A job
A Job
Buzzing. SMACK. Fucking flies. It’s amazing how persistent they are around here. I sit up. I’m still in the hotel room. Nothing too fancy, though I could easily afford better. I could’ve booked a suite. That wouldn’t sit well, though, turns heads. That kinda shit just isn’t professional. I go to the bathroom and wash my face. The cold water cuts through the post-sleep drowsiness. I want a shower, but I’m strung out about being late. No matter how many times I do this, I still get wedding day jitters. Not very professional. Fuck it, I’ve still got two hours. But I’ll do it quick. I can’t afford to be late. The shower is refreshing. Like leaning into a freezer after doing yard work. It’s been about two months since my last job. When was the last time I did anything else?
…
When I was younger, I wanted to be in the NASA ground crew. Not an astronaut, one of the guys in mission control. You’d still have the excitement, the exposure to the wonders of the universe, you’d still be part of the crew, but if the shuttle blew up, it wouldn’t be your ashes scattered across the skies of Texas. Even at an age where most kid’s dreams were outlandish and impossible, mine were the picture of realism. A scientist in a field of firefighters and policemen. It’s amazing how far we’re flung from our dreams.
…
I dry off in front of the full-body mirror. My eyes gravitate to the scar on the right side of my thigh. I wish I could say it was from a fight or an accident on a hiking trip, but it wasn’t. Just some shrapnel from one my first jobs. I remember the dull thud, the departure from equilibrium. Red. Lots of red. Stifled screaming. Raw animalistic desire to flee the scene. But I knew better. I’d have to wait for a window… The memories were still so vivid. I started to get dressed, straight out of my suitcase. Rule numero uno of a foreign job: never put personal items in a hotel room.
…
That was the longest fucking night of my life. Sitting on that tile floor, bleeding out slowly, hand pressed tight against the makeshift bandage that was earlier my tie and left sleeve. I always did my business in a suit. I regretted that now; the stiff folds would give my wounds away in any light. I kept waiting for the sirens to stop.
30 minutes. 30 minutes without a beep, helicopter blades, red and blue flashing lights. Please just give me thirty minutes. Goddamn it. More lights. Thirsty. I want out of these clothes. They’re sticky with my blood now. Tightness, throbbing pain in my thigh. Where did that fucking shrapnel come from anyway? The lights go away again. I feel myself losing consciousness. I’ve got to stay awake. If I go into shock, I’ll never make it back. I need water. News vans, oh sweet Jesus news vans. Thank you god.
…
I put my cufflinks in. These were old, had little dolphins in them. That was a fixation of my high school sweetheart, Mira. She loved those damn dolphins. We’d long ago fought, broken up, and moved on but I still wear them to every job. It is my link to the world of people. Someone there knows me, even if they hate me. That’s a rarity in this field, built on professional isolation and anonymity. I treasure them, even now.
My suitcase is small, only the bare minimum for survival out of town. I carry it with me down the hall, through the hotel; just a typical business man in a typical Marriot. In the early days I had to feign a blasé attitude, trying to contain my nervousness and excitement. Now, I am used to it. I am a professional. I smile inwardly. I don’t check out. I’ll be back later, but only for appearances. The doors slide open for me. The light is blinding, even now. It’s the peak of summer after all. I pull out the handle on my suitcase and roll it down the concrete towards the garage where my car waits….
…
If I don’t leave now, I won’t have enough blood to make it out of here. I stood up, wobbling a bit on my heels. My shoes felt somehow bigger and significantly heavier than loafers. My instrument seemed to have doubled in weight. I had wiped away the blood from the initial spatter. After the first strains of shock passed, while I waited for the sirens to cease, I had disassembled it and put it away in the modified orchestra bass case I kept it in. If only I could leave some of it here; there would have to be a clean-up crew, for all the blood in the room, but I still don’t want to take any chances that I don’t have to.
My employer will cover the cost of patching me up no problem. I did my job, did it well. Did it like an old pro. He would be overjoyed at my show of professionalism, stuck up in this damn room for hours, bleeding like a stuck pig, without dying or doing something stupid. I won’t tell him how close I came to losing it, how close I was to breaking down and calling his number on an unsecured line and begging for medical help. He would praise me, and future business would be assured. That feeling was all the comfort I had left in me now. I need to get to my car. It’s in the garage adjacent to this office building. My employer really knows how to pick the scene…
….
