Wrong City

by Morgan Richter

  Chapter Six

  Troy drove him to the big hospital on Venice Boulevard. From there, she was firmly in command. At her request, Vish forked over his driver’s license and let her fill out his admission forms, let her steer him to a hard plastic seat beneath a wall-mounted television set in the waiting room, let her talk to the nurse at the front counter.

  After too long of a wait, after Vish had explained to Troy once more that this was kind but unnecessary, because he felt perfectly fine, really, a willowy doctor with smooth brown skin and a crisp white smock finally led him into her examination room. She introduced herself as Doctor Gott. Vish blinked.

  “Doctor… God?” he asked.

  She didn’t smile. “No relation. Gott, two Ts.” She gestured for him to hop up on the table, then shone a pen light in his eyes. “What happened?”

  “I hit my head on a tree branch.”

  She prodded at the back of his head, parting his hair with slim fingers. “Tree branch?” she asked. A hint of skepticism at the edges of her tone, maybe.

  “Yeah. I was checking around my apartment building for damage after the quake, and I stood up too quickly and bonked my head.”

  Doctor Gott didn’t say anything. Vish fought a wild compulsion to elaborate further. After a moment, she stepped back and smiled at him. “Well, let’s get you checked out.”

  She shone more lights in his eyes and prodded at his skull, all while keeping up a calm patter and jotting down notes on her clipboard. Vish answered her questions as best he could. She dabbed at his bloody scalp with a mesh pad and applied some antibacterial ointment to the cut, then gave a small nod.

  “Okay, Vish,” she said. “Pupils look good, your reactions are normal, and that wound’s not deep enough for stitches. Keep it clean, and you should be fine. To err on the side of caution, though, I’d like to order a CT scan, just to make sure there’s no swelling on the brain.”

  Vish hesitated. “Is it necessary?”

  “It’s a good idea.” She smiled at his reluctance. “It’s not complicated, and it won’t hurt a bit.”

  “I’m sure it won’t. It’s just…” He shrugged. “‘CT scan’ is a very expensive phrase.”

  She glanced down at his paperwork on her clipboard. She considered for a moment, then nodded once. “I do recommend it, but I can’t force you to get one. Your choice. Promise me, though, that you’ll return immediately if you feel dizzy or nauseous, or if you feel anything out of the ordinary at all.”

  “Great. Yes, of course. Thank you,” Vish said.

  “Keep awake for at least the next twelve hours, too. I’d advise having a friend stay with you. Ask Commander Hotpants if she’s up to it.” At Vish’s look of complete incomprehension, she frowned. “Troy Van Ellen. I saw her with you in the waiting room. That was her, right?”

  Vish didn’t know Troy’s last name, and he’d lost track of the conversation somehow, but he nodded. “Yeah, that’s Troy.”

  “Good.” Doctor Gott smiled. “Have her keep an eye on you. This is not a good day for being alone.”

  No sense explaining he’d only met Troy and thus she wouldn’t be interested in babysitting him. He nodded, then hesitated. “Can I ask you something? When I said I bumped my head on a tree branch, you looked like you didn’t believe me.”

  She considered. “The skin split cleanly. Something rough like a branch, you’d typically expect the scalp to look torn. Your injury is more consistent with a blow from something smooth, like a baton or a pipe.” At his look of confusion, she shook her head. “But injuries are strange beasts sometimes. You say it was a branch, that’s plausible. Just wanted to be sure someone hadn’t beaten you up, that’s all.”

  When he returned to the waiting room, Troy was deep in animated conversation with a pair of teen girls. She laughed at something they said, her red-gold hair managing to shimmer even under the flat glare of the fluorescent lights, then patted one of the girls on the shoulder and gave the other a quick one-armed hug. When she spotted Vish, she leaned forward and said something inaudible to them, which made them erupt into delighted giggles, then headed over to him.

  “All clear?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” he said.

