Read Online Wetlands by Charlotte Roche - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Roche
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able to figure out that he’s not allowed to drink on the job. Embarrassing. This is a hospital, Helen, not a bordello.
His gaze starts to wander. Is he looking out the window? Past me? Wait, no, he must be looking at my peach reflected in the window. His nightshift is starting off well. I like Peter.
“Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll eat.”
He leaves. I open up the pizza box and look at it. I wonder how I’ll be able to eat it without any utensils. The Marinara guys haven’t even cut the crust with a pizza roller. Should I rip bites out of it like an animal? Suddenly Peter walks back in. With silverware. And walks back out grinning. And then comes in again. What now? In his hand is a plastic baggie with a piece of tape on it. There’s something written on the tape.
“It says here I’m supposed to give this to you. Something to do with the operation. Do you know anything about it? Did they find something on you and need to return it?”
“I wanted to see the wedge of skin after they cut it out of me. I couldn’t let something be cut out of me while I was unconscious and then not see it before it was tossed in the garbage.”
“Speaking of garbage, it’s my job to ensure this baggie and its contents are properly disposed of in the special medical-waste bin.”
He takes his duties very seriously. He speaks in such a highbrow manner about them. He could have just said he had to make sure the stuff got thrown out instead of “properlydisposed of.” It would make him seem more human and less like a robot repeating orders. He hands me the baggie but doesn’t leave. But I’m only going to open it when I’m alone. I hold the baggie in my hands and stare at Peter until he finally leaves. My pizza is getting cold. But this is more important—and besides, I’ve heard real gourmets don’t eat things really hot because it masks the flavors. Really hot soup tastes like nothing at all. It must be true of pizza, too. If you make something poorly, just serve it as hot as possible and nobody will notice it tastes bad because they’ll all have charred their taste buds. It’s true of the other extreme, too: cold. You drink nasty drinks—like tequila—as cold as possible so you can get them down.
The baggie is see-through, zipped shut. A little slide is all it takes to open it. Inside is another bag, smaller and white instead of see-through. I can feel the cut-out piece inside it. No more packaging. If I just pull it out it’ll make a mess here in the bed. I rip off the top of the pizza box. It’s easy. It’s perforated along the edge, probably for just such a situation. When you need something to put a bloody piece of flesh on. I put the cardboard box top in my lap beneath the baggie. Do I need rubber gloves to pull this thing out? No. It’s from my own body. So I can’t catch anything, no matter how bloody it is. I touch what used to surround this clump of flesh—my gaping wound—all day long without gloves. Okay. So out it comes. It feels like liver or something elsefrom the butcher shop. I lay out all the pieces on the cardboard. I’m disappointed. Lots of little pieces. No wedge. Notz’s description made it sound as if it would be a thin, oblong piece of flesh that would look like the venison filets mom makes when we have guests in the fall and winter. Dark red and slick before being roasted, kind of shiny, like liver. But this here is goulash. Little pieces. Some pieces have yellow spots—the infection, no doubt—that look the way freezer burn does in commercials. They didn’t cut it out in one motion, not all together in one single piece. Of course, I’m no dead deer, but a living girl. Perhaps it’s better that they took care of it in small increments. And paid attention to the sphincter. Rather than carving out a magnificent anal filet just for the sake of a good presentation. Relax, Helen. Things are always different than you anticipate. At least you tried to picture something, imagined the
His gaze starts to wander. Is he looking out the window? Past me? Wait, no, he must be looking at my peach reflected in the window. His nightshift is starting off well. I like Peter.
“Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll eat.”
He leaves. I open up the pizza box and look at it. I wonder how I’ll be able to eat it without any utensils. The Marinara guys haven’t even cut the crust with a pizza roller. Should I rip bites out of it like an animal? Suddenly Peter walks back in. With silverware. And walks back out grinning. And then comes in again. What now? In his hand is a plastic baggie with a piece of tape on it. There’s something written on the tape.
“It says here I’m supposed to give this to you. Something to do with the operation. Do you know anything about it? Did they find something on you and need to return it?”
“I wanted to see the wedge of skin after they cut it out of me. I couldn’t let something be cut out of me while I was unconscious and then not see it before it was tossed in the garbage.”
“Speaking of garbage, it’s my job to ensure this baggie and its contents are properly disposed of in the special medical-waste bin.”
He takes his duties very seriously. He speaks in such a highbrow manner about them. He could have just said he had to make sure the stuff got thrown out instead of “properlydisposed of.” It would make him seem more human and less like a robot repeating orders. He hands me the baggie but doesn’t leave. But I’m only going to open it when I’m alone. I hold the baggie in my hands and stare at Peter until he finally leaves. My pizza is getting cold. But this is more important—and besides, I’ve heard real gourmets don’t eat things really hot because it masks the flavors. Really hot soup tastes like nothing at all. It must be true of pizza, too. If you make something poorly, just serve it as hot as possible and nobody will notice it tastes bad because they’ll all have charred their taste buds. It’s true of the other extreme, too: cold. You drink nasty drinks—like tequila—as cold as possible so you can get them down.
The baggie is see-through, zipped shut. A little slide is all it takes to open it. Inside is another bag, smaller and white instead of see-through. I can feel the cut-out piece inside it. No more packaging. If I just pull it out it’ll make a mess here in the bed. I rip off the top of the pizza box. It’s easy. It’s perforated along the edge, probably for just such a situation. When you need something to put a bloody piece of flesh on. I put the cardboard box top in my lap beneath the baggie. Do I need rubber gloves to pull this thing out? No. It’s from my own body. So I can’t catch anything, no matter how bloody it is. I touch what used to surround this clump of flesh—my gaping wound—all day long without gloves. Okay. So out it comes. It feels like liver or something elsefrom the butcher shop. I lay out all the pieces on the cardboard. I’m disappointed. Lots of little pieces. No wedge. Notz’s description made it sound as if it would be a thin, oblong piece of flesh that would look like the venison filets mom makes when we have guests in the fall and winter. Dark red and slick before being roasted, kind of shiny, like liver. But this here is goulash. Little pieces. Some pieces have yellow spots—the infection, no doubt—that look the way freezer burn does in commercials. They didn’t cut it out in one motion, not all together in one single piece. Of course, I’m no dead deer, but a living girl. Perhaps it’s better that they took care of it in small increments. And paid attention to the sphincter. Rather than carving out a magnificent anal filet just for the sake of a good presentation. Relax, Helen. Things are always different than you anticipate. At least you tried to picture something, imagined the
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