The parking garage smells like bus exhaust. I open the trunk with a button on the keychain and place my suitcase next to the orchestra bass case concealing my instrument. The scene would be a hospital this time. My employer has powerful connections. I was supposed to pose as a relative and ask to see my uncle, the soon-to-be-late Charles Whitman. It’s nice to have an employer with a sense of humor. The hospital was only five blocks away. The person I was supposed to ask was a blonde middle-aged woman with lobster-shaped red earrings. Impossible to mistake, I guess.
I pull into the parking lot. How suspicious is a man carrying an orchestra bass through a hospital? Maybe a clown suit would attract less attention. I smile. I’ll tell that to my employer after the job. That’ll crack him up. I park, walk to my trunk, and pull out the case. It’s getting dark out now. I glance at my watch. Nine twenty. Plenty of time. I head towards the door…
...
Let’s see, how was I supposed to get downstairs to my car? I doubt there will be any office workers here. It’s late but if I’m spotted, I might as well call the cops myself. I limped to the elevator, holding my case to my side, leaning on the wall. More blood. I pushed the down arrow. It didn’t light up; probably broken. I can hear the elevator moving, the numbers climbing up to four. In the unlikely event that someone’s on it, I’ll be too tired to run. They’ll see me and it will be over. Ding. The doors open. No one home. I step in and press 2, then G. The security guard will come to investigate the elevator opening for no one, giving me time to slip out the conveniently disabled fire door leading to the garage walkway. That was the plan anyway, but the plan didn’t involve me being half dead from blood loss. I exited the elevator and hurried down the hallway. A faint ding. I pushed the bar on the fire escape. No alarm. My employer had had someone disable it a week ago. Now the tricky part. I grip the railing with my free hand. Stairs. Hobble left, hobble right, the case in my other hand hitting my knees with every step…
…
It may be dusk outside, orange fading into blackness where the city meets the sky, but a hospital knows no darkness. Bright fluorescent lights, always on. I walk in casually. There’s an old lady in a wheelchair, coming towards me. I hold both doors open for her. Who says chivalry is dead? Two people are ahead of me, asking the clerk if nurse something or other is working tonight. The woman at the desk clearly knows them, tells them to leave that poor girl alone. “Tell her to call us, okay?” The two walk past me, looking glum. I step forward. “I’m here to see a Mr. Chuck Whitman.” The lady at the desk looks up at me. She’s about twenty. Fake blonde highlights. Chewing gum. Shit no earrings. Shit shit shit.
“You a relative?” “Yes, he’s my uncle.” Shit. How could I fucking miss that? She starts typing something. I faintly hear an Instant messenger bloop. She quietly stifles a laugh with her hand. That puts me at ease a bit. She types some more. The smile disappears. “What was that name again?” Shit. Did she recognize the name? She’s like twenty! Damn it damn it... “cause he’s not showing up in our incoming or current patients.” If this keeps up, I’m going to have a heart attack. This is my fault. How could I be so careless? And where was lobster woman?
