Hot Shots

by

James Cole

Warren was sitting on his bed, tellin’ us how his little brother knocked himself out cold playing “Red Rover Come Over” when The Kid came in. At least that’s what we called him.

“Look,” Warren said, pausing his story and gesturing to the doorway with his left hand. I nodded, then nudged Mike, who wasn’t listening at all.

“What?” he said, looking up from his stack of baseball cards on the sheet, irritated. Though we’d only known each other a few days, Warren and I knew the rule: when Mike’s sorting, you don’t talk to him. But this was important. I pointed, and we all gazed at the newcomer.

The Kid looked to be about eight or nine. He was still dressed in jeans and a striped shirt, and I longed for the feel of my own clothes instead of the flimsy cotton thing I’d been forced to wear. He had a small plastic suitcase and was already unpacking extra shirts, socks and underwear, placing them neatly in one of the night table drawers.

Like he’ll really need them, I thought, but kept quiet, just watching with my buddies, and it wasn’t long before The Kid felt our stares. Still, he kept his eyes averted, nervously pushing up the bridge of his wire rim glasses. He was clearly scared that “the big kids” would be trouble.

“Cut it out,” I whispered to Warren, who was staring at The Kid. When he didn't comply I elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.

“What?” he said, irked.

“You’re scarin’ him.”

Warren shrugged.

The Kid’s mom came in the room, a big woman wearing tons of jewelry. “I’m sorry I took so long, honey,” she said. “I had to fill out all those forms.”

“That’s okay,” The Kid said. “I unpacked.”

Her face lit up like he’d just gotten straight A’s on his report card. She went to the night table, opened the drawers and surveyed his organizational skills. “That’s wonderful. You’re all settled.”

The Kid nodded, uncomfortable. He glanced across the room and saw we were still staring at him. His mom saw this too. “Looks like you’ll have some friends,” she whispered. The Kid nodded, not so sure.

“I have to go now. Visiting hours are over. But I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Okay,” The Kid said, apprehensive. She hugged him, kissed him. “Goodnight, honey.”

Honey. We looked at each other, smirking. The Kid stood alone in the doorway, eyes following his mom as she headed down the corridor.

“Betcha he’s gonna cry,” Mike whispered.

“I don’t think so,” I said. The Kid was obviously a first-timer, but he didn’t seem like the crybaby type. When he finally turned away from the hall, his eyes were dry.

“I win.”

Warren said: “So far.”

“We should say hello,” I said.

“You say hello.”

The Kid was sitting on the edge of his bed, hands in his lap, more vulnerable than ever. He pushed his loose glasses up again.

“Hi,” I said, waving.

“Hi,” The Kid said in a high voice.

“I'm Danny,” I said, even though I was getting to the age where I preferred Dan, but what the hell. “This is Mike, and that’s Warren.”

“Hey,” Mike said, briefly glancing up from his cards.

“Hey,” Warren said.

“I’m Martin,” he said. I nodded.

“How old are you? Ten?” Mike asked.

“Nine,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” Mike said. “Fourteen,” from Warren. “Twelve,” from me. The Kid’s eyes widened in response, something I could have predicted.

“What are you in for?” Warren asked.

“They think my appendix is bad.”

“You don’t look sick,” Warren said.

“Not like us,” I added, unable to hold back a self-conscious smile as I flicked my I.V. tube back and forth. Intrigued, The Kid jumped off the bed and stepped closer.

“Speak for yourself,” Mike said, and I shrugged. He looked perfectly healthy, relaxed in sweat pants and football jersey. Even Warren looked well at first glance.

“Okay, so I’m the obvious one,” I said, and The Kid gave my I.V. pole the once over, eyes fixing on the machine at the top, which looked primitive even by 1980 standards. It made grinding noises that I had learned to tune out.

“What’s that for?”

“The machine controls the amount of I.V. solution I get,” I said, happy to get past the preliminaries. I opened my flimsy Johnny and showed off the spot where the I.V. tube disappeared beneath a large square bandage, taped to my chest just below the collarbone.

“Why isn’t it in your arm?”

“Hey, the kid’s not a virgin after all!” Mike said.

“What?”

“He means you already know something about hospitals,” I said. “And the I.V.’s not in my arm because it’s not a normal I.V. It’s called ‘Hyper Alimentation,’ and it’s been in two weeks. The veins in my arm wouldn’t last that long, so they put it in my artery, just above my heart.”