  “Cool. Let me run you home,” she said. She hoisted her purse onto her shoulder.

  Vish hesitated. “Do I have to fill out any more paperwork or anything?”

  “Nope. You’re good to go.” Troy took his elbow gently and led him to the door. She turned to wave goodbye to the girls one more time.

  “Friends of yours?” Vish asked as they crossed through the parking lot.

  “Ah… not really,” she said.

  Vish looked at her. Her face was flushed bright pink. Realization dawned. “You’re famous, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head. “Hardly. But I’m on TV,” she said. “It’s this show on cable—Interstellar Boys?”

  Ah. “Commander Hotpants? That’s what my doctor called you.”

  The pink deepened to crimson, though she looked pleased. “That’s a nickname some fans have given my character. You’d have to see the show, but it makes sense in context.”

  Vish smiled. “I haven’t seen it. Her comment confused me greatly.”

  Troy snorted. “I can imagine.” She considered. “The show is the only big thing I’ve ever done, and not many people watch it. So, no, I’m definitely not famous. I’m surprised your doctor recognized me.”

  “I’m sure I’d like your show if I saw it. I’ve heard good things about it. I just don’t have a television,” Vish said. “I mean, right now I don’t. I’ve had one in the past. I don’t want it to sound like I’m anti-television or something.”

  Something about Troy—her pretty smile, maybe, or the light pressure of her small hand on his arm—turned him into a babbling idiot. She just grinned and led him to her car. “You’re not missing much. I mean, it’s a really good show, I’d say that even if I wasn’t on it, but it’s not going to change anyone’s life. It’s just cute and fun, that’s all.”

  “One of your costars was at a party I catered last night.” The girl in the bumblebee dress, teetering in heels on the railing, poised above oblivion. “I can’t remember her name. Tiny blonde teenager, short hair?”

  “Aw, Kelsey? You met Kelsey? Did you get to talk to her? She’s a darling, isn’t she? I adore her to pieces. The entire cast is so great, and we all get along so well. It makes going to work a pleasure.”

  Easy to believe. Impossible to picture anyone not getting along with Troy. “I didn’t talk to her. But she seemed nice.”

  Troy smiled. “Where do you live?”

  “About five blocks from here. Go straight down Venice.”

  “What did the doctor say? Do you have a concussion?”

  “A small one, at the very worst. She didn’t think it seemed too bad. I’m just supposed to stay awake for a while. Make sure I don’t fall unconscious, I guess.”

  She gave him a sidelong look as she pulled out of the lot. “Do you need someone to stay with you?”

  “She suggested that, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have plans. We could hang out, if you wanted.”

  Funny how just those casual words made his heart beat a little faster. “That’d be great,” Vish said. “I’d love the company. But please don’t feel obligated in any way. I’m really fine.”

  “No problem. I’d feel terrible if you slipped into a coma while you were by yourself,” Troy said. “Which way on Venice?”

  “Left. You’ll be taking another left on Glencoe.”

  Her expression was neutral as she looked at his building. Too neutral. Vish was practical enough not to be ashamed of where he lived. This was what he could afford, this sufficed for his needs. Seeing it through her eyes, though, was different. The rusting fence, the discarded furniture in the empty pool…

  She brightened once they were inside his apartment. “Oh, this is nice,” she said. “You
have really good style.”

  “Thank you.” He did have good style. He’d painted the walls when he first moved in, covering the tobacco-yellowed white in pale olive with a painstaking ivory border at the top to lend the illusion of crown molding. Glossy black paint over pasteboard bookcases, a chenille slipcover over his Goodwill couch, acrylic rugs in Persian-inspired patterns over the gray nylon carpet.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  Which is how they ended up sitting on the couch together, Troy mere inches away from him, pizza box on the coffee table. She had taken charge of ordering. The pizza was cheeseless and meatless, which was fine, if not Vish’s first choice. If the food was bland, the company was more than worth it. Troy was an easy conversationalist, both talkative and attentive. If there was anything she’d rather be doing on her weekend than sitting around with some stranger while making sure his brain didn’t spontaneously hemorrhage, she showed no sign of it. She asked questions about his life, lots of questions, and seemed genuinely fascinated by his answers.

