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Authors: Richard Matheson
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slippers everywhere. Knife-leprechauns walking around, exhausted, speaking to haunted families in quiet reassurances, green slippers like blood snowshoes.
Alan hated the visits. Hated seeing Eddy that way. Hated the echoey scent of broken bodies moving up in the checkout line. His agent, Jordan, had told him he didn’t mind hospitals, even liked them. Thought of them as “hi-tech greenhouses, tilling the flesh and watering bulbs of good health. Like human rhododendron.”
Alan told him he was certifiable. But then Jordan had problems; his own, plus 10 percent of everybody else’s.
The visits were always difficult. Unsettling,
Dr. Strange-love
realities with Eddy telling Alan about the world, while his own was shrinking to a pinprick.
But tonight it had been especially troubling. Alan had walked nervously down the carpeted hall in the cancer ward, toward Eddy’s room, on the third floor. He felt the wetness of the carnations coming through the waxy tissue, onto his hand. He’d been glared at by hairy orderlies who were wheeling some miserable wretch along the hall, on a gurney. The blanched face was sunken and rivered with fat, silky veins that looked as if they tied the meatless head to the pillow; ropes steadying an old ship.
The guy looked like he had about a minute left and had pivoted his head to look at Alan as they’d coasted him by. He’d winked, as if sharing a lewd gag with a fellow perv, then struggled a bit against the canvas belts that pinned him at the chest, waist, and legs. Indicated for the orderliesto stop. He’d coughed and Alan stopped to spend a moment with him.
“I’m not here for my health, y’know. I’m here because they
need me.”
Then he’d glared angrily. “Okay?!”
Alan nodded. Trying to be calm, not upset him.
The old man had bared decayed teeth, spit at him. Alan pulled back and the old man hissed. “… you’re in much deeper than you think, asshole. You went too far this time.”
The orderlies had quickly rolled him away. But he looked back at Alan, forcing his neck at an angle that looked broken. He grinned a dead-man smile.
“I wouldn’t want to be you, asshole. You’re a”—then he said the word that had chilled Alan—“fuckin
monster.
How did you get out?” He grinned ugly again, then went white as milk. Looked horrified. And he was gone, around a corner, like a sick rumor.
It had disturbed Alan a lot. He’d realized to a dying old man, everybody probably looked like monsters. That they could live, and he couldn’t, made
them
the hideous. The deformed. But still, the way he’d said “monster” … it had reminded Alan of how Mimi had said it. Even the way she’d looked. The deadness in her eyes when she said it. The same deadness in the man’s eyes.
At least Alan had felt that.
But the day had been too long, too stressful. And visits to Cedars were always hard; painful.
One night, on the way home from visiting Eddy, Alan thought somebody was in the back seat of the Porsche, waiting to kill him. Another time, he thought he’d heard his dead mother, Dee, beckon to him from one of thehospital rooms to the side of Eddy’s. He thought he’d heard her say she was cold and afraid where she was and would Alan please come and get her, take her where she could be safe; warm.
But he figured it was bound to happen when a mind like his was under pressure. Run a hundred-million-dollar submarine too deep and the weight of all that water compressed it into a doorknob. What the fuck did he expect? There was a lot going on. No wonder he was upset; seeing meaning in things. Susceptible to empty detail.
He raced past Topanga Beach, rolled down windows, giving his hair a ride. He still couldn’t get it out of his head that that old guy was some kid’s dad. Some mother’s son. The larger progression hit him. Just like it usually did every time he’d said goodbye to Eddy. Quietly took a last look at his dying friend after tucking him in and kissing him
Alan hated the visits. Hated seeing Eddy that way. Hated the echoey scent of broken bodies moving up in the checkout line. His agent, Jordan, had told him he didn’t mind hospitals, even liked them. Thought of them as “hi-tech greenhouses, tilling the flesh and watering bulbs of good health. Like human rhododendron.”
Alan told him he was certifiable. But then Jordan had problems; his own, plus 10 percent of everybody else’s.
The visits were always difficult. Unsettling,
Dr. Strange-love
realities with Eddy telling Alan about the world, while his own was shrinking to a pinprick.
But tonight it had been especially troubling. Alan had walked nervously down the carpeted hall in the cancer ward, toward Eddy’s room, on the third floor. He felt the wetness of the carnations coming through the waxy tissue, onto his hand. He’d been glared at by hairy orderlies who were wheeling some miserable wretch along the hall, on a gurney. The blanched face was sunken and rivered with fat, silky veins that looked as if they tied the meatless head to the pillow; ropes steadying an old ship.
The guy looked like he had about a minute left and had pivoted his head to look at Alan as they’d coasted him by. He’d winked, as if sharing a lewd gag with a fellow perv, then struggled a bit against the canvas belts that pinned him at the chest, waist, and legs. Indicated for the orderliesto stop. He’d coughed and Alan stopped to spend a moment with him.
“I’m not here for my health, y’know. I’m here because they
need me.”
Then he’d glared angrily. “Okay?!”
Alan nodded. Trying to be calm, not upset him.
The old man had bared decayed teeth, spit at him. Alan pulled back and the old man hissed. “… you’re in much deeper than you think, asshole. You went too far this time.”
The orderlies had quickly rolled him away. But he looked back at Alan, forcing his neck at an angle that looked broken. He grinned a dead-man smile.
“I wouldn’t want to be you, asshole. You’re a”—then he said the word that had chilled Alan—“fuckin
monster.
How did you get out?” He grinned ugly again, then went white as milk. Looked horrified. And he was gone, around a corner, like a sick rumor.
It had disturbed Alan a lot. He’d realized to a dying old man, everybody probably looked like monsters. That they could live, and he couldn’t, made
them
the hideous. The deformed. But still, the way he’d said “monster” … it had reminded Alan of how Mimi had said it. Even the way she’d looked. The deadness in her eyes when she said it. The same deadness in the man’s eyes.
At least Alan had felt that.
But the day had been too long, too stressful. And visits to Cedars were always hard; painful.
One night, on the way home from visiting Eddy, Alan thought somebody was in the back seat of the Porsche, waiting to kill him. Another time, he thought he’d heard his dead mother, Dee, beckon to him from one of thehospital rooms to the side of Eddy’s. He thought he’d heard her say she was cold and afraid where she was and would Alan please come and get her, take her where she could be safe; warm.
But he figured it was bound to happen when a mind like his was under pressure. Run a hundred-million-dollar submarine too deep and the weight of all that water compressed it into a doorknob. What the fuck did he expect? There was a lot going on. No wonder he was upset; seeing meaning in things. Susceptible to empty detail.
He raced past Topanga Beach, rolled down windows, giving his hair a ride. He still couldn’t get it out of his head that that old guy was some kid’s dad. Some mother’s son. The larger progression hit him. Just like it usually did every time he’d said goodbye to Eddy. Quietly took a last look at his dying friend after tucking him in and kissing him
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