Death and other side eff.., p.3
Death and Other Side Effects, page 3
• frequent headaches
• seizures
• nausea
• depression
• suicidal thoughts
• partial or complete loss of vision
• loss of control of body functions
• Sudden death (can’t forget that one)
*If you are unlucky enough to be Alexis Gun or her parents, consult a doctor immediately.
“You sure You’re alright?” Rhonda’s voice echoes in the room, snapping me out of my morbid thoughts.
“Never better, Rhonda.”
She eyes me cautiously and I know she doesn’t believe a single word I’ve said.
“Well, if you need anything, let me know.”
“Anything?” Jonah asks, cocking his head to the side slightly.
“Don’t you start with me, young man. I was talkin’ to Alexis here,” she motions towards me.
“I was just thinking that it would be nice to have a sound system in here,” Jonah states casually.
“Well, you keep on thinkin’ that,” she says, turning to walk out of our room.
“Rhonda—there is one thing.”
“Anything, darlin.”
Wow. I must look like crap today if she’s calling me darlin...
“Do you think you could have my mom bring my camera and my Black Flag CD next time she comes?”
Rhonda looks at me skeptically, but nods her head and says, “I could probably do that.”
“Thanks, Rhonda, you’re the best.”
“You better believe I am.” She winks at me, before leaving the room.
“Good choice, but would it have killed you to ask for some Country CDs too?” Jonah whines.
“Yes, actually. I think it would have.”
“You are so narrow-minded.”
“No, I just don’t understand why anyone would want to listen to Country music, or any other type of music, for that matter, when they could listen to Punk rock.”
“Maybe, for a little variety. Plus, some of the best writers are in Country music,” he explains.
“I have plenty of variety. There are bands like Bad Brains, who were way ahead of their time, and then there are bad-ass chicks like Poly Styrene, from the X-Ray Spex—”
“Don’t forget The Runaways.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“You kind of look like her, you know?”
“Like who?”
“Joan.”
“Jett?”
“Is there any other?”
“Rivers.”
“God, no.”
“Well, I know how you like mature women...”
Jonah smiles, denying nothing.
“I don’t care what you say, Joan’s a babe.”
“Rivers?”
“Jett!”
“She’s like 60.”
“Still a stone-cold babe.”
I don’t know if I really resemble The Godmother of Punk, or if it’s just my choppy, dark hair and brown eyes, but I’ll take it as a compliment. Plus, she does rock pretty hard and I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the guitar.
“Who do you think would write a better eulogy, Lemmy or George Jones?” Jonah asks out of nowhere, but I’m used to his 8-track mind by now, so I humor him.
“Well, I think that depends on how the person died.” Jonah’s eyes widen slightly in question.
“Say for example, that you died playing a hand of poker, you drew the dead man’s hand, Ace’s and eights—like Wild Bill Hancock, then I would want Lemmy to write my eulogy—if he was still alive…”
“Obviously.”
“But, if I died of a broken heart, then I would want George
Jones to write it.”
“Who dies of a broken heart? That’s not even a real thing.”
“It’s totally real, dude. Haven’t you ever heard of Catherine Earnshaw?”
“No. She sounds like some uppity chick, though. You sure she didn’t throw herself out a window when the stock market crashed?”
“Positive. I don’t think the stock market even existed in 1847.”
“1847?” he asks, drawing his eyebrows together. “Are we even talking about a real person?”
“She was real to Emily Brontë,” I reply.
“I’m not even going to ask.”
Jonah turns his attention out the window. The first mention of classic literature and I’ve lost him. His hazel eyes are fixed on the big leaf maple tree across from our room. The fiery leaves scatter the ground in a blazing maze of color. I love Seattle in the Fall. The tourists go home and aside from the bike messengers, the streets are pleasantly devoid of chaos. I would give my last cup of red Jell-O for a day out there.