  “So what have you written?” she asked.

  “A lot of short stories. Two novels. A few relentlessly mediocre screenplays.” Vish swallowed a bite of pizza. It had artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes on it. It was okay. Add little goat cheese and maybe some crispy pancetta, and it’d be downright tasty. “Back in New York, coming out here and writing screenplays sounded like a good idea, but as soon as I got here… I don’t know. I don’t think I have a feel for this industry.”

  “Do you have an agent?” she asked.

  Vish shook his head. “I did in New York. She couldn’t interest anyone in my writing, so she dropped me.”

  Troy winced in sympathy. “Rough. You’re in good company, though. I know a lot of talented people, writers and actors, who haven’t been able to get anywhere here. I’ve been lucky, I know. Right place, right time.”

  She plucked a kalamata olive off her pizza slice and ate it, her tongue flicking out to lick her fingers. “You should email me some of your stuff. I could pass it along to my agent. My agency represents writers, too. They’re really good.”

  “Wow. Thank you. That would be very nice of you.” Between Troy and Sparky, he’d had as many offers to read his material in the past day as in the entire year since he’d moved to Los Angeles.

  That was a thought. “Do you know anyone named Sparky Mother?”

  Troy frowned. Faint creases emerged on her forehead. Small lines around her eyes, too. She was probably a couple years older than Vish, though she looked good for any age. “Yeah, maybe. Is he an agent?”

  Vish felt a surge of surprise. He’d almost written Sparky off as some kind of con artist. “Yeah, I think so. He might be a manager. I’m not really sure.”

  Troy nodded. “He’s the one who used to throw all those big parties on Oscar night, isn’t he? But I thought he died a while ago.” She shook her head. “I might be thinking of the wrong guy.”

  “That can’t be him. Sparky’s young.”

  “Swifty. Swifty Lazar. That’s who I was thinking of.” Troy shrugged and shifted the conversation to other matters. Sparky was soon forgotten.

  They whiled away the afternoon. They walked down to the water and strolled along the beach. They zipped to Santa Monica in Troy’s little car and grabbed iced coffee on the Promenade. They saw a movie, something neither had much interest in seeing, something Vish forgot as soon as the end credits rolled. Troy insisted on paying for everything, quietly and politely but in a way that left no room for argument. Troy turned into a chipper and implacable brick wall whenever Vish tried to counter-insist on picking up the tab, rendering all his efforts useless.

  Well, hell. She’d seen his shabby apartment, she knew he didn’t have a car, she knew where he worked, she knew he didn’t have health insurance… Later, as they were zipping back to his place, something dawned on him. “Back at the hospital, you didn’t pay my bill, did you?”

  She went pink again. “Actually, I did, yeah. It was easier that way.”

  “There’s no need,” he said. “Please. You can’t do this. There’s absolutely no reason you should pay for that.”

  “But I pressured you into going. And you don’t have insurance.” She smiled, somehow managing to seem both conciliatory and unrepentant. “Look, I don’t mean to offend you, but I have an awful lot of money right now, and it’s no big deal. Just let me do this for you, please. It makes everything so much smoother.”

  Vish exhaled, unsatisfied but not knowing how to push the point. “You’re so nice,” he said.

  Troy giggled. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

  “No. It’s wonderful, and I’m so grateful to you. But you don’t know me, and you’ve done so much for me today. I feel inadequate.”

  She glanced at him. “Don’t,” she said. “I want to do this. Don’t think about it, don’t worry about it, don’t feel bad about it.”

  Vish leaned back against the headrest and watched the scenery, feeling like there was more he should say and not having the faintest idea how to say it.