probably won't get my secretary to send it until then if you don't mind waiting.
"Thanks for your time. I look forward to meeting the four of you. Have a great night."
"Thank you," I replied.
A click, followed by a few more clicks. Our stare was broken by the dial tone returning to the line. I hit the hook button, and the call ended. We sat wordless.
I broke the quiet. "I guess we need to tell the guys, right away."
"Perfect. Let's find Kurt and visit John in the hospital."
"We should do that, anyway. We haven't seen them since the accident. This will lighten their spirits considering we have good news!"
"Let's go now!"
We closed the house up, and got into Steve's car. Both cars, Mother's and Jenny's, were gone. I didn't even remember seeing them leave? Would they had stayed!
We pulled out. The sun shone through everything, as if everything solid was a gossamer transparency of golden summer. The roads were magically smooth, fresh pavement reflecting the afternoon sun through us and the telephone poles and the trees and the sparkling atmosphere bounced back off the seething black tar. The pzzzzzzz of singing locusts cut the air from their invisible hideaways.
We drove to the hospital first. The labyrinthine halls and turns opened up to rooms for patients in long term care. As we approached, gaggles of Vietnamese relatives kowtowed in the hall around his room, crying and turning beads over in their hands. A cloud of incense hung in flat sheets as we entered the room like a scene in Indiana Jones, and I wondered what all the crying and gnashing was about considering he seemed okay when I last saw him being carted off.
As we entered, he lay surrounded with candles and incense. There were candles in jars and some on their own with stalactites of wax dripping across and off the table, and there was something to say about the warm light feeling healthier than the oppressive halogen lights that hung above.
How did they get away with this? Maybe it was a religious thing. But the oxygen? Wasn't that the reason open flames weren't allowed?
John was in bed, surrounded by relatives in robes whispering soft prayers. He was wearing a silken red smoking jaket robe-type thing, matching pants, and leather slippers. Hospitalized Hugh Heffner, here, and his invisible-man-head-bandages remained a ghastly mask. His head was bandaged from the top of his crown, around and around and around, over his face, and conforming to the edges and reflections of his chin, and around and around his neck and down the front of the jacket. Circles of bandages, a Heffnerian cocoon, and no slits to see or breathe.
"Hello gentlemen," he began through the gauze and bandages. His voice was monotone, cool, and robotic.
"Hi." We both unsteadily acknowledged him.
His hand rose, and his head tilted. There was a string tied around it. He was an automaton.
"I am glad to see you both." The sound of his collected voice sounded unhampered by the bandages. It escaped clean and syllabic. "The doctors here have been treating me well and say I will be out of the hospital soon.
"I am lucky that I have great care and the support of my family." His hand swept across the people knelt beside him as he spoke like a king presenting his subjects. The people hadn't even acknowledged our presence. It was as if they were worshipping him as much as praying for him to get well.
"How much longer do you think you have?"
"A day, perhaps."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, but they just want to make sure. They have been worried about my face. They coated it in an anti-burn scar cream and stitched me up. They're just waiting for me to hatch."
That was a joke. Everything about the delivery of his words was off. How the hell was it so easy to hear him?
"Well, we're glad you are doing well," I continued. "We have some great news! We got a call on our answering machine and there was a guy from Arista Records at the show last night. He wants to meet us for a meeting in New York! They're
"Thanks for your time. I look forward to meeting the four of you. Have a great night."
"Thank you," I replied.
A click, followed by a few more clicks. Our stare was broken by the dial tone returning to the line. I hit the hook button, and the call ended. We sat wordless.
I broke the quiet. "I guess we need to tell the guys, right away."
"Perfect. Let's find Kurt and visit John in the hospital."
"We should do that, anyway. We haven't seen them since the accident. This will lighten their spirits considering we have good news!"
"Let's go now!"
We closed the house up, and got into Steve's car. Both cars, Mother's and Jenny's, were gone. I didn't even remember seeing them leave? Would they had stayed!
We pulled out. The sun shone through everything, as if everything solid was a gossamer transparency of golden summer. The roads were magically smooth, fresh pavement reflecting the afternoon sun through us and the telephone poles and the trees and the sparkling atmosphere bounced back off the seething black tar. The pzzzzzzz of singing locusts cut the air from their invisible hideaways.
We drove to the hospital first. The labyrinthine halls and turns opened up to rooms for patients in long term care. As we approached, gaggles of Vietnamese relatives kowtowed in the hall around his room, crying and turning beads over in their hands. A cloud of incense hung in flat sheets as we entered the room like a scene in Indiana Jones, and I wondered what all the crying and gnashing was about considering he seemed okay when I last saw him being carted off.
As we entered, he lay surrounded with candles and incense. There were candles in jars and some on their own with stalactites of wax dripping across and off the table, and there was something to say about the warm light feeling healthier than the oppressive halogen lights that hung above.
How did they get away with this? Maybe it was a religious thing. But the oxygen? Wasn't that the reason open flames weren't allowed?
John was in bed, surrounded by relatives in robes whispering soft prayers. He was wearing a silken red smoking jaket robe-type thing, matching pants, and leather slippers. Hospitalized Hugh Heffner, here, and his invisible-man-head-bandages remained a ghastly mask. His head was bandaged from the top of his crown, around and around and around, over his face, and conforming to the edges and reflections of his chin, and around and around his neck and down the front of the jacket. Circles of bandages, a Heffnerian cocoon, and no slits to see or breathe.
"Hello gentlemen," he began through the gauze and bandages. His voice was monotone, cool, and robotic.
"Hi." We both unsteadily acknowledged him.
His hand rose, and his head tilted. There was a string tied around it. He was an automaton.
"I am glad to see you both." The sound of his collected voice sounded unhampered by the bandages. It escaped clean and syllabic. "The doctors here have been treating me well and say I will be out of the hospital soon.
"I am lucky that I have great care and the support of my family." His hand swept across the people knelt beside him as he spoke like a king presenting his subjects. The people hadn't even acknowledged our presence. It was as if they were worshipping him as much as praying for him to get well.
"How much longer do you think you have?"
"A day, perhaps."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, but they just want to make sure. They have been worried about my face. They coated it in an anti-burn scar cream and stitched me up. They're just waiting for me to hatch."
That was a joke. Everything about the delivery of his words was off. How the hell was it so easy to hear him?
"Well, we're glad you are doing well," I continued. "We have some great news! We got a call on our answering machine and there was a guy from Arista Records at the show last night. He wants to meet us for a meeting in New York! They're
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