The Kid winced.

“They’re pumping all these vitamins and nutrients into me so I’ll gain weight,” I continued. “I’m too light to handle surgery right now.”

“Yeah. He only weighs sixty-five pounds!” Mike said, and I glared at him. He didn’t have to gloat over it.

“Even I weigh more than that!” The Kid said, amazed.

“So sue me.” It was true, though. Sixty-five pounds. No wonder The Kid had gawked when I told him I was twelve.

“What’re you in for?” The Kid asked Warren. Warren raised his right hand in response, the one he kept out of view. The Kid’s eyes widened again.

There were no fingers to speak of, at least nothing that resembled normal fingers - just a misshapen extension of his wrist that served as a palm.

“They’re trying to build me fingers,” Warren said, and demonstrated by picking up one of Mike’s baseball cards with two pseudo fingers that extended from his palm area. One finger had three joints, the other two.

“How do they do it?”

Warren kicked the sheet aside and stuck his left foot out. His three middle toes were drastically foreshortened. “They’re using the bones in my toes. This’ll be my tenth surgery.”

Awestruck, The Kid asked a question that would soon become familiar: “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Warren said, “but you get used to it.”

I nodded, though the phrase I would have chosen is, “You learn to handle it.” You never get used to it. The way Mike kept his hand hidden was a perfect example. He’d deny this if I pointed it out, but I knew it bothered him nonetheless.

Now The Kid turned to Mike. “Why are you here? You don’t look sick.”

“Neither do you,” Mike said. “Most people only get their appendixes out after they’ve been puking for days.”

“I have been sick,” The Kid said. “I couldn’t eat, and my stomach hurts all the time.”

Mike nodded. The Kid’s complexion was a bit pasty and his eyes were hollow, but when you’re as frail as I am, everyone else seems healthy.

“Martin?”

A female voice. We all turned.

A pretty nurse stood by; towels and a Johnny draped over one arm. Mary. I liked her.

“I need to take your temperature.”

The Kid obeyed, returning to his corner of the room.

“Take your clothes off and put this on,” she said, holding out a standard Johnny, the kind that opens in the back and always shows off your ass.

“C’mon, Mary!” Warren said, “Let the poor kid keep his dignity!”

Mary gave Warren a disapproving glance while The Kid waited, wondering who would win this battle of wills.

“He doesn’t have any tests tonight,” I added, though this was just an assumption. “Give him a break.”

Mary sighed. “Do you have any pajamas?”

The Kid nodded, hopeful.

“All right. You can put them on instead. But just for tonight.”

Warren, Mike and I applauded her decision, and she acknowledged with a nod. She helped her charge off with his shirt, sat him on the edge of the bed, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and popped a thermometer in his mouth. That was our cue. The Kid was temporarily off-limits.

Mike resumed sorting his cards while Warren picked up his story. “So, my brother’s running. And right when he gets to the line, two kids let go of their hands and let him pass right through, full speed. He couldn’t stop in time and ran right into the brick wall. WHAMMO. He hit the wall so hard he was out cold, and there was blood everywhere. But the blood wasn’t coming from his head...because the teacher found his two front teeth on the blacktop.”

Good stuff.

“Is this gonna hurt?” The Kid’s voice, coming from inside the curtain that was drawn completely around his bed.

“We’ll take it slow,” an adult voice answered. I could see the silhouette bent over the bed.

“Okay,” The Kid replied, apprehensive.

There’s only two times the curtain gets pulled around your bed: potentially embarrassing examinations, painful procedures, or both. And you can always count on the doctor adding to the humiliation by bringing along an army of Interns to watch.

“Does it hurt when I press here?”

“No.”

I kept my eyes averted and tried to read Mike’s Mad magazine, who was downstairs having tests done, but there’s no way you can block out the sounds, especially when you’ve been through it.

“And...here?”

“Ow!” The Kid yelled, loud enough to make me jump. Then he began to cry. I gritted my teeth and glanced over at Warren, but he had his Walkman on, oblivious.

“I'm sorry, Martin. I had to make sure. That’s it.” I heard a sniffle, then the curtain was drawn back and I could see The Kid lying on his back, his mother rubbing his arm as she listened to the doctor.

“I’ll schedule the surgery for Thursday morning,” the doctor said. “The sooner we get that out, the better.”

“Thank you.”

As the doctor left, The Kid saw me watching. He quickly wiped the tears from his face. I smiled. He smiled back.