…
I feebly push the door to the courtyard open, into the cold night air. No fire alarms here either. Despite my best efforts, the case is covered in my blood, though in the darkness it merely looks wet. The same can’t be said for my shirt, which earlier was business white and dry cleaned. Even in the dark, my appearance is unmistakably in shambles. I hobble across the courtyard. Half a day ago, white collars were eating lunch here. Fake plants with fountain cups from Subway. A skylight through which the first floor was visible. I step around the yellow concrete divider that separated the courtyard from the garage. Damn it, my car is two stories up. I don’t think I can take any more stairs. Where’s that elevator. There, to the left. I limp to it, press the up arrow and grip my thigh as the elevator comes down. I look down to the wound, black cloth, a small hole. It looks purple from here. I’m glad I can’t see the wound. It feels open and rotting. The doors open; I step in, and press four. An Ice cream cone sounds good now. The first thing I do after I get out of this mess is get an ice cream cone, two scoops. Vanilla. The door opens again. There’s my car. I pop the trunk and slide my case over the lip. I open the door, flop into the seat. I hope they can get the blood out later. I close my eyes. I made it. Now, turn the key. Ignition. My rendezvous is across from a nice restaurant about twelve blocks northwest of here. I back out and drive slowly to the incline…
…
Another bloop. She was messaging someone still. Her eyes arched and she let out an exasperated sigh, as though she had been dissed in public. I went to take a seat. She seems to have forgotten that I was there anyway. Suddenly noise behind me. I turn around. A man dashing forward with a blue-faced child in his arms. I step out of the way. The woman at the desk looks up from her conversation, surprised by the commotion. The man and the suddenly very serious blonde speak frantically. A gurnee flanked by two doctors and a nurse appears from nowhere. The man lays his kid on the gurnee; they fly off in the direction they had appeared from, the father speaking quickly with one of the doctors. The blonde woman follows them. Perhaps she’s related? No one’s at the desk now. Lucky me. Maybe the desk staff are supposed to follow the doctors to the E.R. Maybe she just didn’t want to IM with that person anymore. I sit down in one of the many unoccupied chairs. I’m upset with myself now. So unprofessional. I need to look before I leap. I can’t afford those kind of mistakes.
The lobby is sparse in attendance. There are a couple tired looking singles. Worried faces. Elderly couples. Two teenagers with an iPod, one earbud each. A kid chewing gum, playing a Gameboy sitting next to a grouchy looking woman. Two bathrooms in the back. A table with a purposeless lamp flanked by outdated magazines. Across from me is a huge mural. It looks like someone threw several colors of paint on a naked epileptic and flung them at the wall. A woman emerged from the bathroom. Lobster earrings. There she is. She took a seat to the left of where the other had been. Others in the room took notice. Some rose, probably to ask her about their loved ones. I suppose the last clerk had been of as little to help to them. I quickly got up and headed for her first. She sat down, with a sigh, looked at the computer screen with a scowl, and cast a peeved glance up, having heard the oncoming rush.
I reached the desk first. “Good evening.” Her look told me that it was in fact, not a good evening. “I’m here to see a relative of mine, a Mr. Charles Whitman.” Quiet recognition flashed across her eyes. This was not her first time being the pick. “Oh yes, we spoke earlier. Room 411, fourth floor.” I thank her, feeling a little bad for having to release her to the barracudas behind me, and head for the elevator. That went smoothly. I pressed the up arrow. I don’t think I could do my job without elevators. Ding, open. Hit the four button. The doors slide shut. Alone again. The speakers are playing the Rippingtons. “Weekend in Monaco.” There’s an inspirational poster on the wall to my left. It is uninspiring. The door opens again. A woman chewing gum with a clipboard steps in, eyeing the case absentmindedly. Is everyone in this hospital chewing gum? I step out, switch the case from my tired right hand to my left, and look to the walls for the number of the room…
…
A job. Something you do for payment. Most would look down on me for what I do. Are they any better? Everyone gives up something they love for the necessities of life. Some give up everything for wealth, something that they think will bring them happiness but will ultimately bring them no joy. Fast cars, nice watches, clothes and status. None of it matters from your deathbed. My profession is no different of course. I’m not making that claim. The difference is I have time to do the things I find important. I, like them, am a professional. I, like them, am hired for my skills. We are judged, we perform, we jump through hoops. Morally, I find most jobs to be indefensible. What right do lawyers or insurance firm workers have to snivel at me, living as they do a parasitic existence of the back of the common man’s wallet? What right does a Walmart employee have to pretend superiority because it is the company and not them that outsources jobs to overworked child labor half the world over? Dirty politicians accepting lobbyist bribes in strip clubs, bankers and moneymen who would rip off their own grandmother for a dollar… we all treat it the same way. It’s a job. Something you do for money. How do they sleep at night? It wasn’t them that pulled the trigger. They set up the weapon. Put up the tripod. Take off the safety. But they don’t touch the trigger. That’s my job…
