Sergeant Dickinson by Jerome Gold Page B

told me this morning. I have so many bandages on anyway that I wouldn’t have known the difference. And I’m always in pain.”
    â€œBastards.”
    â€œIt gets harder each time. Every time I’m more certain I’m not going to come out of it. I fight sleep because I’m afraid I won’t wake up. I don’t want to do it again.”
    â€œTell’em to fuck off. Tell’em you’ve had enough of their bullshit and you want out. Tell Laurel to get you your clothes. Do you want me to call her?”
    Jeff laughed. With his lips stretched in the grin you could see the cyanic blue inside. “Fuck you, Dickinson.”
    They wheeled me in a gurney into the corridor outside the operating room where a man who introduced himself as the anesthesiologist was waiting for me. He stuck a needle into my arm seven times. A nurse came by and took the syringe from him; she hit a vein on the first try. “Call for a nurse when you can’t do something yourself,” she said to the anesthesiologist.
    â€œI’m still in training,” he said when the nurse had gone. He brought over a stand from which was suspended a bottle filled with clear liquid. A rubber tube with a metal clamp about halfway down hung from the bottle. He connected the tube to the syringe.
    â€œWhat’s in the bottle?”
    â€œDextrose and pentathol solution. Have you ever hadit?”
    â€œYes. It makes me sick.”
    â€œIt won’t make you sick. I’ll give you some now.”
    He opened the clamp. The pentathol poured into my head; the headache felt like it had always been there, something pressed against my eyes, the nausea began. “How’s that?” he said.
    When I was sure I could, I opened my eyes. The doorgunner was propped up against his pillow.
    â€œWhat day is it?”
    â€œThursday.”
    I closed my eyes. When I opened them again I asked, “Is it still Thursday?”
    The door gunner laughed. “You’ve been out for only a couple of minutes.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œYou were really sick.”
    â€œNo shit.”
    â€œDo you remember it?”
    â€œI remember being sick and Tanner threatening to catheterize me if I didn’t piss.”
    The headache was still there but the pressure on my eyes was gone. The muscles of my stomach were sore. I said, “I’m going to sleep.”
    â€œGood night,” the door gunner said.
    The lights were on.
Star Trek
was on the television.
    â€œThere he is,” the door gunner said.
    â€œHey, Dixie, how ya doin’?” Jeff called.
    â€œBetter,” I said.
    Wendell looked up from the television and smiled and waggled his eyebrows at me and returned to the television.
    â€œWe didn’t think you were going to make it for a while,” the cancer sergeant said.
    â€œI didn’t think so either,” I said.
    Somebody not Smythe was in Smythe’s bed. There was a bandage over his eyes. The skin below the bandage was a polished red. There were spots of red on his cheeks. He lay without moving, his arms at his sides outside his blanket. He appeared to be lying in a prone position of attention.
    â€œWhere’s Smythe?” I asked the door gunner.
    â€œHe was released a couple of days ago.”
    â€œYou mean people really do get out of this place?”
    Jeff laughed. “If I didn’t know you, Dixie, I’d think you didn’t like it here.”
    â€œI love it. I eat this shit up.”
    Jeff said, “I think you had it worse than I did. Did they cut?”
    â€œI think so. My hand doesn’t hurt now, even when I try to move the fingers. Actually, I don’t feel it at all. They probably cut it off altogether. They’ll tell me when they think I’m ready.”
    â€œFucking Dickinson,” Jeff said.
    â€œAre you awake?” I asked the man in Smythe’s bed. There was no sign that he had heard.
    â€œWho is he?” I asked the