> SEVENTEEN STITCHES LATER > I WAS STANDING OUTSIDE IN > THE HOSPITAL’S SMOKING SECTION > > I was watching the sun rise over a lake though the lake was on the > other side of the building. If you were in the parking lot to my left > you would’ve be able to see it. But I was busy smoking my filtered > cigarette and watching the traffic on the highway in front of me. > Having nothing better to do with my right hand – seeing I was in > public and they had laws about that kind of thing – (besides, I used > my left hand for that) I took off the bandage on my forehead and began > counting my stitches to make sure the doctor hadn’t ripped me off. He > hadn’t. They were all there. Maybe even a few more, but those bumps > could’ve been scratches. I didn’t have a mirror and the people beside > me didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm. > “You act as if you’ve never seen blood before,” I said to a woman who > was standing beside me. “Come on, I just want to know. You can count, > can’t you?” She must’ve been in a hurry because she walked away pretty > fast. I heard her talking to another man near the entrance and it > sounded like she said something in the lines of: “You just can’t go > anywhere these days...” And I think the man said: “Tell me about it.” > I guess they were talking about the litter on the floor because the > woman was pointing in my direction. She must’ve been showing the man a > candy wrapper that was on the ground beside my feet. > I used to remember a time when everybody wanted to play the doctor. > They even had books for people like that.My mother had one. I guess > they were all in bad moods. Maybe someone they knew was dying on the > second floor of the hospital; or something like that. They didn’t have > to take it out on me. I was just curious, concerned about my > appearance. There was a very big difference between seventeen stitches > and nineteen stitches. I seemed to be the only person there who cared > about that kind of thing. > When the cigarette was smoked I walked back into the hospital and > played with the vending machines in the entrance. I had no money so > instead I kicked the machine every time someone walked by to give the > impression that it had stolen my change. In doing that I hoped that > someone would have a heart and buy me some candy. No one did. I wasn’t > really hungry anyway. But it was something to do. It didn’t take too > much to amuse me seeing that I had been in the hospital’s waiting room > all night, hungover and slightly nauseous from the smell of the place, > not having a clue how I had gotten there. > My next idea was to pretend that I was talking to someone on the pay > phone beside the candy machines. “Look Walter,” I said to my invisible > friend on the line, “I just don’t think it would be any fun to do > that.” I wasn’t in a very creative mood and no one was around to > listen to me so I hung up and called for an ambulance. > When the fun had run out in doing that I walked back outside to the > bus stop and pretended to be waiting. The annoying thing about doing > that was that I had to leave every time a bus showed up. So instead I > hid one of my boots in a nearby garbage can. Whenever someone walked > by I put on a confused look on my face and pretended to be looking for > my boot that had vanished into thin air. That didn’t last very long > because it was November and my foot was beginning to get cold. So when > I put my boot back on I pretended that I didn’t know how to tie up my > shoelace and I asked the people who walked by if they could help me. > No one wanted to so I eventually had to do it myself. > I didn’t know what the hell had happened, but for some reason I woke > up in the bus shelter with a sore elbow. I must have fallen asleep, I > thought to myself. I asked the security guard who had kicked me awake > for the time and he told me that it was almost noon. Then he told me > that if I wanted to sleep I should do it at home. I guess he assumed > that everyone had a home to sleep in. I was about to tell him that I > didn’t have a home,but sixty- five year old men who worked as security > guards in redneck mining cities in Northern Ontario hospitals weren’t > usually too interested about that kind of thing. So instead I stood up > and started walking toward the downtown area, not having a reason, > just walking away. It seemed like a nice day and I didn’t have > anywhere else to go. Maybe the crowds would give me a sign. At that > point, anything seemed possible. > After walking around the shopping mall for an hour and masturbating in > the public washroom I began to get really bored. “Now what?” I said to > myself, not expecting an answer. So I decided (or more likely ended > up) to go to the park. Cool grass. Shade. I was really tired. No one > bothered me except for a few stupid children who couldn’t seem to stop > laughing. But when I showed them the stitches on my forehead, they ran > away screaming. I guess threatening to end their pathetic lives also > helped. When their father arrived, I showed him my stitches, thinking > he would also run away like the children had done. I must have > miscalculated my assumptions because instead of running away he > punched me in the face. I would’ve probably been in pain, but I was > unconscious before I hit the ground. Easy sleep, I said to myself as I > was falling. > When I awoke it was almost supper time. I wasn’t hungry so I found > myself a bench and watched the idiot townspeople walk by with their > idiot dogs and their idiot minds. But yet again, boredom began to > creep into my brain. I found an old razor blade that I always kept > hidden in my boot for emergency purposes and decided to take out my > stitches. No reason. It just seemed like something to do. I couldn’t > think of any other way to amuse myself. This should be fun, I said to > no one. How creative of me to have thought of it. > I must have cut myself a