…
I’m bleeding again. Driving. Night. Tinted windows can’t hide the neon lights. Signs. People trying to cross the street. Just a few blocks now. Oh god, I’m gonna die. The rush of escape is gone now, the adrenaline spent getting to this car. Blurry. I’m going to crash. My eyes keep rolling up into my head. Blink. Bushes. Blink. On the road again. Blink. Overcorrected. My bandage is loose. How much blood can one person lose? Red light; is this a traffic light or a building sign? No matter. Two blocks to go I think. Blinker on. Turn right. There’s the restaurant. The van is behind the hedge. I pull up next to it. Rendezvous. Pull yourself together. Be professional. Sit up straight. The contact is coming to the window. Roll it down. A voice. “I thought you’d never - hey you all right?” Say something intelligent. Whoops. I vomited down my front. “Holy christ!” The door opened. I was being lifted out of the seat. Tired and thirsty. Take me to a hospital please. Red…
…
Everyone I’ve come across on this floor is either somber or tired. There’s a sign 01-40 to the right. 411… Here. I knocked on the door. No answer. I pushed it open. Here, the lights were off. A curtained off bed in the corner, the last in a row of three. I see a metallic get well balloon and the silhouette of flowers. No uncle Chuck. He didn’t exist, not anymore. I close the door behind me. No lock on this side. I prop up a chair underneath the handle. I checked my watch. Ten til ten. Strange time for a televised speech. The people would be busy watching what passes for entertainment on the networks, at least until the inevitable breaking news bulletin.
When I’ve finished, the newscasters will act all shocked and outraged but inside, those shit eaters would soak it up. A fresh source of stories in a summer with no major natural disasters to feed off of. I can see it now; the national fear-mongering color will become a more sinister hue. Nobodies on street corners will be too afraid to go to the market, but not too afraid to talk to newscasters on street corners about how afraid they are. It’ll be at least another week before they’ve returned to celebrities acting stupid and whining about how much gas costs. I smiled. My employer would laugh at that too. I should carry a notepad around with me.
I walk to the end of the room, and swing my case onto uncle Chuck’s bed. My view is decent. I can see the podium from here, flanked by lights. I reach into my shirt pocket. Granola bar, to suppress the jitters. There is an orchestra, the crowd already gathered and waiting. I pull the latches and open the case; out come my binoculars. I begin to frame the shot, chewing away at the tasteless bar. I should’ve brought some jerky. The conductor is waving his baton around frantically. I can’t hear the music, but I imagine it’s the crescendo. I pull my instrument out of its case, admiring it. Clean and cold. I begin to piece it together. The parts fit together smoothly, locking with satisfying clicks. Meant for each other, like Mira and I imagined ourselves in high school. Like these pieces though, we are not special. Wholly replaceable, stamped out of a factory in Idaho. Available by phone or catalog.
I adjust, load. Slide into place. I wheel the bed over to the window. Me and my instrument, we are both machines. If we didn’t do what we do, something else would. Redundant. There’s a degree of comfort in the slick logic of it all. It’s liberating. How can you be blamed for pulling the trigger when it was the point of your existence? I pull the case to the floor, then turn to the window and crank it open. I lay on the bed, and close one eye, pressing the other brow against the top of the lens. The familiar lines meet on the podium. I see the baton, flapping ludicrously about. The bed is springy. Not the best for stability. I adjust the tripod. Now comes the waiting.
Silence, save for a faint buzzing sound; perhaps it’s coming from the next room, or from an electric component in one of the beds. The conductor’s hands finally fall down dramatically, and cease moving. I zoom out. Clapping and bowing. Lights dim. He’s here. A suit bobs into view, waving to the crowd. More clapping. He grabs the podium. I zoom back in. I’m tense, a coiled machine. Now it’s my crescendo. Should I do it while he’s telling them about the funny thing that his wife said on the way here, or while he’s badmouthing his opponent for his use of smear tactics? I smirk. My employer would find that funny too. I really should get a notepad. He looks to each side of the audience, speaking to the back. Good public speaking technique. The speech should be about ten minutes long, but I don’t want to miss my window. Now is as good a time as any. I center his head and wait for a pause. Buzzing. SMACK. Fucking flies.
