diversion and she may have wanted more…
Hell, after a performance like that, Dietrich would have flushed with gratitude and satisfaction, at having found a man, a real man who knew and understood her needs. It would have been damned difficult to dump a dog like Dietrich after an operation like that and she would have followed me to the ends of the earth.
Anyway, 3 days go by and I’m positively laid back on my bed, arms above my head and sporting a white bandage over my right eye, when in breezed one of my nurses, Laurie, pushing the wanderer. I pulled myself into a sitting position and even with my one good eye, I could see in a trice, the man was not of this world. He appeared to be loaded on something outlandish and not in control. The young lady parked and placed him on the bed facing me and beat a hasty retreat. For a short while we stared at each other, both of us with arms crossed and legs dangling and moving slowly. The stranger was clearly confused and plainly puzzled. He was disorientated and in turmoil. What could I say? Perhaps the man was dangerous. A duteous nurse Dietrich’s portent and admonition that I behave myself. How was I to know?
The man spoke. “Where am I?”
“In Y.K.”
“Bullshit.”
“Straight goods.”
“I’m in Frobisher Bay.”
“Sorry pal. You got it wrong this time.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.” A pause…
“Well then, we must have a drink.”
Now, this was a conundrum worth considering. I was temporarily baffled. I mean, fine, let’s have a drink. But where, in our exciting and antiseptic environment, were we going to find one? That was the question. And another thing…
Dietrich was at an exceptional peak of doubt and suspicion that day since 3 of my rigorous and ruffian friends had almost caused a free – for – all on the ward earlier the same afternoon. Another tale but suffice to say, Dietrich was eyeballing me with extreme contempt and diligence, on the off chance those uncouth acquaintances of mine should return and slip me a fix and a rig. I would have to be careful.
Because… my water head roommate provided the answer to the question. The first clue was when I noticed a large steamer trunk, the kind people who mattered, quality people, used years ago, when embarking on a ship, to travel around the world. Amongst the curiosity and caution of the man’s arrival, I had missed this piece of luggage.
The man inaugurated a deep exploration thru that big old chest, sniggling and giggling and all the while tossing clothing and other possessions across the room and onto the floor. At one point, he was down so low; all I could see of him were the soles of his feet.
“Ripper!” was my response, as the man, now my man, came up with a large bottle of booze. Down he went again and 2 dives later, that ol’ salt buddy of mine had brought up the sum amount of 3 bottles of fine vodka. The rush was on and our room craved O.J. I felt like I was sailing. I felt like Jaques Cousteau.
Typically, we hadn’t put back the 1st flask before we began walking the hallways and passing out and distributing a liberal touch of that damned vodka, here and there, to anyone who wanted or needed it. Word spread quickly. The T.V. room was expeditiously converted and became a bee – bop, Mardi – Gras saloon. Twenty or thirty people, each and every one with a different and debilitating illness, were showing full appreciation and were tanked to the tits and having fun. Good times.
The fevered and frenzied were swaying and swearing. The spastics were throwing off their crutches and striving to walk. The sightless could see. The mutes were making animal noises and trying to talk. The deaf were paying attention. It was certainly a diversion from mundane and commonplace tedium and it was a scene to behold.
I was somewhat shickered myself, crouched down at the back of the room, observing Stanton Y.K. Hospital loose and liberated and thinking, ‘Damn! This circus is not going to last long.’
I knew that fantastic array of stunts was doomed by the way one nurse, Carrie, was leaning stiffly against a far wall, her eyes white and wide with shock and I knew what she was thinking. ‘Incredible! Outrageous! On my shift!’
For sure it was done when my favorite nurse, Pearline, walked over to where I was hunched down and nervously inquired if there was anything she could get for me, “like more O.J. to go with your vodka?” Ouch!
Things happened fast. Everyone was dispensed and dispersed to their rooms and strapped and buckled to their beds. A speedy search conducted by nurse Dietrich turned up our last bottle of vodka. The little hummer had been tucked neatly and elusively beneath my pillow, while its companion bottles had found their ways safely aboard the low – slung roof of Stanton Y.K. Hospital. Dietrich was highly adept at finding contraband. It was part of her job description and a condition of her employ. I could as well have had that last and lonely bottle stashed up my ass and inevitably, she would have found it.
The comedy of the situation was correct and positively inspired. I have always had a knack for well - expressed insubordination and I’ve usually managed to jink and juke, to circumvent and avoid serious retribution. Evidence and attest, this pen is still moving intelligently, after all the years, flowing with the flotsam and jetsam of all the years.
The aftermath and mortification of the party was worthwhile. Dietrich, the good ol’ gal, was all for castrating me. She climbed on my case something awful. My head was ready to explode and I had to listen to, “Alcohol…! On my ward…!” she spit and sputtered. “You… you… irresponsible person! With everyone on medication! You…! You…!” Her rare and precious nurses were feigning not to tehee and titter or hiding it well. I thought the whole affair a merry prank and jest.
The doctor was called in at 4 A.M. and he did not even pretend to find the matter amusing. After he was done flailing and frothing, he had the audacity to ask me if I was an alcoholic. I replied that I preferred to be considered a drunk in search of the truth.
The doctor then asked me intently, just what did I think my sidekick was doing in his hospital? Here I had to remind the man that he was the doctor and I had no way of understanding my partner’s complaint. On hearing my judicious rationale, the man went on edge and was ready to eat raw meat. He was a disturbed dog in August. A facial tic was making him an excitable fellow. His arms were lashing on short – circuit speed and I dearly hoped the scalpels were locked away and under chain and key. The doctor was special pissed – off because that lush colleague of mine had been admitted to Stanton Y.K. Hospital for alcohol poisoning.
“Do you realize that just 1 drink could kill that man?” I wisely chose not to comment or to tell the doctor that his patient was comatose, the result of his having guzzled and put away the better part of 20 oz. of vodka by his own self and that he had long since gone into a deep alcoholic delirium and was horizontal on the floor of our communal room at that very moment. No. Best to remain silent. An observation of such substance would not have done much for my position. No.
Instead, I sat back, soundless and silent and wondered if it would be cattle prods or hair shirts or whatever means the good doctor used to control pest problems and irrational creatures like myself. I was ready for and expecting any lunatic cure and I felt like Jack Nicholson in the best movie of his excessive and extravagant life.
But no, it was not to be this way. Rather, the charade was over and even if I was an incomparable rascal, I had to give my solemn word of honor that there would be no more shenanigans or I could, “get
