room. I take a seat. Sweat already stains the pits and nape of the T-shirt. I sling the windbreaker around my shoulders. A nurse approaches.
Don't remember you being signed out?
I haven't. I've decided to leave.
She has a look of mild concern. Raises her eyebrows. She says.
Wait here a second.
She walks into a room. She returns and hands me a small bottle with a few Tylonol-Codine rattling inside.
For the pain.
Thanks.
I smile. She smiles then wanders to a nurse at a station.
Dallas wheels me to the pharmacy I already have a script for Vicodin. The pharmacy fills the order. Strong pain killer. CoCodamol in effervescent. The pharmacist gives me a consultation on how to take the narcotics. Dallas wheels me away whilst the guy is still talking. Dallas says.
You know how to take pills.
We get into a nice elevator. Hit 1. Doors close slowly. Dallas doesn't speak. Seems impatient. The lights count down. The doors slide open. I am pushed into the marble entrance and towards the exit. Outside there is a fountain. I feel a movement in my belly. Deep in my belly. A snake in my belly moves. I have felt it before and it knows me. It knows danger is near.
I can see the relentless sun bleaching the sidewalk. Patients and visitors pass each other. Oblivious to each others need or pain. In the open I feel the air is hot. It was cool inside. Dallas presses on. As we move to the parking garage I feel my body recoil shrink against the sun. Is Dallas pushing me into a furnace. I say.
How long have I been in there?
Four days.
The Escalade with the blacked out windows pulls around into a bay reserved for an ambulance. A security guard approaches. The passenger rolls down the window. With a look and a few well chosen words the guard nods and walks away from the vehicle. Two men climb out. Ex-Military. Help me hop into the back door. The pain in my leg and hip is unreal. Toothache multiplied by a million times. Panting with tension I wait at the door gripping the upper handle. I stare up into the blue blue sky. The unbearably blue sky. So beautiful I am forced to turn away. I can show no weakness now. As helpful as Dallas seems he works for Baba Yama. His client. In my comatose state I have some how constructed a version of the last days events. This makes me believe weird shit. Makes me believe that Mikey and Yama knew Largo was up to some bad shit with the cops. I pop a Vicodin. Make me believe they wanted me somehow removed. A problem to be erased. Eradicated. I still find this belief difficult. If my belief is true then I will never make it to LAX. If I am wrong and my drug fuelled coma state was just a mental fuck up then I will be back in a cold stiff wind in my home town soon.
Doors clip shut. My journey is either beginning or ending. Already the people in the SUV are beginning to fade. One of the Mercs, a small muscular man beside me makes small talk. I interact. I am present but I am not. My mind has moved on. I smile nod. Acknowledge. I find it hard to concentrate on the buildings moving outside. The world is filtered by the tinted glass. Moving. Buildings glint against the sunlight. I know we are moving North. The direction of LAX. I think of politics. I am a politician. I am a business man. A killer. A criminal. I am actually aware that all of this that has gone before me is my fault. My responsibility. I feel no guilt. No shame. It is one thing to study war. It is another thing to live a warriors life. The men in this vehicle know this. They have honor. They have code. I am or seem to be no mystery to them. I see the sign white on green that states: LAX. I stare out the window. I can smell oil inside the car. Gun oil. These men are armed. We are all staring out of windows seeing the world filtered through our own perspectives.
And who am I? Who am I in this final exit. To answer that is impossible: there ... is ... no ... key.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barry Crowther has made his home in San Clemente Southern
Don't remember you being signed out?
I haven't. I've decided to leave.
She has a look of mild concern. Raises her eyebrows. She says.
Wait here a second.
She walks into a room. She returns and hands me a small bottle with a few Tylonol-Codine rattling inside.
For the pain.
Thanks.
I smile. She smiles then wanders to a nurse at a station.
Dallas wheels me to the pharmacy I already have a script for Vicodin. The pharmacy fills the order. Strong pain killer. CoCodamol in effervescent. The pharmacist gives me a consultation on how to take the narcotics. Dallas wheels me away whilst the guy is still talking. Dallas says.
You know how to take pills.
We get into a nice elevator. Hit 1. Doors close slowly. Dallas doesn't speak. Seems impatient. The lights count down. The doors slide open. I am pushed into the marble entrance and towards the exit. Outside there is a fountain. I feel a movement in my belly. Deep in my belly. A snake in my belly moves. I have felt it before and it knows me. It knows danger is near.
I can see the relentless sun bleaching the sidewalk. Patients and visitors pass each other. Oblivious to each others need or pain. In the open I feel the air is hot. It was cool inside. Dallas presses on. As we move to the parking garage I feel my body recoil shrink against the sun. Is Dallas pushing me into a furnace. I say.
How long have I been in there?
Four days.
The Escalade with the blacked out windows pulls around into a bay reserved for an ambulance. A security guard approaches. The passenger rolls down the window. With a look and a few well chosen words the guard nods and walks away from the vehicle. Two men climb out. Ex-Military. Help me hop into the back door. The pain in my leg and hip is unreal. Toothache multiplied by a million times. Panting with tension I wait at the door gripping the upper handle. I stare up into the blue blue sky. The unbearably blue sky. So beautiful I am forced to turn away. I can show no weakness now. As helpful as Dallas seems he works for Baba Yama. His client. In my comatose state I have some how constructed a version of the last days events. This makes me believe weird shit. Makes me believe that Mikey and Yama knew Largo was up to some bad shit with the cops. I pop a Vicodin. Make me believe they wanted me somehow removed. A problem to be erased. Eradicated. I still find this belief difficult. If my belief is true then I will never make it to LAX. If I am wrong and my drug fuelled coma state was just a mental fuck up then I will be back in a cold stiff wind in my home town soon.
Doors clip shut. My journey is either beginning or ending. Already the people in the SUV are beginning to fade. One of the Mercs, a small muscular man beside me makes small talk. I interact. I am present but I am not. My mind has moved on. I smile nod. Acknowledge. I find it hard to concentrate on the buildings moving outside. The world is filtered by the tinted glass. Moving. Buildings glint against the sunlight. I know we are moving North. The direction of LAX. I think of politics. I am a politician. I am a business man. A killer. A criminal. I am actually aware that all of this that has gone before me is my fault. My responsibility. I feel no guilt. No shame. It is one thing to study war. It is another thing to live a warriors life. The men in this vehicle know this. They have honor. They have code. I am or seem to be no mystery to them. I see the sign white on green that states: LAX. I stare out the window. I can smell oil inside the car. Gun oil. These men are armed. We are all staring out of windows seeing the world filtered through our own perspectives.
And who am I? Who am I in this final exit. To answer that is impossible: there ... is ... no ... key.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barry Crowther has made his home in San Clemente Southern
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