Buzzing. SMACK. Fucking flies. It’s amazing how persistent they are around here. I sit up. I’m still in the hotel room. Nothing too fancy, though I could easily afford better. I could’ve booked a suite. That wouldn’t sit well, though, turns heads. That kinda shit just isn’t professional. I go to the bathroom and wash my face. The cold water cuts through the post-sleep drowsiness. I want a shower, but I’m strung out about being late. No matter how many times I do this, I still get wedding day jitters. Not very professional. Fuck it, I’ve still got two hours. But I’ll do it quick. I can’t afford to be late. The shower is refreshing. Like leaning into a freezer after doing yard work. It’s been about two months since my last job. When was the last time I did anything else?
…
When I was younger, I wanted to be in the NASA ground crew. Not an astronaut, one of the guys in mission control. You’d still have the excitement, the exposure to the wonders of the universe, you’d still be part of the crew, but if the shuttle blew up, it wouldn’t be your ashes scattered across the skies of Texas. Even at an age where most kid’s dreams were outlandish and impossible, mine were the picture of realism. A scientist in a field of firefighters and policemen. It’s amazing how far we’re flung from our dreams.
…
I dry off in front of the full-body mirror. My eyes gravitate to the scar on the right side of my thigh. I wish I could say it was from a fight or an accident on a hiking trip, but it wasn’t. Just some shrapnel from one my first jobs. I remember the dull thud, the departure from equilibrium. Red. Lots of red. Stifled screaming. Raw animalistic desire to flee the scene. But I knew better. I’d have to wait for a window… The memories were still so vivid. I started to get dressed, straight out of my suitcase. Rule numero uno of a foreign job: never put personal items in a hotel room.
…
That was the longest fucking night of my life. Sitting on that tile floor, bleeding out slowly, hand pressed tight against the makeshift bandage that was earlier my tie and left sleeve. I always did my business in a suit. I regretted that now; the stiff folds would give my wounds away in any light. I kept waiting for the sirens to stop.
30 minutes. 30 minutes without a beep, helicopter blades, red and blue flashing lights. Please just give me thirty minutes. Goddamn it. More lights. Thirsty. I want out of these clothes. They’re sticky with my blood now. Tightness, throbbing pain in my thigh. Where did that fucking shrapnel come from anyway? The lights go away again. I feel myself losing consciousness. I’ve got to stay awake. If I go into shock, I’ll never make it back. I need water. News vans, oh sweet Jesus news vans. Thank you god.
…
I put my cufflinks in. These were old, had little dolphins in them. That was a fixation of my high school sweetheart, Mira. She loved those damn dolphins. We’d long ago fought, broken up, and moved on but I still wear them to every job. It is my link to the world of people. Someone there knows me, even if they hate me. That’s a rarity in this field, built on professional isolation and anonymity. I treasure them, even now.
My suitcase is small, only the bare minimum for survival out of town. I carry it with me down the hall, through the hotel; just a typical business man in a typical Marriot. In the early days I had to feign a blasé attitude, trying to contain my nervousness and excitement. Now, I am used to it. I am a professional. I smile inwardly. I don’t check out. I’ll be back later, but only for appearances. The doors slide open for me. The light is blinding, even now. It’s the peak of summer after all. I pull out the handle on my suitcase and roll it down the concrete towards the garage where my car waits….
…
If I don’t leave now, I won’t have enough blood to make it out of here. I stood up, wobbling a bit on my heels. My shoes felt somehow bigger and significantly heavier than loafers. My instrument seemed to have doubled in weight. I had wiped away the blood from the initial spatter. After the first strains of shock passed, while I waited for the sirens to cease, I had disassembled it and put it away in the modified orchestra bass case I kept it in. If only I could leave some of it here; there would have to be a clean-up crew, for all the blood in the room, but I still don’t want to take any chances that I don’t have to.
My employer will cover the cost of patching me up no problem. I did my job, did it well. Did it like an old pro. He would be overjoyed at my show of professionalism, stuck up in this damn room for hours, bleeding like a stuck pig, without dying or doing something stupid. I won’t tell him how close I came to losing it, how close I was to breaking down and calling his number on an unsecured line and begging for medical help. He would praise me, and future business would be assured. That feeling was all the comfort I had left in me now. I need to get to my car. It’s in the garage adjacent to this office building. My employer really knows how to pick the scene…
….
