I break out into a bit of a sweat just telling the story. What would possess me to do this? I think I just got a rush from his compliment. Always have to dial it up a notch, eh, Helen?
Robin stands there with his mouth slightly ajar. My story has achieved its desired effect. I can see his cock bulging in his white scrubs. While I’ve been telling him the story, the call buzzer’s been going nonstop out in the hallway. Other patients who want something from Robin. But not the same thing I want.
“Okay, see you later,” he says, and leaves.
I’ve unsettled him. It’s like a sport. In any room I have to be the most uninhibited of all those present. This time I’ve won. But this was an easy opponent; it wasn’t even a real contest. More like a blowout.
I’m already curious what the effect will be, whether he’ll still be able to look me in the eyes. I put myself in strange situations. Is it possible that anyone who works in a hospital—whether they’re old or young, good-looking or ugly—seems sexually attractive just because there’s nobody else around?
I exhale through my nose to settle my breathing. Better already. I don’t have to muster the strength to get up and go brush my teeth. Just push the call button and tell filthy stories and I’ll get plenty of fresh air in my mouth. In the old days children who said bad words would have their mouths washed out with soap. Did people really do that, or only threaten to do it? I’ll have to try it out. I’ll say a bad word and then wash my mouth out with soap. Something else to add to my mental scrapbook. I’ve already sprayed myself with pepper spray—also just because I wanted to know what it felt like. The brand I used was called Knockout but I know now there’s no truth to the name. I didn’t pass out. My eyes just started to tear up really bad and I couldn’t get them to stop. You cough a lot, and spit runs out of your mouth like a waterfall. The stuff really agitates your mucous membranes. I’m bored here. I can tell from the thoughts in my head. I’m trying to entertain myself with my own old stories. I’m trying to divert attention from how lonely I feel. It’s not working. Being alone scares me. Must be one of the afflictions of being a child of divorce.
I’ll go to bed with any idiot just so I don’t have to be in bed alone or spend a whole night sleeping alone. Anybody is better than nobody.
My parents didn’t anticipate that when they split up. Adults don’t think about the wide-ranging consequences of a breakup.
I sink my head deep into my pillow and look up at the ceiling. The TV hangs there. That’s it. I’ll play my old guess-that-voice game. I pull the remote out of the drawer and turn on the TV. Using the brightness button, I keep pushing “minus” until the picture goes dark. Then I turn up the sound and start changing channels. The idea is to pick out the voice of someone speaking. Obviously it only works with familiar people. I came up with this game because I liked to watch TV to stave off loneliness but I started to get annoyed at the shows. It had to do with one thing above all else. When people on TV have sex with each other and the woman stands up afterward, she always covers her breasts with a sheet. I just can’t stand that. They’ve just stuck parts of themselves inside each another and now she’s hiding her tits. Not from him, but from me. How am I supposed to get into what’s happening on the screen when they keep reminding me that I’m watching? If the man stands up, they only show him from behind. So aggravating. That’s how they lost me as a TV viewer. Only unknown actresses show their tits on TV. When somebody is running around with no top on, you can be sure she’s unknown. The stars never show anything. That’s the way acting is these days. Now I only listen to the TV—for my guessing game. I used to be better at it. When I was young and watched a lot of TV I recognized voices much better.
I stare at the black screen and try to concentrate on the voices. No idea whose they are. I turn off the TV again. I don’t feel like playing. It’s more fun to play against someone. I’ll ask Robin when he has time. Which is never.
What else can you play here in this room? Something occurs to me.
I push my head back, getting the pillow under my neck, so I can look above and behind me. I haven’t looked there yet. That’s where the pale light is coming from. On the wall is a row of long fluorescent tubes. A wooden cover hangs in front of them to keep them from being blinding. I look at the grain of the wood and all I can see are pussies. Whenever I see the grain of boards lined up next to one another, I see pussies of all shapes and sizes. Like on the door to my room at home. It’s covered with that thin wood laminate that’s made in mirror-image panels. It reminds me of something from art class when I was younger. You put a blotch of watercolor and water in the middle of a piece of paper, fold it in half, press it together, then open it up again, and your pussy portrait’s done. I try to conjure something else in the grain of the fluorescent light cover. Doesn’t work. Just pussies. I ring the call button. What could I want now? Think of something fast.
A knock and the door opens. A female nurse walks in. Actually she opened the door first and then knocked. I’m so generous to this oafish nurse that I switch the order of the two activities in my head so she comes across as more courteous. Robin must have sent her. I’ve got him too flustered for now. I’ll have to work on that. This nurse is named Margarete. Says so on the badge on her chest. I looked at her breasts first and then her face. I do that often. But I’m fascinated by her face. She’s unbelievably well-kept. That’s what people say: a well-kept woman.
As if being “well-kept” represents something of great value. At school we call kids who look like that “doctors’ daughters” no matter what their fathers do. I don’t know how they do it, but they always look better washed than the rest of us. Everything is clean and carefully styled. Every little body part has been treated with some beauty product.
What these women don’t know: the more effort they put into these little details, the more uptight they seem. Their bearing is stiff and unsexy because they’re worried about messing up all their work.
Well-kept women get their hair, nails, lips, feet, faces, skin, and hands done. Colored, lengthened, painted, peeled, plucked, shaved, and lotioned.
They sit around stiffly—like works of art—because they know how much work has gone into everything and they want it to last as long as possible.
Those type of women would never let themselves get all messy fucking.
Everything that’s sexy—mussed hair, straps that fall off the shoulder, a sweaty glow on the face—is a bit askew, yes, but touchable.
Margarete looks at me questioningly. I’m supposed to tell her what the story is.
“I need a trash can for my dirty bandages. If I leave them on the nightstand it won’t smell too good in here.”
Very convincing, Helen. Well done.
She’s sympathetic to my put-on wish for additional hygiene in the hospital room, says “of course,” and walks out.
I hear noise outside. Something’s happening. Probably nothing exciting. The usual hospital things. I bet it has to do with distributing dinner. Here in the hospital you’re subject to a strict schedule that must have been designed by a lunatic. Starting at six in the morning the nurses bounce loudly around the hallways. They come in with coffee, they want to clean the room or clean me. You’re trapped in a beehive full of worker bees, all flying around and tending to something. Very loudly most of the time. All sick people really want to do is sleep, and that’s the one thing they won’t let you do here. If after a bad night—and every night is bad in a hospital—I want to catch up on sleep, there are at least eight people conspiring against my doing this. Nobody who works in the hospital pays attention to whether someone is sleeping when they enter the room. They all just yell “Morning” and loudly do whatever