“You okay?”

Mike nodded. He’d just returned from downstairs.

“Just another X-ray. I think every nurse in Radiology has gotten a look at my crotch.”

I laughed.

“What’d they do?” It was The Kid. His mom had left for the night.

“Just some X-rays,” I answered, and Mike shot me a disapproving glance. I ignored it. “How ‘bout you? You okay?”

The Kid nodded. “You okay?” was becoming my catch phrase.

“Why, what happened?” Warren asked, sitting up on the edge of his bed.

“Doctor worked him over,” I said. “You had your Walkman on.”

“Oh.”

“What’d he do?” Mike asked.

“He poked my stomach,” The Kid said. “It hurt real bad.”

Warren pressed a spot on the right side of his T-shirt with his good hand, just below the waistline. “There, right?”

“How did you know?”

“Saw it on ‘Eight is Enough.’ They could tell one of the kids had appendicitis by poking that spot. Made him scream.”

The Kid nodded in total agreement.

“Anyway, you’re gonna have a really big scar,” Mike said.

“A scar? Cool!”

Mike frowned, hoping for a different reaction. “No, a huge one. They’ll have to cut you right down the middle to get your appendix out.”

“No way,” The Kid whispered, then raised his Johnny to examine his belly.

“Yes way. The scar’ll start right here,” Mike said, pointing to The Kid’s solar plexus. He then drew an imaginary line down his middle, all the way to his Fruit of the Looms. The Kid’s eyes bulged as he watched, glasses slipping down to the end of his nose again.

“A long, ugly scar,” Mike pronounced as he withdrew his finger, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“Cut it out, Mike,” I said. “Quit lying.”

“It’s true, I swear!” Mike said, flashing his best innocent expression. The Kid turned to me and I shook my head. “They won’t cut you open that way. He’s just teasing you.”

“They’ll only make a little incision,” Warren added, holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch-and-a-half apart. “About this long.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’ll only have a little scar, and not in the center, either.” I pointed to the spot, equidistant between The Kid’s hip and bellybutton, just below the waistband of his jockeys. “Here.”

The Kid nodded. “Oh,” he said, relieved. “That’ll be okay.” He let his Johnny drop back down to his knees.

“Now, you want to see a scar, check out Danny’s.” Mike said, trying to get back at me for ruining his prank, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I just lifted my Johnny, turned my left side into the light and showed off the white stitch marks running under my lowest rib all the way around to my back. “That’s from my first kidney transplant, when I was six.”

The Kid looked closely. Mike looked pissed.

“Is that why you’re in here? For your kidney?”

“Yeah,” I said, lying. “Both my kidneys were bad when I was born, so I had a transplant, but now that one is no good, so I’m getting another.” I sounded so convincing. I’d told this fictionalized version of my upcoming surgery so many times I’d started to believe it myself. I dropped the cotton covering, sat back down and grinned. “So, Mike, tell him what you’re having done.”

Mike shot me a look of such fury that I only smiled more.

“Yeah. We’ve told,” Warren said, just as smug. “Now it’s your turn.”

Mike said nothing. The Kid waited, curious. I opened my mouth to tell, but Warren beat me to the punch: “He’s gettin’ his balls fixed.”

“That’s not true!” Mike yelled, face flushed. I started laughing. “Okay, one fixed,” I said, laughing even harder. Warren joined in. Mike’s face was dark as a beet. Well, he deserved it.

The Kid just stood between us, confused. Warren and I finally managed to quiet down.

“Are you both finished?” Mike asked, and we nodded. Then Mike turned to the Kid and said in a surprisingly mature fashion: “I’m having my right testicle brought down.”

“Brought down?”

Mike nodded, then elaborated: “Sometimes boys are born with one of their balls up here.” He pointed to his upper groin. “When they get older, there’s an operation the doctors can do to bring it down into the sac where it's supposed to be. Get it?”

The Kid nodded but couldn’t hide the blush in his cheeks.

“Well, that’s what I’m having done,” Mike said.

“Yeah, and if the doctor isn’t careful, he'll wake up a soprano!” Warren said.

“Shut up!” Mike said, but we all laughed instead.

“Why are you so embarrassed about it?” I asked.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Mike said calmly. “It’s just the kind of thing I don’t go around telling everybody about.”