The parking garage smells like bus exhaust. I open the trunk with a button on the keychain and place my suitcase next to the orchestra bass case concealing my instrument. The scene would be a hospital this time. My employer has powerful connections. I was supposed to pose as a relative and ask to see my uncle, the soon-to-be-late Charles Whitman. It’s nice to have an employer with a sense of humor. The hospital was only five blocks away. The person I was supposed to ask was a blonde middle-aged woman with lobster-shaped red earrings. Impossible to mistake, I guess.
I pull into the parking lot. How suspicious is a man carrying an orchestra bass through a hospital? Maybe a clown suit would attract less attention. I smile. I’ll tell that to my employer after the job. That’ll crack him up. I park, walk to my trunk, and pull out the case. It’s getting dark out now. I glance at my watch. Nine twenty. Plenty of time. I head towards the door…
...
Let’s see, how was I supposed to get downstairs to my car? I doubt there will be any office workers here. It’s late but if I’m spotted, I might as well call the cops myself. I limped to the elevator, holding my case to my side, leaning on the wall. More blood. I pushed the down arrow. It didn’t light up; probably broken. I can hear the elevator moving, the numbers climbing up to four. In the unlikely event that someone’s on it, I’ll be too tired to run. They’ll see me and it will be over. Ding. The doors open. No one home. I step in and press 2, then G. The security guard will come to investigate the elevator opening for no one, giving me time to slip out the conveniently disabled fire door leading to the garage walkway. That was the plan anyway, but the plan didn’t involve me being half dead from blood loss. I exited the elevator and hurried down the hallway. A faint ding. I pushed the bar on the fire escape. No alarm. My employer had had someone disable it a week ago. Now the tricky part. I grip the railing with my free hand. Stairs. Hobble left, hobble right, the case in my other hand hitting my knees with every step…
…
It may be dusk outside, orange fading into blackness where the city meets the sky, but a hospital knows no darkness. Bright fluorescent lights, always on. I walk in casually. There’s an old lady in a wheelchair, coming towards me. I hold both doors open for her. Who says chivalry is dead? Two people are ahead of me, asking the clerk if nurse something or other is working tonight. The woman at the desk clearly knows them, tells them to leave that poor girl alone. “Tell her to call us, okay?” The two walk past me, looking glum. I step forward. “I’m here to see a Mr. Chuck Whitman.” The lady at the desk looks up at me. She’s about twenty. Fake blonde highlights. Chewing gum. Shit no earrings. Shit shit shit.
“You a relative?” “Yes, he’s my uncle.” Shit. How could I fucking miss that? She starts typing something. I faintly hear an Instant messenger bloop. She quietly stifles a laugh with her hand. That puts me at ease a bit. She types some more. The smile disappears. “What was that name again?” Shit. Did she recognize the name? She’s like twenty! Damn it damn it... “cause he’s not showing up in our incoming or current patients.” If this keeps up, I’m going to have a heart attack. This is my fault. How could I be so careless? And where was lobster woman?