4
The Runaways
“It’s starting to get dark out there. Do you think I should check the hallway now?” I ask Jonah.
“Couldn’t hurt,” he says, throwing the covers off of his legs and exposing his cut-off fleece pajama pants.
“Dude, is that Pee-Wee Herman on your pants?” I ask, stifling a laugh.
“Sure is,” Jonah exclaims.
“Wow.”
“What? You don’t like Pee-Wee?” he asks, almost defensively.
“I never said that, it’s just—”
“Gosh, one little mishap in the movie theater and the whole country turns their backs on you,” Jonah shakes his head, clearly disappointed in me and the rest of humanity.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I still have my Pee-Wee doll, even though my mom told me to throw it away years ago.”
“You have a doll?” Jonah asks, in disbelief.
“Yeah, so—”
“Nothing. It’s just a little...creepy,” he says, raising his brow slightly.
“Seriously! You’re wearing pajama pants with his face plastered all over them.”
“Yeah, but these are a novelty item,” he explains.
“You’re impossible and you made me forget what I was doing,” I say, frustrated.
Truthfully, I’m not sure if it’s Jonah’s fault or the tumor. I’ve had a hard time remembering things lately. It’s like, it’s right there and then all of a sudden, it’s gone and I’m just standing there, like a ninety-five-year-old woman with dementia. At least I’m in good company around here. Half of the residents don’t even know where they are most days.
Yesterday, Bette and Earl spent the better part of the day demanding Mai Tais from the nursing staff. Earl had on this pink flamingo covered Hawaiian shirt and Bette wore a coconut bra over her moo moo. I have no idea where she got it...By lunchtime, the whole place was in an uproar. Little old ladies were smacking the male nurses on their butts whenever they passed, treating them like cabana boys. I even saw one of them stick dollar bills down the new CNA’s drawstring pants. If it wasn’t so amusing, I might have been a little frightened.
“So…am I going to have to find my own wheels, or are you gonna help a brotha out?” Jonah says, interrupting my scattered thoughts.
“Right, the wheelchair. Sorry, I got distracted.”
I hop to my feet and pull the hood of my black sweatshirt over my head, tightening the drawstrings to better hide my face. A dim light illuminates the generic pictures hanging on the wall in the hallway. The inspirational quote, “Live Strong,” in large bold print jumps out at me. It’s one of those posters that you see in the waiting room, at a doctor’s office. The text is written across a blue sky, snow-covered mountains below it and the entire idea of it makes me laugh. No one in here is strong anymore and quite frankly, I’m not sure how much living any of us are doing either. The picture would be more appropriate if it were of a dead tree with all of its leaves stripped from it, reaching for the sunlight, but never quite attaining it.
I creep further down the hall, looking and listening for any signs of motion. Nothing. The place is dead silent. I pass by firecracker Bette and Millie’s room. The coast is clear, so I make my way to the lobby. Tiffany, the receptionist, who spends more time on her cell phone than she does answering calls at the desk, is fast asleep with her smartphone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. I spot a wheelchair about a foot away from where she is. Tiptoeing across the linoleum tiles, I make my way to the vehicle of our impending escape. Gripping the handles, I release the brake and steer it towards our room. Excitement rises in my chest, as the thought that Jonah and I might actually pull this off bubbles to the surface. I place my hand on the cold metal of the doorknob to our room and twist it slowly, careful not to make as much as a creak. Jonah’s eyes widen, and I swear that his pupils are sparkling.
“You did it,” he says, excitement clear in his voice.
“I know, I’m still a little shocked that I pulled it off,” I admit.
“I think you could do just about anything you put your mind to, Alexis,” Jonah says, with a grin that could win him an Oscar in another life. A better life.
“It’s just a wheelchair, dude. Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now.”
My voice might be steady, but I can’t help the shakiness in my hands. It’s this weird quirk that I’ve had ever since I was a little kid. Whenever I get excited or something makes me extremely happy, my hands start to shake at my sides. Jonah’s eyes drop, and I could swear that he saw my reaction, but he doesn’t mention it.
