here is that $100,000 check for the family,” Sheldon utters in plastic fashion, handing Rory the envelope as he speaks. “God bless you and the UCLA Medical Center for all you’re doing to help fight these terminal illnesses.”
The audience cheers as both men stand up and shake hands, and then Rory makes his way back off the set toward the green room with a somber expression and the envelope in his left hand.
Back in the green room, Rory is pacing like a wild animal; his temper ablaze with the feeling of being used and disgraced. When he realizes that Corba meticulously planned this entire show as a means to make the scandal go away; he grabs the flat screen television and flips it toward the floor with both hands, feeling liberated by the sounds of breaking glass and plastic.
After the television hits the floor, the unusually tall stage manager steps into the room wearing an illuminated Bluetooth earpiece, and he stares at Rory with a mild expression of shock. The tall man is dressed in all black clothing with the words ‘Stage Manager’ printed on the front of his shirt in bold white text. His thinning head of curly brown hair, pale complexion, and large facial features almost make him appear childlike.
“Rory,” the stage manager begins, pretending to ignore the smashed television, “Sheldon wanted to ask a favor; not for him, but for his friend Victor Coamo.” The man pulls out a small photo with his chubby fingers as he slides up shoulder to shoulder with Rory so they can both get a good look. “I guess this guy is dying of Hepatitis C and was hoping that you could help him out; he doesn’t have much longer.”
“Neat.” Rory says with a blank stare, glancing dispassionately at the photo of a seemingly wealthy South American smiling wide on the deck of a boat somewhere tropical. “Well, tell Sheldon that he needs to read the statement from the hospital again; there is no more blood available, especially for his rich friends. They’ll have to wait until the hospital can manufacture a cure.”
“That’s pretty cold, dude.” The stage manager says boldly, twisting his face in confusion. “They said they’ll pay you the five-hundred grand; no problem. He just wants to live.”
“Then tell Victor to keep his cock in Sheldon’s mouth where it belongs and he won’t get infected with things like Hepatitis… That will actually solve two problems at once.” Rory says with a defiant and furious passion.
“Right…” The stage manager replies with a disgusted expression as he puts the photo back into his pocket. After realizing there is nothing more to talk about, the large man walks out of the room with a disappointed gait. “Hey, Jake, we need another flat TV in green room two,” the large man yells out before forcefully closing the door.
V. Survival 101
The following morning, Rory is pacing back and forth in the conference room at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. He has the envelope that Sheldon gave him the night before clutched tightly in his right hand. With fierce eyes and fast movements, Rory bears the look of a disgruntled bike messenger, dressed from head to toe in black fitness clothing. He is also wearing a white, Chicago Bulls basketball cap snugly on his head with a pair of expensive sunglasses resting on its brim.
Soon Doctor Anderton appears in the room as the heavy wooden door quickly opens and closes. The doctor is wearing his long, white lab coat, small eyeglasses, and is still neatly groomed from the press conference earlier in the week. He is carrying some type of silver touch-pad device that is cradled close to his waist with the screen turned in toward his abdomen.
“Where the hell is Corba?” Rory demands with the fervor of scorned warrior. “She damn well better not plan on hiding from me this morning; that fucking bitch!”
“I thought we discussed not calling me a bitch yesterday?” Corba’s voice beckons indignantly from Doctor Anderton’s right hand, getting louder as he approaches Rory’s right shoulder and takes a seat at the conference room table.
“You’ve gotta’ be kidding me,” Rory snarls in frustration and sets the envelope on the glass tabletop as he takes a seat at the head of the conference table with the tall doctor seated to his right. He glares at the touch-pad as his body lowers onto the soft, black leather swivel chair; his frame remains rigid as the meeting begins.
Doctor Anderton doesn’t say a word as he removes a small wire stand from under his lab coat and uses it to prop up the touch-pad on the glass top of the conference table with the screen facing Rory.