…
I feebly push the door to the courtyard open, into the cold night air. No fire alarms here either. Despite my best efforts, the case is covered in my blood, though in the darkness it merely looks wet. The same can’t be said for my shirt, which earlier was business white and dry cleaned. Even in the dark, my appearance is unmistakably in shambles. I hobble across the courtyard. Half a day ago, white collars were eating lunch here. Fake plants with fountain cups from Subway. A skylight through which the first floor was visible. I step around the yellow concrete divider that separated the courtyard from the garage. Damn it, my car is two stories up. I don’t think I can take any more stairs. Where’s that elevator. There, to the left. I limp to it, press the up arrow and grip my thigh as the elevator comes down. I look down to the wound, black cloth, a small hole. It looks purple from here. I’m glad I can’t see the wound. It feels open and rotting. The doors open; I step in, and press four. An Ice cream cone sounds good now. The first thing I do after I get out of this mess is get an ice cream cone, two scoops. Vanilla. The door opens again. There’s my car. I pop the trunk and slide my case over the lip. I open the door, flop into the seat. I hope they can get the blood out later. I close my eyes. I made it. Now, turn the key. Ignition. My rendezvous is across from a nice restaurant about twelve blocks northwest of here. I back out and drive slowly to the incline…
…
Another bloop. She was messaging someone still. Her eyes arched and she let out an exasperated sigh, as though she had been dissed in public. I went to take a seat. She seems to have forgotten that I was there anyway. Suddenly noise behind me. I turn around. A man dashing forward with a blue-faced child in his arms. I step out of the way. The woman at the desk looks up from her conversation, surprised by the commotion. The man and the suddenly very serious blonde speak frantically. A gurnee flanked by two doctors and a nurse appears from nowhere. The man lays his kid on the gurnee; they fly off in the direction they had appeared from, the father speaking quickly with one of the doctors. The blonde woman follows them. Perhaps she’s related? No one’s at the desk now. Lucky me. Maybe the desk staff are supposed to follow the doctors to the E.R. Maybe she just didn’t want to IM with that person anymore. I sit down in one of the many unoccupied chairs. I’m upset with myself now. So unprofessional. I need to look before I leap. I can’t afford those kind of mistakes.
The lobby is sparse in attendance. There are a couple tired looking singles. Worried faces. Elderly couples. Two teenagers with an iPod, one earbud each. A kid chewing gum, playing a Gameboy sitting next to a grouchy looking woman. Two bathrooms in the back. A table with a purposeless lamp flanked by outdated magazines. Across from me is a huge mural. It looks like someone threw several colors of paint on a naked epileptic and flung them at the wall. A woman emerged from the bathroom. Lobster earrings. There she is. She took a seat to the left of where the other had been. Others in the room took notice. Some rose, probably to ask her about their loved ones. I suppose the last clerk had been of as little to help to them. I quickly got up and headed for her first. She sat down, with a sigh, looked at the computer screen with a scowl, and cast a peeved glance up, having heard the oncoming rush.
I reached the desk first. “Good evening.” Her look told me that it was in fact, not a good evening. “I’m here to see a relative of mine, a Mr. Charles Whitman.” Quiet recognition flashed across her eyes. This was not her first time being the pick. “Oh yes, we spoke earlier. Room 411, fourth floor.” I thank her, feeling a little bad for having to release her to the barracudas behind me, and head for the elevator. That went smoothly. I pressed the up arrow. I don’t think I could do my job without elevators. Ding, open. Hit the four button. The doors slide shut. Alone again. The speakers are playing the Rippingtons. “Weekend in Monaco.” There’s an inspirational poster on the wall to my left. It is uninspiring. The door opens again. A woman chewing gum with a clipboard steps in, eyeing the case absentmindedly. Is everyone in this hospital chewing gum? I step out, switch the case from my tired right hand to my left, and look to the walls for the number of the room…
…
A job. Something you do for payment. Most would look down on me for what I do. Are they any better? Everyone gives up something they love for the necessities of life. Some give up everything for wealth, something that they think will bring them happiness but will ultimately bring them no joy. Fast cars, nice watches, clothes and status. None of it matters from your deathbed. My profession is no different of course. I’m not making that claim. The difference is I have time to do the things I find important. I, like them, am a professional. I, like them, am hired for my skills. We are judged, we perform, we jump through hoops. Morally, I find most jobs to be indefensible. What right do lawyers or insurance firm workers have to snivel at me, living as they do a parasitic existence of the back of the common man’s wallet? What right does a Walmart employee have to pretend superiority because it is the company and not them that outsources jobs to overworked child labor half the world over? Dirty politicians accepting lobbyist bribes in strip clubs, bankers and moneymen who would rip off their own grandmother for a dollar… we all treat it the same way. It’s a job. Something you do for money. How do they sleep at night? It wasn’t them that pulled the trigger. They set up the weapon. Put up the tripod. Take off the safety. But they don’t touch the trigger. That’s my job…