I kept chuckling, but I understood, and felt like a complete hypocrite. I had the nerve to ask Mike why he was embarrassed when I was ashamed to admit the real reason I was there. While it’s true both my kidneys did fail early on, my transplanted kidney was still working just fine. Peeing was the problem.

My bladder wasn’t big enough. It had made training a nightmare, forcing me to wear diapers through kindergarten. Eventually I got control, but in the last two years a new problem developed. Sometimes I couldn’t go at all, and my small bladder caused backups and painful infections. We couldn’t risk damaging my one good kidney, so the actual surgery I faced involved building me a bigger bladder. The procedure was new and risky, but if it worked I’d be a lot better off.

Still, I didn’t tell the guys. We could joke about Mike’s balls, but I didn’t have the guts to admit I couldn’t pee right.

“Is your dad coming in to see you?” I asked The Kid, changing the subject. He shook his head. “I don’t see him anymore. My parents are divorced,” he said sadly, then looked at his feet. I knew it. It was a good thing we were to teach him all the important stuff.

“I’m tired,” Warren said, and we nodded. The Kid turned away, and I stood up, guiding my I.V. pole back to my bed.

“Hey guys,” Mike said abruptly. “I just realized something.”

I turned around, listening. The Kid stopped, too.

“When’s your surgery?” he asked.

“Thursday morning. Around nine,” I said.

Warren nodded: “Thursday morning.”

“Thursday!” The Kid said, smiling.

“Thursday,” Mike said. We just looked at each other.

“That’s wild,” I said at last.

“Yeah. Looks like we’ll all be getting doped up together,” Warren said.

“‘Doped up?’” The Kid asked.

“Drugged. Put to sleep,” I said.

“Yeah. It feels great,” Mike said, but The Kid looked dubious.

“So then. We’ll all take our medicine together,” Warren said, then slapped Mike’s palm, giving him five. Mike reciprocated, I followed suit and The Kid took his turn.

They pulled the curtain around my bed just before lights out.

Two nurses hovered around me, preparing for the ritual that had taken place every other day for the last two weeks. Sitting up on my elbows, breathing quickly with hands tingling, I watched in dreadful anticipation.

“Just lie back. This won’t take long.” That was Kristin. She was okay but not as nice as Mary. I laid back on the bed and tried to breathe evenly. I stared at the ceiling, as white as every other surface in the place, until I heard the sound of paper being ripped. I raised my head to see Kristin tearing open what looked like a hundred gauze packages, while Janet, the other nurse, was putting on a sterile pair of gloves.

I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. “Could, could you please use some adhesive remover?” I asked, barely above a whisper, the same question I’d asked every time. Janet didn’t answer, not even looking at me. I sighed and looked back at the ceiling, knowing it was hopeless.

“Sit up,” she ordered, and I obeyed, allowing her to reach around back and unlace my Johnny. I felt her hands working, struggling with the knot. Sensing her impatience, I obediently raised my arms, and as she lifted the Johnny over my head I felt like that little kid being freed from a muddy shirt in all those laundry detergent ads. Then I lay back down again.

Janet stepped close and ran her hands over the strips of surgical tape adhered to my chest, the ones holding the large bandage in place over my Hyper Alimentation catheter. Her thick, probing fingers searched for a loose corner, a place to start pulling, or tearing. I turned my head away, determined not to look.

Time to Change the Dressing.

While this procedure was nowhere as painful as having the catheter put in, it was time consuming, grueling and absolutely necessary. I did not understand and had never been told how experimental and potentially dangerous Hyper Alimentation was at the time. Having a catheter inserted into an artery near my heart was very risky business. Any infection could have been life threatening. Of this I was blissfully ignorant. Still, having to endure this ritual dressing change every other day seemed like the worst overkill.

As the first piece of tape was pulled off my eyes began to water, and I couldn’t help but look. The only way to steel myself against the pain was to see it coming.

Janet grabbed the corner of one of the biggest pieces, about three inches long, just above my left nipple. I held my breath. “Ready?” she asked, and I knew it meant she was going to do it fast. I nodded and grit my teeth, hoping it wouldn’t hurt as much this time.

It did. As that murderously sticky tape was torn from my chest, my mouth opened involuntarily but I managed not to cry out. When I opened my watering eyes, I could see the adhesive had left a red, raw imprint on my skin. Then that gloved hand reached out for another piece.

“Wait,” I said, and held up a shaking hand.

“What?” Janet asked, impatient.

