I’m trying a new medication and I’m not sleeping very well.”
“Night terrors?” Scott says. He looks up at the ceiling, apparently trying to remember something. “Like that guy on the news who threw his baby out the window of his fourth-floor condo and they let him off. Said he had a history of night terrors.”
The HR woman—Stephanie? No, Felicity—glares at Scott. But Scott’s a good guy and I say, “Yeah, like that,” and hold up my braced, sprained wrist.
“You’ve been a very good employee,” Greg says, “and we want to help you get through this so you can continue to be a good employee. We can’t have you doing what you’ve been doing on the phones, though. So here’s the deal: we’re going to give you some time off. You’ve got short-term disability, and we think you should use it to get through this and come back your old self.”
Stunned, I don’t say anything for a minute. And apparently I’m staring, because I notice Scott beginning to squirm beneath my red gaze.
I say, “Okay.”
Felicity has some paperwork for me to sign. Greg leaves, but Scott waits to walk back with me.
“I told them this isn’t like you,” Scott says. “I told them it didn’t make sense to let go the best collector we have over something like this. Even if you weren’t having the sleep problem. I remember how it is. Sometimes it gets to be too much, dealing with these scumbags. You can be normal one second and a switch flips and you’re a monster the next. But as long as that’s the exception. I mean, some of these people need a little knocking around, and it can get hard to see the line.”
We’re walking and talking. He’s talking. We arrive at my cubicle, and there’s my box full of possessions.
“Oh shit, you were ready for the gallows, huh? Nope. Go get better.” He claps me on the back. “Short-term disability, lucky bastard.”
The box has to wait. I slide it beneath my desk, put on my jacket and go.
I can’t deal with going home right now. Instead, I hang out at the library until it’s time to report to Conway Medical Research Center. The library has a decent selection of graphic novels, mostly collected storylines of some of the popular Marvel and DC titles, and I settle in with some Sandman . Every library with a comic collection has the Sandman trade paperbacks. They were like, the first respectable comic. I’ve got them all at home, but it’s been a long time.
The king of dreams.
My phone buzzes with a text. I know who it is. Leslie is the only person who texts me.
B REAK?
N OT THERE. F LIPPED OUT. S ENT ME HOME ON SHORT-TERM DISABILITY.
S ERIOUS? C ALL ME!
C AN’T RIGHT NOW. W ILL LATER.
Y OU BETTER.
* * *
I expected something different from the room I’d be sleeping in overnight at the medical research center. I’d envisioned a large room with one wall dedicated to a one-way mirror. The bed in the center would be a sort of stainless steel pedestal positioned beneath a piece of machinery of unknown purpose dangling down from the ceiling like a fat, albino spider.
In actuality, they showed me to a standard single-bed hospital room and left me to change. In a gown that keeps flapping open in the back, I feel uncomfortable sitting on the bed and slip between the paper-stiff sheets.
It’s only eight PM, but I’m accustomed to an early bed time. I take an issue of The Demon , one of my favorite comic book series of the early ’90s, and settle in.
Etrigan is a rhyming demon, and you’d think rhyming dialogue would be obnoxious, but they play it just right and manage to pull it off.
I’m on to the next issue before the nurse returns to wire me up.
“Sorry about the delay,” she says, gluing electrodes to various parts of my body. “We’ve got a lot of people staying over tonight.”
“We should make it a slumber party, do s’mores, a scary movie, truth or dare.”
She maintains her brisk pace, but I manage to get a smile out of her. “You know what? I
“Night terrors?” Scott says. He looks up at the ceiling, apparently trying to remember something. “Like that guy on the news who threw his baby out the window of his fourth-floor condo and they let him off. Said he had a history of night terrors.”
The HR woman—Stephanie? No, Felicity—glares at Scott. But Scott’s a good guy and I say, “Yeah, like that,” and hold up my braced, sprained wrist.
“You’ve been a very good employee,” Greg says, “and we want to help you get through this so you can continue to be a good employee. We can’t have you doing what you’ve been doing on the phones, though. So here’s the deal: we’re going to give you some time off. You’ve got short-term disability, and we think you should use it to get through this and come back your old self.”
Stunned, I don’t say anything for a minute. And apparently I’m staring, because I notice Scott beginning to squirm beneath my red gaze.
I say, “Okay.”
Felicity has some paperwork for me to sign. Greg leaves, but Scott waits to walk back with me.
“I told them this isn’t like you,” Scott says. “I told them it didn’t make sense to let go the best collector we have over something like this. Even if you weren’t having the sleep problem. I remember how it is. Sometimes it gets to be too much, dealing with these scumbags. You can be normal one second and a switch flips and you’re a monster the next. But as long as that’s the exception. I mean, some of these people need a little knocking around, and it can get hard to see the line.”
We’re walking and talking. He’s talking. We arrive at my cubicle, and there’s my box full of possessions.
“Oh shit, you were ready for the gallows, huh? Nope. Go get better.” He claps me on the back. “Short-term disability, lucky bastard.”
The box has to wait. I slide it beneath my desk, put on my jacket and go.
I can’t deal with going home right now. Instead, I hang out at the library until it’s time to report to Conway Medical Research Center. The library has a decent selection of graphic novels, mostly collected storylines of some of the popular Marvel and DC titles, and I settle in with some Sandman . Every library with a comic collection has the Sandman trade paperbacks. They were like, the first respectable comic. I’ve got them all at home, but it’s been a long time.
The king of dreams.
My phone buzzes with a text. I know who it is. Leslie is the only person who texts me.
B REAK?
N OT THERE. F LIPPED OUT. S ENT ME HOME ON SHORT-TERM DISABILITY.
S ERIOUS? C ALL ME!
C AN’T RIGHT NOW. W ILL LATER.
Y OU BETTER.
* * *
I expected something different from the room I’d be sleeping in overnight at the medical research center. I’d envisioned a large room with one wall dedicated to a one-way mirror. The bed in the center would be a sort of stainless steel pedestal positioned beneath a piece of machinery of unknown purpose dangling down from the ceiling like a fat, albino spider.
In actuality, they showed me to a standard single-bed hospital room and left me to change. In a gown that keeps flapping open in the back, I feel uncomfortable sitting on the bed and slip between the paper-stiff sheets.
It’s only eight PM, but I’m accustomed to an early bed time. I take an issue of The Demon , one of my favorite comic book series of the early ’90s, and settle in.
Etrigan is a rhyming demon, and you’d think rhyming dialogue would be obnoxious, but they play it just right and manage to pull it off.
I’m on to the next issue before the nurse returns to wire me up.
“Sorry about the delay,” she says, gluing electrodes to various parts of my body. “We’ve got a lot of people staying over tonight.”
“We should make it a slumber party, do s’mores, a scary movie, truth or dare.”
She maintains her brisk pace, but I manage to get a smile out of her. “You know what? I
Similar Books