“What the hell do you want, Mr. Chambers?” Corba asks defiantly, her face and hair looking as though she just awoke recently. “I am a busy woman, and can’t keep holding your hand through this process.”
“I came here to tell you that I’m done!” Rory states with affirmation, shaking his head up and down a bit at the screen to reinforce his resolute attitude.
“Oh, here we go,” Corba begins as if she is talking to a rebellious teenager. “You are done with what?”
Doctor Anderton is sitting just to the right of the display, looking bored and irritated with his right index finger against his temple. He yawns for a moment and stretches in a manner that shows he has more important things to do than this.
“I am done with you. I am done with this hospital. I am done giving my blood. You can continue this project… without me!” Rory holds his ground, feeling strong and in control as his rehearsed statement boldly comes out. “And what the fuck is this; by the way?” He asks, gesturing with disappointment toward the touch-pad device as if casting a cold pair of dice at a craps table.
“I have been working many late nights, Rory, trying to secure funding for this project.” She evokes with passion as her voice cracks a bit and a few tufts of blonde hair fall out of place on the small screen. “You can’t be serious about-“
“What happened with that little girl?” Rory demands as he cuts her off with vivacious energy and leans toward the screen. “Did we let a little girl die so that we could get grant money from some sleazy oil billionaire!?”
“I don’t think you really understand the gravity of what we’re trying to do here,” Corba begins.
“No, no. No more speeches, you Goddamn spin-doctor,” Rory erupts with fresh rage, pointing his finger at the screen. “Did we let a little girl die so that some old asshole could buy his way into a few extra golden years?”
“You heard my statement from Sheldon,” Corba declares in an official tone, “there simply was not enough blood to go around and Senator Henri Edwards was a great match to your blood profile.”
“What a bunch of horseshit!” Rory exclaims with a look of incredulous fury. “You just can’t afford to be an adult and take responsibility for anything that you’ve caused. Last night, you made me look like a liar, an accomplice in your bullshit political agenda, and a total dipshit on National TV.”
“Rory, I understand your frustration, but that little girl was going to die anyway. Her condition was so advanced that she may have only had a 40% chance of surviving, even with our best efforts.”
“Yeah, you know what it sounds like,” Rory replies with aggravation, “it sounds like wealthy white people have a 100% chance of survival and the rest of the world has no chance.”
“Rory, you’re blowing this all out of proportion, as usual. We have saved fifty-nine lives at this hospital that could not have been saved otherwise. I only chose white people because they match your blood profile much better for testing purposes.”
“Look, I told you I’ve had enough,” Rory commands, pointing hi
s index and middle fingers together at the screen. “From the beginning, you’ve betrayed my trust, my girlfriend’s trust, and you have done everything in your power to make sure you get as much money as you can. You’re trying to squeeze every drop out of this situation and it’s disgusting!” He finishes by pounding his right fist on the conference table and then sits back in his chair again, looking at Corba’s image with angst.
“Are you quite finished?” Corba asks in a dry voice, showing how drained she is from all the events and phone calls this week.
“No, I’m not finished,” Rory snaps back, picking up the large, white envelope from the conference table. He glances at it for a moment before turning it sideways and flinging it at the touch-pad, watching it tap the screen and bounce on the corner of the table before landing on the floor. “I won’t be your delivery boy for your apology check, and I won’t apologize for your sins. You are a cold, disturbed woman, and I will be happy to have you out of my life!”
“Rory, this hospital saved your father’s life,” Corba begins, and all we’ve done is try to save more lives with your help. I can’t believe how disappointing your attitude is; what would your family think of this?”
“That’s it!” Rory shouts, jumping up from his chair as it slides quickly back toward the short wall and large glass windows behind him. “Talking about my family is going too far,” he says darting his enraged face close to the touch-pad.
Corba starts to speak again, but Rory immediately grabs the touch-pad, turns on his heel, and hurls the small screen at the
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