EnEmE: Fall Of Man (2 page)

Two nights later I woke up screaming, in a cold sweat. That made three nights in a row, since my dad’s funeral.

I got dressed, got in my car and drove over to my shrink’s office at Vermont and Venice. It was too early for her to be open, so I chatted with Mick at the all-night news stand and grabbed breakfast from Sal’s, the food truck that was permanently parked next to Mick’s news kiosk. Great guys both, good old boys in their late 70s, real old-fashioned, stand-up guys like they don’t make any more.

They were so old-fashioned, in fact, that most of their friends and none of their customers had any idea they were a couple. These guys had grown up in times where staying in the closet was a rule, not the exception, like it is today. How you could hide something like that inside yourself from people your entire life, I’ll never know. They were good; they were well-practiced at not drawing attention to it. They were just themselves; genuine old-timers, no blustering or macho over-compensation, which worked to their favour. The average person would have no idea, but to a trained detective little things added up over time; a look, an absence, an awkward pause in conversation. I’d finally put it together a couple years ago, but never said anything of it to either Mick or Sal. They didn’t feel the need to share their personal lives with any and all around them, and I’m sure that they felt that if there were inquiring minds, it was none of their goddamn business, and I agreed.

I saw a spindly redhead in neat professional attire working her way across the street through the slower pedestrians, holding her paper coffee cup high, so as not to spill it as she squeezed past. Her limbs were long and thin, and seemed able to bend at extreme angles that shouldn’t seem possible, like a praying mantis, in order to get through the obstacles of the Los Angeles streets. She didn’t notice me at my street-side picnic table vantage point as she slipped into an alcove in front of a tall glass archway, pulled out a key and quickly slid into the doorway of my psychiatrist’s office. The redhead’s name was Lacy; she was Dr. Kiebler’s receptionist.

I finished up the last of my hash browns. Sal made the best in the city, which I thanked him for as I returned the plate. I tossed a buck and some change to Mick for the paper I’d been reading and wished them both a good day. I carefully watched the traffic for several seconds before choosing my time to cut across the street without going to the crosswalk. A few quick strides and a near collision with an ’87 Buick Skylark later, and I was safely gliding into my doctor’s office just in time for the 10 am opening.

I speedily crossed the foyer, eyes the office door just past the appointment desk, and grinned, making direct eye contact with Lacy behind the desk as I quickly strode right past her.

“Is Doctor Kiebler in, Lacy? Surely, it would be out of character for the good doctor to not be here first thing in the morning.” I said wryly.

Lacy fumbled from behind the desk, tripping over her little blue plastic waste basket. She valiantly attempted to catch up with the long quick strides I was making, but to no avail. The 3-inch heels and narrow knee-length business skirt probably didn’t help.

“Oh…Mr…Mr. Bradley…you must be mistaken...you’re appointment isn’t until Wednesday.” She stuttered, desperately trying to delay me. “Dr. Kiebler has…a very busy schedule today.”

“Oh, no bother, I’ll just be a minute!” I replied with a sly grin as I slipped into Dr. Kiebler’s door, locking it behind me.

I waited a full second, until I heard the thump of Lacy hitting the door in full stride. A quick rattle proved to her that the door was locked.

“Whatever, the doctor can handle it.” I heard her say in resignation before she turned and marched back to her desk.

Lacy was good at her job, but she knew I was a regular and no threat, not like those nutters out in the waiting room.

With that, I turned to look at Dr. Kiebler, who was leaning against a desk, looking none too impressed and glaring at me.

Kiebler was an old family friend, had even counselled my father through several difficult stages in his life, had helped get my brother into film school, and been counselling me once a week since I was 17.

The fact that she was gorgeous and only 7 years my senior wasn’t bad either. For a woman in her late 30’s she was sure put together well. She was the kind of sophisticated woman who had lived clean and had aged gracefully, able to pass for 10 years younger, I would say. Her long auburn hair was pulled back in a pony tail

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Bradley?” she asked in a seething, sarcastic tone.

“Well, I was in the neighbourhood, thought I’d pop by and thank you for coming to my father’s funeral,” I replied.

“Your brother did that two days ago. I hadn’t thought that you stuck around long enough to have noticed I was there,” she replied.

“Well, you know I just can’t stand to see my brother use every opportunity to talk about himself and compete with others to prove that his pain is more “significant” than theirs.” I said that last part with little air quotes.

“I saw that exchange the two of you had next to the coffin,” she said, glaring sternly. Then a wide grin broke through and across her face from ear to ear. “You restrained yourself very well.”

“I’m glad someone appreciated it,” I said, chuckling.

“So why are you here?” Kiebler asked, cutting through the chit-chat. I liked her style.

“Well ever since my father’s funeral I’ve been waking up screaming every night because of nightmares that my appendix is a fuckin’ monster chewing its way out of my body,” I replied.

“Sit,” she ordered.

After I explained the story of the last few days since my father’s death, she stared at me and slowly drew in a deep breath.

“After a traumatic experience, especially one involving repressed emotions of love and anger, the mind can start taking us to strange places,” she said.

