touch-and-go there for a while. He had a lot of blood in those chambers.”
I looked at Jack and nodded. His face was spectrally pale and seemed frozen in a monochromatic grimace of dread. I placed a fraternal hand on his shoulder. “How’re you doing, big guy?”
Without moving his head, Jack said in a frogged voice, “I don’t know.”
“He lost a fair amount of blood,” the doctor explained. “About what he would donate in two visits at a plasma center. So, be careful. Fainting is a concern.”
Latisha and I pulled Jack’s trousers back up and tied a knot with the drawstring. Carefully, we maneuvered his hulking body off the surgery table. With his arms slung around our shoulders we stutter-stepped him down the linoleum corridor toward the exit, a tranquilized bear re-released into the wild. He was unsteady on his feet and I wasn’t sure he could manage on his own.
In the lobby Jack had to sign some release forms before they would let him go.
He managed to Latisha, “Thanks, sister.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, honey.”
“Thanks, Latisha,” I chimed in.
“That’s what we do here,” she said. “We save penises.” I laughed. Jack wanted to, but didn’t. She smiled, showing a big white toothy mouth. Then she turned and walked off.
I helped sit Jack down on one of the waiting room chairs. He looked enervated, beaten down. I flipped up my iPhone, navigated to an app that guides you to local taxis, typed in Fresno, was quickly connected to a Yellow Cab dispatcher and told him where we were and that we were ready to go.
I closed my phone and turned to Jack. “How’re you feeling?”
“How do you think?” he snapped, returning to life. “Fucking needle halfway up my dick, dude!”
“I was there, remember?” There was a silence. Gathered around us in the remaining chairs was a gallery of faces frozen in various states of anxiety as they awaited news of their progeny, spouses, siblings and sundry loved ones. “How long are you going to be out of action?”
“When the bleeding stops.” Jack held up a plastic bag filled with gauze and tape. “I guess we’ll have to get Joy to do this.”
“That wasn’t part of her job description,” I said. “Can’t you do it yourself?”
“I suppose I have no choice,” he muttered.
“Well, at least it’s gone down. The worst is over.”
“Yeah. The question is: Will it ever come back up?”
I chuckled. Through the tinted-window exit I saw our Yellow Cab brake to a stop. “Ride’s here,” I said to Jack. “Can you stand on your own?”
He rose wobblingly to his feet. He staggered in place a bit, but ventured a few steps on his own with me just behind him in case he fainted. He threw me a backward glance. “I think I’m okay,” he said.
Outside, the sky was marbled with periwinkle blue and orange clouds as the sun slipped down on its ladderless arc. The heat had abated slightly, but it still had to be in the low nineties as we made our way toward the cab. I opened the back door and helped Jack clamber in. It would probably take him no more than a day or two to find his sea legs. I hoped. Prayed, too, that he wouldn’t use this as an excuse to bail on me.
The cabbie knew the way to take us to the Courtyard Marriott on East Shaw, which proved a short, five-minute drive. The Fresno version was like all the others: stucco facade, three stories, antiseptically clean, utterly characterless and soul-destroying. The kind of place my mother loved. The cabbie left us under a marquee in front of the lobby. I walked Jack in, still a little unsteady on his feet, got him settled in a chair, and hit the check-in desk.
We rode the elevator to the third floor and padded down a carpeted hallway to our room. The security card, as usual, took a couple tries. I gently shoved Jack inside. “I’m going to check on my mom and Joy, get the keys to the van and go down and get us one of those Foxen Chards I have on ice and bring you a glass.”
“Now you’re thinking,” Jack said.
“I’ve got your best interests in mind.”
“Without me, you’d never make it to Wisconsin.”
“Fucking A, brother.”
He disappeared inside our room and the door automatically closed behind him.
Footsteps approached the door of the adjacent room when I knocked, then stopped. The door didn’t open. I assumed Joy, with her characteristic circumspection, was eyeing me through the peephole.
I knocked again. “Joy, it’s me, Miles. Open up.”
The door opened. Joy smiled, but remained silent, her face expressionless. I entered their spacious, handicapped suite. Two double beds, neatly made up, faced a large-screen TV. My mother sat parked on a tiny patio overlooking the pool that, in the deepening twilight, glowed turquoise. I came up behind her and placed a hand on the nape of her neck. She managed a quarter turn, all her arthritic neck would allow.
“Miles. I thought you’d left,” she said in the deranged, paranoid manner she just couldn’t seem to shake.
I dragged a patio chair over next to her and sat down. “Where would I go, Mom?”
“I don’t know. Back to those girls you enjoyed some kind of hankypanky with.”
“All right, Mom, let’s not get into my personal life here, okay?”
She smirked. “Jack didn’t have hemorrhoids. I’m a nurse.”
“He’s got a bleeding ulcer.”
“Oh, no,” my mother said. “Because of me?”