“Please, you must have some adhesive remover. It really works!” I said, desperately polite, even cheerful.

“We don’t have time,” she said. At that moment I hated Janet more than anyone I had ever dealt with in the hospital, even the coldest, most arrogant doctors. Of course there was time. She just didn’t want to bother.

Sighing, I put my arms at my side and laid my chin on my chest, determined to watch the removal of the remaining strips of tape without a sound.

I almost made it.

The last piece was stuck to the catheter, and pulling on the tube meant tugging on the stitches that held it in place.

After I’d cried out three times, Kristin took charge and finally used some alcohol wipes to free the tape. I felt a resurgence of anger, knowing full well that all the tape could have been removed this easily and painlessly.

The skin around the catheter was washed, then disinfected, the Tincture of Iodine giving the left side of my pale chest a bronze, almost manly tan. I realized one advantage of having not yet hit puberty: no chest hair. Then a new bandage was secured with that dreaded tape, gloves were removed, debris disposed of and the curtain yanked open once more.

A minute later the nurses were gone and I relaxed, relieved that it was over, at least for another forty-eight hours.

I didn’t count on the sudden feelings of hurt and helplessness that welled up inside of me. I tried to fight it, but it was overwhelming. I turned on my side, faced the window and began to cry.

“Did it hurt?”

The Kid, standing behind me at the side of my bed. I didn’t answer.

“Are you okay?”

I could hear the worry in his voice, the sympathy. Usually I would crave it, but not from now. Not from him.

“Go to bed, kid.”

Wednesday night.

All four of us were together by Mike’s bed when Joanne wheeled in the juice cart. She was a fat old nurse who had probably worked at the hospital since World War II.

“I’m not thirsty,” Mike said, always trying to sound cool.

“You’d better have something,” Joanne said. “No food or drink after midnight.”

“Why?” The Kid asked.

“Surgery’s tomorrow.” Warren said. “You can’t have anything in your stomach. You’d throw up from the anesthesia and suffocate.”

The Kid was silent. Joanne gave Warren a look of disapproval.

“I’ll have apple juice,” I said.

“Michelob Light,” Mike said. Joanne stared him down. “Okay, Hi-C. The red stuff,” he said.

“Apple,” from Warren.

Joanne poured the drinks, handed out Styrofoam cups. The apple juice was surprisingly good.

“What flavors of Hi-C do you have?" The Kid asked, having grasped the rule that the older guys go first.

“Citrus cooler or fruit punch.”

“Citrus cooler.”

The Kid downed it quick, leaving a mustache of green dye #7.

“Bedtime in ten minutes,” Joanne reminded. We nodded, and she left.

Mike downed his Hi-C, wiped his mouth, unable to erase his own colorful mustache, then tossed the cup aside. “Can’t wait for those shots tomorrow.”

“What shots?” The Kid asked.

“The pre-op injections,” Warren said.

“They put you to sleep?”

“Nah,” Mike said. “They do that downstairs in the operating room. The pre-op injections make you high.”

“How would you know?” Warren griped. “This is your first operation!”

“I’ve been high before,” Mike countered.

“Not on Demerol,” Warren shot back. Mike glared at him. “Besides, this isn’t like pot. It doesn’t feel the same.”

“It still feels good,” Mike said, almost arguing.

“Yeah, but it dries your mouth out,” I added.

Warren nodded. “I hate that.”

“So does pot,” Mike said, and I rolled my eyes.

We were silent, and I could see The Kid was thinking. Then, “Does the shot hurt?”

The big question, one that brought a long, thoughtful pause from all.

“Yes,” Warren said, then looked to Mike. “Yeah,” Mike said, then added with a grin: “But it’s worth it.” Then he looked at me.

I said yes.

To my surprise, The Kid didn’t flinch. He actually smiled.

“C’mon, guys. Quit kidding.”

“We’re not,” Warren said.

The Kid’s smile faded. He rubbed his arm just below the shoulder, almost unconsciously.

“Not there,” Warren said. “You get it in your ass.”

The Kid was silent, lower lip sticking out. Then his eyes brightened with hope: “It doesn’t hurt too bad, though. Right?”

“Yes it does,” I said. “It hurts like hell.”

“It burns,” Warren said. “Demerol is like fire.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding in agreement. “Bad enough to make you cry.”

“Bad enough to make you scream,” Mike added.