“Get to work little lady, these legs aren’t going to move themselves.”
The reality of our situation sinks back in and for a moment, I stand motionlessly, trying to figure out exactly how we are going to do this. My chest starts to tighten with the fear that I may not be able to get Jonah out of his bed, which would mean we may never be able to get out of this place. I look up at Jonah nervously and the reassuring smile on his face gives me the extra push that I need.
“Ok, let’s do this,” I say, sliding up next to him.
Neither one of us says anything for what seems like an eternity. We just stare at each other silently, trying to figure out a way to get him in the chair.
“I think I’m just going to have to pick you up,” I tell him, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
“You sure? I don’t want you to hurt yourself. The last thing we need is two cripples in one room.”
“Right? Then who would do our midnight pudding run?” I say, giving him a playful nudge.
“Very true. Life without pudding just wouldn’t be worth living.”
“So true. Ok, here goes nothing,” I say, as I slide my hands and arms under Jonah’s upper legs beginning to lift him. The difference in the weight of his legs throws me off a little and I can see by looking at Jonah, that this is making him very uncomfortable. He doesn’t like anyone to touch his...stump. I know the word sounds terrible, offensive even, but I don’t know what else to call it.
“Watch it, my mom told me not to let anyone touch me there, especially Great Uncle Mervin,” Jonah says, trying to make light of the situation.
“Merv the perv, huh?”
Jonah’s face is now just centimeters away from my own. A hot breath of air escapes out of his mouth and the fringe on my forehead moves slightly, tickling my eyebrows. Warmth spreads over my entire body. I’ve never been this close to him before, or to any guy, for that matter. Jonah’s face softens, he inches forward until the tips of our noses are almost touching. Is he going to kiss me? Shit. He’s going to kiss me. My hands slip and for half a second, I lose my grip on him. When I finally come to my senses, I reposition myself and tighten my grip around Jonah’s lower body.
“That was a close one,” I breathe out, finally lowering Jonah into the wheelchair.
“Yeah, for a second there, I thought that I wasn’t going to have to go through with my part of the pact.”
Jonah has a smile on his face, but a jolt of sadness shoots through my body at the thought of him taking his own life, or rather, me taking his life.
“You know you don’t have to do it,” I say, surprised by the hoarseness in my own voice.
“We’ve already gone over this,” Jonah says, sternly.
“Ok,” I say, agreeing to drop the subject for now.
“It’s getting even darker out there,” I add, looking out our window.
“I’m just waiting on you.”
“You know, you’re a lot heavier than you look. I probably sprained something in my back just lifting your crippled ass.”
“Wow, you should think about being a motivational speaker, if this whole suicide thing doesn’t work out for us.”
“Yeah, because the girl with a brain tumor is just chock-full of positivity.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, your winning personality and enthusiasm would be sure to charm audiences across the Nation.”
“Wow, and you should be a salesman.”
“Nah, I have more important plans. You see, I met this really strange girl, she’s all gothy and obsessed with death, but she’s really pretty, so I made a pact with her.”
“I am NOT gothy.”
“Would you prefer punky?”
“No, and we should get going now if we’re going to do this.”
“Lead the way, driver,” Jonah says, craning his neck in the chair so that he can see me.
“Ok, be right back, I’m going to make sure that the coast is clear,” I say, leaving him in the middle of the hallway.
I make it about three steps down the hall before I come across one of the night nurses. I’ve never seen her before, so she must be new here. She’s walking out of the room four doors down from ours. And because the universe hates me, the door to our room decides to click shut right as the nurse turns to go in the opposite direction. She spins on her heel, peering into the dim light. I’m screwed. I know for a fact that she’s spotted me.
“What are you doing out here?” she asks, walking towards me.