…
I’m bleeding again. Driving. Night. Tinted windows can’t hide the neon lights. Signs. People trying to cross the street. Just a few blocks now. Oh god, I’m gonna die. The rush of escape is gone now, the adrenaline spent getting to this car. Blurry. I’m going to crash. My eyes keep rolling up into my head. Blink. Bushes. Blink. On the road again. Blink. Overcorrected. My bandage is loose. How much blood can one person lose? Red light; is this a traffic light or a building sign? No matter. Two blocks to go I think. Blinker on. Turn right. There’s the restaurant. The van is behind the hedge. I pull up next to it. Rendezvous. Pull yourself together. Be professional. Sit up straight. The contact is coming to the window. Roll it down. A voice. “I thought you’d never - hey you all right?” Say something intelligent. Whoops. I vomited down my front. “Holy christ!” The door opened. I was being lifted out of the seat. Tired and thirsty. Take me to a hospital please. Red…
…
Everyone I’ve come across on this floor is either somber or tired. There’s a sign 01-40 to the right. 411… Here. I knocked on the door. No answer. I pushed it open. Here, the lights were off. A curtained off bed in the corner, the last in a row of three. I see a metallic get well balloon and the silhouette of flowers. No uncle Chuck. He didn’t exist, not anymore. I close the door behind me. No lock on this side. I prop up a chair underneath the handle. I checked my watch. Ten til ten. Strange time for a televised speech. The people would be busy watching what passes for entertainment on the networks, at least until the inevitable breaking news bulletin.
When I’ve finished, the newscasters will act all shocked and outraged but inside, those shit eaters would soak it up. A fresh source of stories in a summer with no major natural disasters to feed off of. I can see it now; the national fear-mongering color will become a more sinister hue. Nobodies on street corners will be too afraid to go to the market, but not too afraid to talk to newscasters on street corners about how afraid they are. It’ll be at least another week before they’ve returned to celebrities acting stupid and whining about how much gas costs. I smiled. My employer would laugh at that too. I should carry a notepad around with me.
I walk to the end of the room, and swing my case onto uncle Chuck’s bed. My view is decent. I can see the podium from here, flanked by lights. I reach into my shirt pocket. Granola bar, to suppress the jitters. There is an orchestra, the crowd already gathered and waiting. I pull the latches and open the case; out come my binoculars. I begin to frame the shot, chewing away at the tasteless bar. I should’ve brought some jerky. The conductor is waving his baton around frantically. I can’t hear the music, but I imagine it’s the crescendo. I pull my instrument out of its case, admiring it. Clean and cold. I begin to piece it together. The parts fit together smoothly, locking with satisfying clicks. Meant for each other, like Mira and I imagined ourselves in high school. Like these pieces though, we are not special. Wholly replaceable, stamped out of a factory in Idaho. Available by phone or catalog.
I adjust, load. Slide into place. I wheel the bed over to the window. Me and my instrument, we are both machines. If we didn’t do what we do, something else would. Redundant. There’s a degree of comfort in the slick logic of it all. It’s liberating. How can you be blamed for pulling the trigger when it was the point of your existence? I pull the case to the floor, then turn to the window and crank it open. I lay on the bed, and close one eye, pressing the other brow against the top of the lens. The familiar lines meet on the podium. I see the baton, flapping ludicrously about. The bed is springy. Not the best for stability. I adjust the tripod. Now comes the waiting.
Silence, save for a faint buzzing sound; perhaps it’s coming from the next room, or from an electric component in one of the beds. The conductor’s hands finally fall down dramatically, and cease moving. I zoom out. Clapping and bowing. Lights dim. He’s here. A suit bobs into view, waving to the crowd. More clapping. He grabs the podium. I zoom back in. I’m tense, a coiled machine. Now it’s my crescendo. Should I do it while he’s telling them about the funny thing that his wife said on the way here, or while he’s badmouthing his opponent for his use of smear tactics? I smirk. My employer would find that funny too. I really should get a notepad. He looks to each side of the audience, speaking to the back. Good public speaking technique. The speech should be about ten minutes long, but I don’t want to miss my window. Now is as good a time as any. I center his head and wait for a pause. Buzzing. SMACK. Fucking flies.