The Kid took a couple involuntary steps backward. I knew Mike hadn’t experienced the shot himself, but I kept silent. I just sat there, watching The Kid squirm.

“Please,” he whispered, “Say it isn’t gonna hurt.”

We all shook our heads. The Kid’s face grew paler by the second. I kept a straight face, but inside I was laughing my ass off.

The Kid turned away and slowly walked back to his bed, head down, as if heading for the gallows. He got into bed, pulled up the sheets and turned on his side, his back to us.

I looked at the others, smirking. “It’s not that bad,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” Warren said. “I mean, for someone his age who’s never been through it.”

He had a point. After a long moment of silence, I knew our discussion was over. I nodded to the guys and climbed up into bed. I reached behind me and grabbed the string tied to the pull chain to turn out the overhead light, then sunk my head as far as it would go into the hard pillow.

The moment I closed my eyes, my senses kicked into overdrive.

I tried to relax, to will myself to sleep, but there were too many distractions. First it was the air, the pressurized hiss of the ventilation system, something I usually didn’t notice. Then it was the light, the fluorescent glow from the hall intruding through the open door. No matter how hard I tried to squint against it, it was too bright.

Sighing, I turned away from the glow, only to face the city lights, not as bright but just as distracting. I wrapped the pillow around my head as best I could, enough to shield my eyes.

With my senses effectively stifled, my brain took up the slack. Images and sensations began to assault me; all tied to what awaited me in the morning. I felt the chill of the operating room, the cold, hard operating table against my back. I smelled the sick, rubbery aroma of the oxygen mask and winced against the giant overhead lamps. A wave of nausea hit me as I fought against the memories and expectations, cotton-mouthed without the Demerol.

I opened my eyes, the skyline greeting me once more. I gave in and studied the incandescent details, conscious of the accompanying sirens, jet planes and bass-heavy car stereos. It made me wish for crickets and katydids, the barn outside my bedroom window, the feel of my own bed beneath me.

“She’s coming, Martin.”

“The needle’s two inches long.”

“It’s gonna hur-rt.”

Taunting, musical voices, preying on the expectations of one, lying in his bed, sheets clutched tight. Yet The Kid held his own: No sign of tears.

“Your butt’s gonna bur-rn,” Mike said, hands laced behind his head, a vicious smile on his face. “You’re gonna scream.”

“Hey, guys. C’mon.” I sat up in bed and leaned one arm on the retractable railing for support, the metal cold against my skin.

“Look,” I said, facing The Kid. “There’s something you can do so it won’t hurt as much.”

The Kid sat up in his bed, listening, hopeful.

“Don’t tighten up,” I said. “When the shot goes in, it makes you want to tense up. Don’t do it. It only makes it worse. Just try to relax.”

“He’s right,” Warren said. The Kid nodded, relieved. Mike looked disgusted. Once again we’d rained on his parade.

Mary stepped in less than a minute later, right on schedule. “It’s time, boys,” she said sweetly, displaying four small plastic hypodermics in one hand.

The Kid’s momentary relief vanished. “I don’t want to go downstairs!” he cried. “My mom’s not here yet!”

Mary nodded. “There’s plenty of time, Martin. You won’t be going downstairs for at least another hour.”

“Then why do we have to get the shots now?”

“The medicine needs time to take effect.”

With that, she turned away and faced Mike’s bed. Mike sat up quickly, false bravado gone. “Why do I have to go first?”

“The luck of the draw,” she said, not unsympathetic. Mike sighed and turned on his side, facing Warren. Mary lifted his Johnny, exposing his rear. Until that morning we’d all been allowed to wear briefs or boxers under our Johnnys, but being prepped for surgery meant losing the underwear, a last vestige of dignity.

As Mary tore open an alcohol wipe, Mike glanced back over one shoulder and I could see the fear in his eyes. We all watched in silence as she pulled the cap off the syringe with her teeth and pointed the needle downward. “Here we go,” she said. “Try not to tighten up,” she added, aware of Demerol’s infamous reputation. My advice was sound.

“One...two...three.”

Mike winced, relaxed, then whined in surprise a second later. “Oh, man! That hurts!” he whispered as Mary withdrew the needle. Warren and I smiled at each other. The Kid did not.

As Mary moved on to Warren’s bed, he turned up on his side and faced the window, an angle that gave us a clear view when Mary exposed the target. He obviously didn’t care if we saw his ass or not, but this time I looked away. I didn’t need to see another kid getting stuck. Mike didn’t look very interested either, but The Kid’s eyes were riveted at seeing what was in store.