“Umm...I just have to use the bathroom,” I say, trying to come up with something as quickly as possible.
“Don’t you have one in your room?” she asks, lifting her auburn penciled brow.
“Um...yeah, I do, but—”
She’s standing there, giving me the same look that she’d give one of the dementia patients as if I’ve lost my mind.
“I have to poop,” I blurt out.
Now she’s really confused. She places a hand on her hip and narrows her green eyes at me, waiting for me to further explain myself.
“I didn’t want to go in the bathroom in my room, because I share the room with a guy, with Jonah,” I explain, lying through my teeth. My cheeks and neck heat with the lie and I start to feel fidgety. Her features soften, and she looks at me apologetically.
“Go ahead, sweetie. Sorry, to hassle you. I just thought you were up to something.”
Nope. Not me. Never…
She doesn’t wait to see if I go into the bathroom. With a flick of her dark auburn hair, she’s on her way. I make a quick break for Jonah before anyone else comes out.
“We gotta hurry,” I say to Jonah, as I grab the handles of the wheelchair and steer him down the hall.
“You know my arms aren’t broken, right?” Jonah reminds me, reaching down to wheel himself forward.
“Right,” I say, feeling just a little bit like an idiot.
I follow close behind him, making sure no one else is around to spot us. We breeze past the lobby, only pausing to see if Tiffany, the receptionist is in sight, but the desk is empty. We make our way through the small corridor where the double glass doors await us. A rectangular black box, with a blinking red light, is bolted to the wall next to the doors. The ruby glow of the light taunts me.
“How did we not think of this?”
“I don’t know...Wishful thinking, I guess. Is there a way to disarm it?” Jonah asks.
“Yeah, the code.”
“We’ll just have to figure out the code then.”
“And how do you suppose we do that, Detective?”
“Hey, I’m just as upset as you are. You don’t have to take it out on me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I’m sorry.”
“I know. I just thought I heard you wrong. I didn’t think you were physically capable of apologizing.”
“Hardy-har.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow,” Jonah says, trying to cheer me up.
“Always tomorrow,” I repeat, not even trying to hide the disappointment in my voice anymore. What’s the point of pretending, anyway? Jonah knows as well as I do, that we’re stuck here. I guess, I just feel stupid for thinking that I still had some semblance of control, that I could change my reality, even if only for one night.
5
“Whip It”
— Devo
A hazy glow dances beneath my eyelids. Rays of opalescent light filter into the crowd, flickering on and off, illuminating their faces. I feel the warmth of a hot body pressed against my back and fight the urge to squirm. I’m in the front row and the place is packed. I mean, sardine tin kind of packed. There’s an Asian lady to my right, banging her head and propelling her obsidian hair around like helicopter blades. I sing along to the song, transfixed by the beat. Then, like a divine revelation, the lead singer points his finger at me and mouths, “You must Whip It.” I look behind me, into the roaring crowd of people just to make sure he is really talking to me. When I turn back around, he is motioning for me to come onto the stage.
As I reach for his outstretched hand, I am transported to another dimension. Everything is pixelated and the voices around me fade in and out in an ongoing echo. I close my eyes and open them wider to try and bring everything back into focus. When I look over my shoulder, I find myself standing directly in front of the guitarist. He stops strumming. The rest of the band stops as well, turning to look at me. Each member of the band nods their heads once. Before I can figure out what is happening, I am being handed a wine red, Les Paul guitar. “You know what to do,” the guitarist who’s wearing a red bucket hat says to me. He places his hat atop my head and I begin to strum the pick against the strings of his guitar. The polyethylene hat I am wearing must have some serious magical properties because I sound amazing…like Greg Ginn, on the album “Jealous Again.”
Then, like all good things, the feeling fades. The music ceases. Digging my fingers into the worn cotton sheets of my bed, I slowly open my eyes. The funny thing is, the pads of my fingers on my left hand are still kind of tingling. I study my hand further, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
