My friend Tom had to go to the emergency room Friday, and I found the late-night waiting room gruesomely fascinating. I don't mean to say fascinatingly gruesome, because it's not the blood. It's people rendered vulnerable and wretched by sudden circumstances, and while I hated myself for watching and listening, I couldn't help it.
I'd been waiting several hours when a purple sports car pulled into an emergency-vehicle-only spot outside. The on-duty police officer was alert, and was outside telling them to move before they made it through the doors. The driver returned to the car, and the passenger followed the cop back inside.
He wore jeans and a tight white undershirt, and looked to be somewhere in his mid-20s. There were small smears of blood on his chest and he limped slightly, holding the right side of his rib cage and grimacing. He sat down next to a pretty college-age girl and started hitting on her.
\How's it going?"" he asked, letting out a gasp of pain as he leaned toward her.
""Fine,"" she said, which was enough to bring out his tale of woe. He and his buddy had fought 13 guys, and if she thought he looked bad, she should see his buddy. Before she could say anything, said buddy stumbled through the door, back from parking the car.
He was a big guy in a Marine Corps leather jacket. The front had a wide rip half the length of the zipper. His nose was thickened and purple, and his cheeks were flecked with blood.
They were both drunk. Leather went to get his nose checked out, and Undershirt limped around the waiting room, recounting the glorious battle to anyone dumb enough not to feign sleep. Leather returned, reporting his nose bloodied but unbroken.
""I wanna go to Denny's,"" Undershirt said. He turned his charms to the cop. ""Wanna come to Denny's with us?""
""I'm on duty 'til six,"" she said.
""How about we pick you up at 6:01?"" he offered.
""You'll have to ask my husband,"" she said.
Undeterred, Undershirt promised to have her home by seven. Then he bent sharply at the waist and groaned.
""You need to get your ribs looked at,"" Leather said.
""Fuck that shit,"" Undershirt said. ""I just need some ice. Can you get us some ice?"" he asked the cop.
She kindly went to get ice. The two brawlers discussed the fight in her absence.
""I lost my beating tool,"" Leather lamented. ""You know, my beating tool?""
He glanced at me, hesitating to describe it in any greater detail. I was staring at the darkened fish tank in the children's waiting room, straining to hear their conversation.
""That big dude was laying on the ground,"" Leather continued. ""And I hit him across the face with the beating tool. He wasn't moving.""
There was a note of pride in his voice. They left shortly thereafter, and I was glad. It made it easier to hear the whispered argument between the fleshy woman in a tube-top and her handcuffed, shoeless boyfriend.