Mary repeated the same steps: alcohol, cap off, syringe hovering.

“Here we go.”

“You don’t need to count,” Warren said. She smiled and let him have it. Now I had to look, to see if he’d flinch as the plunger was depressed. He didn’t, although a grunt escaped his lips. Then it was over, Mary rubbing the spot with cotton then dispensing a little round Band-Aid, even though Demerol shots rarely bleed.

My turn. I lay on my left side and faced the guys, modest. This self-consciousness backfired however as Mary lifted my Johnny in the front and back, giving the guys a clear view of my anatomy before I could yank the cotton back down over my crotch. I heard a tearing sound and my stomach did a somersault as I caught a whiff of the pungent alcohol. I felt the cold swab my skin, and seriously wondered if I was going to throw up. I concentrated on breathing evenly, glancing across the room to see The Kid watching from his bed, eyes huge.

Mary’s voice: “Ready?”

“Uh huh.”

I barely felt the needle’s sting, so I figured it wasn’t going to be so bad. Then liquid fire was injected into my flesh.

“Uhhh!” I said, grimacing in shock and surprise. The burning sensation intensified as it sank deep into the muscle in my rear. Eyes watering, I tried to smile as the needle was removed, the spot dabbed with cotton and a sticky souvenir awarded for my bravery.

Three down, one to go. Mary arrived at the last bed, and The Kid looked up at her with pleading eyes, arms and legs tensed, as if about to crawl up the wall behind him. “Is it gonna hurt!?”

“It’s okay, Martin. I’m gonna take you through it, step by step.”

Warren, Mike and I watched closely, but The Kid still wouldn’t turn over, eyes glazed with fear as if he were facing an angry father with a belt instead of a pretty nurse.

“It’s okay,” I said.

At last, The Kid was coaxed up on his side, facing me with an expression so miserable it was almost too painful to watch. Almost.

Though Mary’s hands were blocked by his small body, I knew exactly what she was doing. She applied the alcohol, then I heard that familiar pop and saw the orange safety cap between her teeth.

“This is it. Okay?” she said through clenched teeth.

“Okay.”

“One, two...three.”

The needle disappeared from view. The Kid grimaced.

“There,” she said. “That’s it.”

Warren, Mike and I quickly faced each other in horror: Mary hadn’t even injected yet! In that split second after her assurance, The Kid sighed with relief, thinking it was over.

Then Mary depressed the plunger.

The Kid screamed, eyes snapping open in disbelief and whole body tensing in shock.

We went into hysterics, howling with laughter as The Kid’s cry dissolved into a whimper. I held my gut and laughed. I just couldn’t help it. Mary was not amused, but finished the job; pulling The Kid’s Johnny down and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder before she left. It didn’t seem to help. The Kid had curled up into an almost fetal position, his eyes wet and thumb in his mouth. He’d expected the worst and gotten it.

I managed to get myself under control, and gave The Kid a look of as much sympathy as I could muster. He just kept sucking his thumb.

The Kid’s mother was the first parent to arrive.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, going to his side. Then she paused, seeing the tears in his eyes. “What happened?”

The Kid rubbed his bottom gingerly. “The shot.”

She hugged him, then rocked him back and forth. As I watched I felt a pang of fear. Would my mom get here on time, before they came for me?

Scared, I turned to my buddies, feeling lightheaded. And my mouth was already drying out. “How you doin’ Mike?” I said, louder than intended. At least I sounded enthusiastic.

“Feelin’ great, Dan!” he announced, then laughed. Yep. He was getting high. I started to giggle again, but when I tried to sit up a wave of dizziness made me fall back to the bed so hard I actually bounced. I decided to stay there.

A half-hour later, my mom was at my side, manicured hand under my Johnny as she scratched my back, a favorite means of comfort. I barely felt it, though.

I was gone.

This was the strongest dose of Demerol I had ever received. And mom knew it.

“How do you feel?”

“My mouth’th tho dry,” I said, tongue like sandpaper. I always hated this part. Mom ran her other hand through my hair. I felt that a little more.

I looked across the room to see if Mike’s mom was doing the same thing, but it was hard to tell, both from my spinning vision, and because she was in the way. Both of Warren’s parents were by his side, too, but they seemed to be talking with each other, while Warren stared at the ceiling. I wondered what fantastic sights he was seeing.

