everything else in her drawer. The teller methodically gave me a slip of paper, which I signed, “Dr. Jesse Falcon.” I was careful to use Jesse Falcon’s writing style. Then she stamped the check “void.”
“A doctor, huh? Guess your fancy-shmancy wife ain’t gettin’ no mink coat after all,” the robber said, pleased with his sarcasm.
“No, I guess not.” I didn’t know if he wanted me to smile—kind of one guy to another—but I decided not to.
“Hey, what are you lookin’ at?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” Yet in spite of everything, I was looking toward the pretty girl. Though a total stranger, she seemed the one source of comfort in the world.
“You’re really full of lip,” said the bank robber. “Mr. Fancy-Talk Doctor.”
It’s hard to know what to say or do when a machine gun is pointed at you, but the task is not made easier when the conversation doesn’t even make sense. In truth, I’d said almost nothing, so how was I to keep this lunatic from killing me? I had a fleeting memory of a grade school bully who used to do this—he’d say anything to keep you off guard and scared.
“I, uh . . . um, I’m sorry.”
“ Sorry ? Don’t make me laugh. You rich doctors—you’re never sorry for anything.”
He aimed his gun, and I heard a ringing in my ears that seemed to drown out all other sounds. Time seemed to no longer exist. A burning pain came so intense I had to leave my body to escape it. My teeth chattered from a coldness that seemed to permeate the entire world, and I knew I was dying or maybe was already dead.
“Dr. Falcon?”
I was so weak that merely opening my eyes felt like I’d just finished the decathlon. It took a while to adjust to the light; in fact, it actually hurt. There seemed to be vague blotches of ugly colors everywhere, as if refuse from a nightmare had fallen off a phantom garbage truck. In the background was a terrible noise of people scurrying around. I wanted it to stop.
“I’m not Dr. Anybody,” I hoarsely managed to whisper. Whoever was speaking to me said, “Hmm. There’s no indication of memory loss on the chart.” As I turned to look, I saw it was some sort of doctor or nurse; it took an extra moment to focus enough to tell that it was a woman. I figured she was a doctor because nurses usually were not this detached in how they spoke to you. But what was I doing here?
Then I remembered. Identity theft, bank robbers, gunshots. “Yes, I’m Dr. Falcon.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“I’m guessing a hospital. It doesn’t look much like heaven.”
“Yes, quite amusing.” The woman faked an unconvincing grin. “According to your chart, you are very lucky. Of the four bullets that struck you, only one struck major organs. Two bullets were removed from your buttocks and the last grazed your elbow. That was three days ago. Your stomach and spleen were salvageable, but you will be on a restricted diet for one month. You should be able to go home in a week.” She looked at me as though I should kiss her feet for bothering with me. “Any questions?”
I rubbed my sore elbow. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. How’d I get shot twice in the ass?”
“Because God is just.” It was the unmistakable voice of Mom, who’d entered the room—that is to say, my curtained-off half of the room. “And you never could tell your ass from your elbow.”
“I’ll be going now,” said the indifferent doctor.
I was connected to a bunch of tubes and monitors, but the first thing my mom did when we were alone was punch me in the nose. “How dare you,” she began, “stick me and your own son—your own son —in such a crapper full of shit.” She double-checked that the bed on the other side of the curtain was empty.
“I—”
“Don’t even start with me. Don’t even try .” She sat down on the one chair and took out a Butterfinger candy bar from her purse. “No, you can’t have any,” she said, reading my thoughts. “You have
“A doctor, huh? Guess your fancy-shmancy wife ain’t gettin’ no mink coat after all,” the robber said, pleased with his sarcasm.
“No, I guess not.” I didn’t know if he wanted me to smile—kind of one guy to another—but I decided not to.
“Hey, what are you lookin’ at?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” Yet in spite of everything, I was looking toward the pretty girl. Though a total stranger, she seemed the one source of comfort in the world.
“You’re really full of lip,” said the bank robber. “Mr. Fancy-Talk Doctor.”
It’s hard to know what to say or do when a machine gun is pointed at you, but the task is not made easier when the conversation doesn’t even make sense. In truth, I’d said almost nothing, so how was I to keep this lunatic from killing me? I had a fleeting memory of a grade school bully who used to do this—he’d say anything to keep you off guard and scared.
“I, uh . . . um, I’m sorry.”
“ Sorry ? Don’t make me laugh. You rich doctors—you’re never sorry for anything.”
He aimed his gun, and I heard a ringing in my ears that seemed to drown out all other sounds. Time seemed to no longer exist. A burning pain came so intense I had to leave my body to escape it. My teeth chattered from a coldness that seemed to permeate the entire world, and I knew I was dying or maybe was already dead.
“Dr. Falcon?”
I was so weak that merely opening my eyes felt like I’d just finished the decathlon. It took a while to adjust to the light; in fact, it actually hurt. There seemed to be vague blotches of ugly colors everywhere, as if refuse from a nightmare had fallen off a phantom garbage truck. In the background was a terrible noise of people scurrying around. I wanted it to stop.
“I’m not Dr. Anybody,” I hoarsely managed to whisper. Whoever was speaking to me said, “Hmm. There’s no indication of memory loss on the chart.” As I turned to look, I saw it was some sort of doctor or nurse; it took an extra moment to focus enough to tell that it was a woman. I figured she was a doctor because nurses usually were not this detached in how they spoke to you. But what was I doing here?
Then I remembered. Identity theft, bank robbers, gunshots. “Yes, I’m Dr. Falcon.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“I’m guessing a hospital. It doesn’t look much like heaven.”
“Yes, quite amusing.” The woman faked an unconvincing grin. “According to your chart, you are very lucky. Of the four bullets that struck you, only one struck major organs. Two bullets were removed from your buttocks and the last grazed your elbow. That was three days ago. Your stomach and spleen were salvageable, but you will be on a restricted diet for one month. You should be able to go home in a week.” She looked at me as though I should kiss her feet for bothering with me. “Any questions?”
I rubbed my sore elbow. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. How’d I get shot twice in the ass?”
“Because God is just.” It was the unmistakable voice of Mom, who’d entered the room—that is to say, my curtained-off half of the room. “And you never could tell your ass from your elbow.”
“I’ll be going now,” said the indifferent doctor.
I was connected to a bunch of tubes and monitors, but the first thing my mom did when we were alone was punch me in the nose. “How dare you,” she began, “stick me and your own son—your own son —in such a crapper full of shit.” She double-checked that the bed on the other side of the curtain was empty.
“I—”
“Don’t even start with me. Don’t even try .” She sat down on the one chair and took out a Butterfinger candy bar from her purse. “No, you can’t have any,” she said, reading my thoughts. “You have
Similar Books