few times doing that because I could feel the > blood starting to leak into my eyes. When I was sure that I had gotten > them all, I laid down on the sidewalk and waited for someone to walk > by. Naturally, someone did. And soon enough I heard the ambulance > coming. When the paramedics arrived I told them that someone had > pushed me then hit me in the head with a baseball bat.” That’s not > gonna work a second time,buddy,” one of them said to me. I heard the > other one say something like: “Where do all these fucks come from? > Jesus Christ!” For some reason or another, they weren’t as friendly > with me as they had been the first time. I assumed they were tired, so > I didn’t hold it against them. They must work long hours, I thought to > myself. That’s probably it. Totally understandable. After all, I was a > very reasonable person. > I also remembered the ambulance ride being more fun the first time > around and the drivers comforting me when I had told them what had > happened. This time, I was strapped to a chair and every time I tried > to make conversation with them they told me to shut up and that I was > in big trouble. I assumed they were talking about the scars I would > have for having taken out my stitches. I was going to tell them that > the only reason I did that was because I was bored, but I didn’t think > ambulance drivers knew about that kind of thing and probably wouldn’t > understand. > When I arrived at the hospital two men dressed in police uniforms were > waiting to speak with me. “All this for me? You shouldn’t have,” I > said to one of them. I guess they weren’t too interested in hearing me > speak because the next thing I knew I was running thru someone’s > backyard and jumping over a tall, steel fence. Some people behind me > were yelling something, but I was too much in a hurry to hear what > they were saying. It sounded something like: “Get back here, you crazy > fuck.” I guess they were in bad moods like the paramedics were. > I caught my breath after taking a break near a trail in the woods and > began walking toward the downtown area again. It was almost dark and I > thought that maybe I would be able to find something to do if I tried > really hard. Everyone seems to be in a bad mood today, except for me, > I thought to myself. Maybe it’s my lucky day. > Walking down the street I noticed that everyone was giving me funny > looks, but I didn’t think much of it because they always did that. To > be safe from infection, I washed my forehead in a ditch with an old > sock I had found earlier. It stung a little because the water was > really cold. I knew that old sock would come in handy, I thought to > myself. > Once or twice a police car drove by me, but they didn’t recognize me. > I assumed that it was because I was wearing a hat that I had stolen > from a kid who was playing street hockey. I also had a bottle of > whiskey I had found near a homeless person who was either asleep or > dead. It was almost full so I was happy with my find. That almost > never happens to me, I said to myself. > I didn’t know how I had gotten there, or if it was really happening, > but the next thing I knew I was in a forest in front of a large camp > fire. There were at least a dozen people dancing around it, naked > except for black arm bands. This can’t be real, I said to myself. I > backed up and found a log to sit on as I took a drink from my bottle. > All of a sudden I looked up and everyone was staring at me. I was no > longer wearing my hat so I thought that they were looking at my > forehead. “Pretty neat, don’t you think?” I said to the group. I guess > they weren’t too interested in what I had to say because right in > front of my eyes they turned into blinding balls of light and floated > up toward the sky. Now I know this can’t be happening, I said to > myself. No fucking way. > So there I was, in the middle of a forest, not a clue how I had gotten > there, and having just witnessed a bunch of people turning into stars. > It was then that I realized that I had been deprived of sleep and that > I needed it badly. So I closed my eyes and drifted off in seconds. > When I awoke I was in a movie theatre and the credits were rolling. > “Sir, you can’t stay here. You have to go. The movie’s over,” a man in > a suit was saying to me. I was about to hit him until I realized that > I was in a theatre and the man speaking to me wasn’t a police officer. > “Relax. I’m going, you fuck,” I said. > Walking out of there I looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that > it was nearly nine. “What the fuck?” I said to no one. Not having any > clue what was going on, I walked back to the park to try and figure > out what to do. First, I tried to retrace my steps. All I knew was > that I had awakened in a hospital some time the night before. After > trying to clear my mind for an hour I decided that the best thing to > do was to take a short nap and try again later when my head was > working better. It made sense to me. I was so tired. All I wanted was > sleep. > I didn’t know what the hell had happened, but the next thing I knew I > was in the back seat of my friend Salter’s car and he was saying > something to me. I was leaning up against a full case of beer. There > was also two bottles of scotch and a carton of cigarettes laying on > the seat beside me. The floor of the car was littered with trash and > all I could smell was cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes. “Where the > fuck did you go?” he asked. “You were supposed to call me when you got > out of the hospital.” I guess he knew that I didn’t have an answer for > him because he just laughed and turned up the music. I asked him if he > knew how I had managed to get seventeen stitches in my forehead, but > he just laughed at me some more and said: “I know, and today’s only > Saturday. Did you see Dalton anywhere? He seems to have disappeared > again.” > > The End