Two orderlies and a nurse came in with a gurney, and I tensed up. I didn’t want to go first, and from the way Mike and Warren were eyeing the mattress on wheels, I figured they felt the same way. The Kid wasn’t paying attention. It looked like he was out cold.

After a pause, the gurney resumed its forward momentum, and angled towards…Mike!

Mike tried to sit up; the drugged look suddenly gone from his face. One of the orderlies stepped up and lowered the railing on his bed, then the other pushed the gurney right up alongside.

“Scoot over,” the nurse said, but Mike hesitated, then reached out a hand.

His mother took it and whispered something to him. He said something in return, and though I couldn’t make out the words, I sure recognized the emotion behind them. When his mother stepped aside and he began to shift toward the side of his bed, I saw something I never would have imagined.

He was crying.

He was very quiet about it, but couldn’t hide the red eyes and wet cheeks.

I wanted to say something to make him feel better, to tell him it was going to be okay, but everything that came to mind sounded stupid. He was already on the gurney, and after a sheet was pulled up to his chest, the orderly began to push him out. I was out of time.

“Hope they get everything in the right plathe, Mike,” is what I said.

Mike turned his head toward me and chuckled weakly. “Later, dude.”

I smiled. Then he was wheeled from the room, the top of his head, a tangle of brown hair, disappearing through the doorway.

Another gurney came in to take the place of Mike’s, like a weed that keeps growing back. I was sure this one had my number on it, but the new orderly pushed it right up to Warren’s bed.

Warren didn’t hesitate, throwing his cover sheet aside and sitting up. He wobbled a bit as the railing was lowered, and I knew how hard it was for him to stay upright with the Demerol. Then he scooted off the bed, looking something like a spider with arms and legs supporting his torso as he traversed the narrow chasm between beds. He didn’t quite make it to the center of the gurney, collapsing at an awkward angle. The orderly straightened his lanky body out and covered him with a sheet. Then the gurney started to move.

“Wait!” I said to the orderly, and he complied. I struggled to sit up on my elbows, and mom placed a supporting hand on my back. Warren’s parents stepped out of the way to give me a clear view. Warren’s eyelids were heavy, and I hoped he’d be able to hear me.

“I wanted to thay, say goodbye, Warren. I’ll be in Intensive Care after surgery, so I probably won’t thee you again.”

Warren nodded. “Bye, Danny. You’ll do okay.”

“Kith one of your toes goodbye for me,” I said, then laughed.

Warren chuckled, barely loud enough to hear. Warren’s mom smiled at me too. I lay back down, but not before I saw the third gurney invade the room. Peering through the railing, I could see the two interns struggle to push their prospective gurneys past each other like cars on a narrow street. I figured this one was meant for The Kid. I was wrong.

Mary appeared at my side. I was glad. I smiled and she smiled back, then disappeared behind me as she worked to transfer my Hyper Alimentation machine and bottle to the metal stand on the gurney. Yet another intern lowered the railing on my bed.

I looked at mom and tried not to cry.

“I’ll be there when you wake up,” she said, reading my mind.

“They won’t let you in Intensive Care.”

“Since when has that stopped me?”

I smiled. “Will dad be there too?”

“I'm sure he’ll try.” It was as good an answer as she could give.

“Ready?" Mary asked, and I nodded. I lifted myself off the bed, the sheet peeling away from my sweat-covered back and bottom. Shifting from the bed onto the gurney was quite a challenge, since the muscles in my back and legs didn’t seem to work. I made it, though, lying flat on the starched cotton while Mary covered me with a sheet.

“Could I have a blanket?” I asked, remembering how cold it could get downstairs. Mary nodded.

Mom bent over me one last time. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

“I love you, mom.”

“I love you, too.” She kissed my forehead.

Floating towards the door, I passed The Kid’s bed, and glanced up at Mary, walking beside me. Seeming to know what I wanted, she spoke to the orderly: “Just a minute.” He paused. I lifted my head from the pillow.

“Goodbye Martin,” I said, the first time I’d used his given name. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Eyelids heavy, Martin struggled against the drug. “Thanks, Danny,” he managed, genuine appreciation in his voice. I gave him thumbs up, and he smiled.

I lay down again, yet the mattress beneath me did not move. The orderly waited as the last gurney came in through the doorway.

“Next,” I said, and went out.

Copyright 2000 by James Cole

All rights reserved