“No, shit,” I replied. “My mind is taking me to a place where the scene from
Aliens
is repeated nightly, but with more pain and gory detail.”

“Your mind is taking you to a place to show you a truth. A truth about yourself in order to help you heal,” she said, exasperated. “Sometimes your conscious just isn’t ready to hear what it needs to hear directly, so your mind has to create hidden symbols and messages in your dreams for you to figure out on your own.”

“So is my mind telling me to go get my appendix taken out?” I asked.

“You can’t just voluntarily get your appendix taken out.” She replied. “That’s not what it means anyway. As for the nightmares, as difficult as it is, I don’t want to rush this. Wait a couple of days until your regular appointment, and if you haven’t worked past this on your own by then I’ll prescribe you something for sleep.”

“Would you get your appendix taken out if you could?” I asked.

“I had my appendix out when I was 12. I didn’t have a choice.” She replied, matter-of-factly.

With that I got up and unlocked the door.

“Thanks doc, you’re a life saver.” I said slightly sarcastically as I walked out the door.

“Take care of yourself, Jace,” I heard her say as it closed.

I smiled at Lacy and thanked her as I strolled by and toward the large glass archway, headed for the street.

I stood on the sidewalk, looking side-to-side, trying to figure out what to do with my day as I lit a cigarette. Before I could even complete my first sweet, sweet inhale of nicotine, I clutched my side with sudden and intense pain.

I screamed.

The pain forced me to my knees and quickly escalated to a level that it caused me to pass out.

Just as everything went black I saw Lacy, alerted by my screams, running over, looking concerned.

I came to shortly after, in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. EMT’s on either side of me were checking my vitals, shouting to each other and asking me questions.

“Have you ever had your appendix out, Mr. Bradley?” one asked, shouting way too loudly, as if he were talking to an old man who was hard of hearing.

“No, I haven’t,” I answered in an equally, unnecessarily loud tone.

The two EMT’s looked at each other, in silent recognition of the jab I’d just taken at their bedside manner. The shouter blushed; the other one looked at me and spoke.

“Well, it looks like you’re going to have to now.” He said it in a matter-of-fact way, but with an indoor voice. “You’ve got all the signs of a rupture; you’ll need an emergency appendectomy.”

“I’m going to give you something to help manage the pain until we get to the hospital,” said the shouter, a little less shouty this time.

Before I could get a word in edgewise the shouter quickly jabbed a needle into my neck and everything went black again.

I came to a short time later. I’d been prepped for surgery and I lay relatively immobile on a gurney just outside the emergency operating room. Surgical staff were scrubbing and donning their surgical masks, beginning to gather by the O.R. entrance, near my bed.

It slowly, very slowly, began to dawn on me that my feeling of immobility wasn’t due to being tied to the bed, because I wasn’t, but it must have been from whatever drugs they had given me. Not only did it seem difficult to move, but there was no sign of any of the pain I had felt earlier, or almost any other feeling at all for that matter.

A surgeon approached me with wide, smiling eyes. His face showed the wrinkles that come with the experience of life that only a man in his late 60’s would have and he spoke with an Australian accent.

“Well, Officer Bradley, I’m Doctor Banya. We’ll have you out of this spot of botha’ in a jiffy. We’re just gonna take you into the next room, put you unda’, take out that pesky appendix what’s been causin’ you this trouble and you’ll be good as new, I reckon,” the doctor said in very calm and relaxed way.

In contrast to the EMT’s, Doctor Banya’s smooth and relaxed demeanour seemed to instantly relieve a tension in my brow and shoulders that I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

Suddenly remembering something, the doctor turned back.

“Oh, I almost forgot, you got a visita’! I told her she could speak to you before we operate, but keep it quick. The hospital won’t want to have to pay us all overtime because you were too busy talking the knickers off some bird to get your appendix out,” Banyan blurted out with a grin and a sly wink before walking away.

Confused, I looked up to see Dr. Kiebler standing in the doorway. She quickly walked over to me.

“Jace I’m so sorry that I didn’t take your dreams more seriously.” She said “Obviously what I chalked up to a repressed emotional response was actually your own body trying to send
you a message to prevent the same fate as your father. I never even considered…”

“It’s ok,” I interrupted. “There’s no way you could have known. I guess sometimes what we see in our dreams really can be literal, huh?”

“I guess,” she replied.

“I must be a very important patient to get my shrink to chase my ambulance all the way across town” I said with a sly grin.

“It’s no trouble,” she said in a much more serious tone now. “As a professional, I feel responsible for my inaccurate diagnosis…” Her serious demeanour began to melt. “…and as a lifelong friend of you and your family, I’m here for support. I’ve had Lacy reschedule all my appointments for today. I’ll be here for you when you wake up.”

We looked at each other for a long moment, but before I could find the right words to reply Dr. Banyan stepped in and grabbed hold of the metal railing of my gurney.

“Come along, my boy, there’s no time to waste; we need to get you in here if you have any hope of sharing a romantic dinner with your friend this evening.”

With that they began pulling me and my bed away into the O.R. so quickly that I could only exchange on last embarrassed glance with Dr. Kiebler.