“No, Mom. Because he had a kid and got divorced and is out of work…”
“And because he drinks too damn much!”
“And probably that, too. But from you and me, that’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”
“I only have two glasses. I’m not an alcoholic,” she retorted defiantly.
“No one said you were, Mom. But it’s amazing how tenacious you are in getting me to pour you a third–and sometimes a fourth. If I left you alone with a whole bottle, I’d bet it’d be gone.”
Her face grew angry. So, she sat there stony-faced and stared down sullenly at the pool. “I’ve had a hard life. I raised three kids. I deserve my wine.”
“I know you do, Mom. Anyway, speaking of which, I’m going down to the van and get a bottle and bring it up and pour you a
nice cold glass. How does that sound?”
She was still peeved, but at the thought of a cold glass of Chardonnay in her hand and the relief it would bring her, she instantly softened. “I would like that, please.”
“Okay, Mom, I’ll be right back. And I apologize for what I said about your wine. You’re a grown woman and you deserve as many glasses as you want. Within reason.”
“Thank you,” she grumbled.
When I turned back to the room, Joy was missing. A moment later the door opened and she came in, reeking of reefer.
“Where are the keys to the van, Joy?”
She went over to her purse, fished around in it for a moment, and handed them to me.
“Could you do me a favor?” She waited. In a lowered tone so my mother couldn’t hear: “Could you roll a nice blunt for Jack? He had a little surgical procedure and, well, it might be good to medical marijuana him a bit.”
“Okay.” Finally, she dropped the cigar-store Indian expression and giggled.
I went out and found the van, which stood out in the lot with its dirt-streaked sides. Joy had been thoughtful enough to have the valet haul up our luggage. I opened the cooler and un-submerged one–ah, screw it, two–bottles of Foxen’s single-vineyard Chardonnay. They were icy to the touch. Perfect accompaniment to this hot weather and overall miserable day of asshole dentists, incompetent doctors, blistered landscapes and the baking hellhole that was Fresno.
With my key ring corkscrew, I opened one of the bottles as I walked down the corridor, back to the adjoining rooms. Joy let me in after a knock. I held out the open bottle and said, “No more than one glass, okay? We’re going to go out to dinner later. You can have as much as you like, of course. If she wants to go down by the pool, take her down, all right? But without Snapper.”
“I know,” she said. “I brought him up in your mom’s satchel. I put the wristband over his nose like you said.”
“That’s great, Joy. You’re an angel.”
She smiled. Then she took the bottle from me. I turned to walk away. “Oh, Miles?” I turned back. She handed me a thick joint and I took it from her.
“Thanks. Powerful stuff?”
She giggled. “Good for sex.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, a little taken aback. “I don’t know if that’s in the cards this evening for Jack but, hey, the night’s young.”
I found Jack reposing on one of our room’s double beds. With the Riedel stemware I had fetched from the car I poured a healthy amount and held it out to him. He held out his hand, but I pulled it back out of his reach. “If you start feeling woozy, with the Vicodin and shit…”
“Just give me the goddamn glass and stop talking to me like I’m some infant.”
“Not to mention the two pints of blood that you lost in the OR.”
“I didn’t lose it! The fucking quack lost it!”
“Whatever, all I know is that ceiling looked like a Jackson Pollock.”
Jack didn’t laugh. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his temples in annoyance. “Okay, Miles, I’ll pace myself.”
I handed him the glass, then poured one for myself and stretched out on the adjacent bed. After a few meditative sips, I remembered the joint in my front pocket. I rooted it out and then casually flipped it over to the other bed. Jack looked down at his side where it had landed. “Present from Joy. Medical Mary Jane. Might take your mind off your injured pecker.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’ll fire it up in a minute.” He shook his head. “Man, what a day!”
I sipped my wine. God, it tasted good. Not over-oaked. Excellent balance. My spirits were lifting. “Tomorrow, Mendocino. You’re going to like that place.”
“Chicks?”
“Nah, it’s just a beautiful B&B over this cove. Great place to chill. If you’re feeling better we’ll do a little wine tasting. It’s expensive, but it’s sort of a treat for my mom who, once I dump her in Wisconsin, I probably won’t see a whole lot of anymore. Hell, maybe never. Given her condition, she’s probably not long for this world.”
Jack shook his head solemnly. “Yeah, I don’t know how she hangs on. She can be a mean fucking cuss.”
“She’s a tough old bird, that’s for sure.”
“I didn’t realize it was going to be this much work.”
I whipped my head in his direction. “What? Are you going to bail on me?”
“I’m not going to bail on you. I’ve been on location shoots way more brutal than this detail.” He drank resolutely, as if to efface those memories. “I just don’t know why we had to detour through Fresno.”
“Jack. I told you. She hasn’t seen her brother in ages. It seemed the humane thing to do. I didn’t promise this was going to be all fun and games.”
Jack switched on the TV and channel-surfed until he found a baseball game. I broke open my MacBook, logged onto the hotel’s Wi-Fi and went Google-ing for nearby restaurants. I found a place just down the street that looked like it had a decent wine list and a prosaic enough menu that my mother would find something to order. It wasn’t cheap, but it had been a tough day for everyone and I reasoned that a relaxing meal in a comfortable, homey environment might elevate everybody’s flagging morale.
“Okay, Jack, why don’t you take a shower and let’s go eat.”
“I’m not really hungry,” he groused, refilling his glass, his hand clutching the bottle like a dead chicken.
“Come on, Jack. I need you to pull it together. You know my mom likes to eat early and be put down early, so we’re sort of on her schedule until she’s in bed.”
“All right,” Jack said. He hauled himself heavily off the mattress and staggered toward the bathroom. A few minutes later I heard Jack cry out in pain. “Ow. Shit. Ow. Shit.” I surmised that he was un-bandaging his wound. The shower started running. There were more cries of pain as the hot water hit his wounded manhood.
After Jack had showered and redressed his member, I showered and put on the best clothes I had brought, as the joint apparently had a dress code. I don’t think Jack had brought a sport coat with him, so I implored him to put on his nicest shirt, and he grudgingly complied.
We gathered up Joy and my mother. Joy had styled my mother’s hair and dressed her in her finest apparel: sweat pants and a red cotton blouse. Joy looked the best of all. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress with a V-neck that revealed her surprisingly ample cleavage. Before we left the room I had Joy affix the elastic wristband on Snapper so he wouldn’t bark his head off. As my mother implored me to take it off, I worried that the little imp would probably figure out a way to paw it off, then start really barking. So, for different reasons, I acceded to my mother’s importunings. Now, everyone was happy! Jack got his dick fixed, Mom got some novo and meds for her infected molar, Joy was no doubt dreaming of lobster, Snapper had avoided being muzzled, and I, well, was the ad hoc, de facto ringmaster of one fucking freak show!
We piled into our handicapped-equipped van and rode down East Shaw Ave., a three-lane road bounded by desolate office complexes, car dealerships and sundry Americana franchises. A temperature gauge on a Chase Bank electronic board read 97 degrees.
“Five-thirty and it’s 97,” I said to Jack.
“It’s a fucking hellhole here,” he spat.
“Tomorrow we’ll be back in wine country and in three days the International Pinot Noir blowout. All your troubles and worries will be assuaged.” I looked over at him and winked. “And your big guy might be back in operation.”
“I hope so,” Jack said.
Fleming’s Prime Steakhouse & Wine Bar is a chain restaurant with some twenty locations scattered around the country. Inside, it was pleasantly cool and nicely appointed with wood-paneled walls, carpeted floor, damask-covered tables and built-in maple wine racks. Yellow, half-moon chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lending the main room a warm and welcoming feeling. There were no windows, by design–who would want a street view of hideous-looking Fresno, California? We were shortly enw
ombed in another world. We could have been anywhere, I thought. And quickly ran through a couple of piquant fantasies!
We were led to the center table by a goateed man in a black suit, white shirt and tie. He pulled a chair away to accommodate my mother’s and chivalrously slotted her into her place. A black-bound wine list was handed to me. Another man soon appeared at our side. Wordlessly, he set menus in front of us. Then, with hands clasped behind his back, bending forward slightly at the waist, he said, “Hi, my name’s Christopher and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get anyone anything to drink?”
Before my mother could say anything, I consulted the list’s by-the-glass selection. “My mother’s going to have a glass of the Picket Fence Chard.”
“Excellent choice,” replied Christopher.
“And the three of us are going to share a bottle of the Bergström Pinot.”
“Very well, sir,” Christopher said.
“And bring us some ice water as well.”
He nodded, pivoted, and disappeared almost as quietly as he had arrived.
“How’s the tooth, Mom?”
“Good,” she said.
“Those Vicodins will get you to Wisconsin,” I joked.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t need any more drugs!”
We all laughed, including a grim-faced Jack. I knew once he got a little more wine in him his humor would return from the dead.
The waiter brought my mother her glass of Chardonnay, which she wasted no time in raising to her lips. I pointed at Joy to get her attention. Then I panned my extended finger to my mother’s wineglass and shook it slightly so Joy understood: keep her monitored. Joy nodded, accustomed now to the semaphore. The waiter presented the Willamette Pinot for approval and then proceeded to uncork it.
“Are you from out of town?” he asked.
“We’re going to the International Pinot Noir Celebration,” I said. “Up in Oregon.”
“Willamette Valley. Beautiful there. I went once. Great three days… what little I remember of it.”
Jack and I shared a laugh.
Jack said, “Miles is Master of Ceremonies this year.”
“No kidding,” said Christopher, as he sniffed the bottle to determine whether it was corked. Deciding it was fine, he poured a dollop in a Pinot-specific Riedel wineglass. I nosed the wine, but didn’t taste it.