A Perfect Machine(2)

The woman beside him looked away, focused on the mounted TV across the room, high up on the wall.

The man tried to move his injured leg but, as with his arm, no dice. Actually, both arms. He must’ve caught a few more bullets before he went down. His chest felt tight, too, so probably one or two more in there. He’d have to wait another hour, maybe two, before he could walk with any degree of comfort again.

He gingerly touched the bandage on his face where the first bullet had grazed his cheekbone. He knew by now it would be nearly healed. By the time the program currently on TV had ended, the wound in his shoulder would be closed up, scar tissue already evident. Then, another hour or so after that, his knee would operate as it always had – smoothly, and without a hint of pain.

Exhaustion overtook him, then, and he slept.

When he woke again nearly two hours later, the nurse – her name finally came to him: Faye – stood over him and was looking down. She held his hand.

“How you feeling now, Henry?”

“About how I probably look.”

“Oh, OK, so you do feel like shit.”

The man laughed a little. Faye glanced over at the woman in the next bed. She was scowling, probably at the language.

“It’s OK,” Faye said. “We know each other. We’re friends.”

The woman just huffed and looked away.

“Friends? Is that all?” the man said. Not only had her name come back to him, but his relationship to her had returned, as well.

“Well, you know. Maybe a little more,” Faye said, teasing. “Look, I gotta go. I can’t walk you out, but call me later, OK? Let me know you got home safe.”



* * *



When he was finally discharged from the hospital an hour later – amidst the requisite complement of security guards, and exactly the amount of indifference he had anticipated from the attending doctor – Henry walked straight home to his one-bedroom apartment, where the phone was ringing.

“Hello?”

“Henry. Milo.”

Henry’s friend Milo figured that, despite his best efforts, the flesh beneath his skin was now only about ninety-percent lead, give or take.

“Caught another few slugs tonight, brother,” Milo said. “What about you? Examined yourself yet?”

“Not yet, just got home.”

“How long’s it been?”

“Since I examined myself?” Henry said. “Couple of weeks.”

“What’s the matter – afraid to check?”

Fucking Milo. Always on Henry’s ass about the same goddamn thing.

“Listen, why don’t you lay off me for a while, alright, Milo? Don’t you have anything better to do? Christ.”

“You know I don’t. Neither do you.”

Henry sighed, looked out his living room window. Snow was falling – big fat flakes that stuck to the window, melted, vanished. No lights on in his apartment yet, so the lone gas lamp outside his building shone in, illuminating his sparse furnishings with a sickly yellow glow.

As if somehow sensing Henry’s thoughts, Milo said, “You know what you need? You need a woman’s touch over there, my friend. Someone to bring some fucking life to that shitty little hole you call home.”

“I’m hanging up now, Milo.”

“Alright, alright, but check yourself out, chickenshit!” Milo blurted. “And let me know how things’re going with Faye. You really do need–”

Henry hung up.

He crossed his living room, touched the base of a lamp. Slightly less sickly yellow light suffused the room. Henry touched the lamp’s base twice more, until the light was closer to white than yellow.

More than just sparse: stark. Empty. Hollow. Gutted. A home to match his personality. But that was Milo talking. Henry knew better. Tried to convince himself of better, anyway.

Shower. Maybe some TV, then bed. Fuck the examination. It could wait.

Henry hung his leather on the coat rack near the front door, made his way to the bathroom. Past piles of mystery novels stacked halfway to the ceiling; past a computer that he never used on a desk at which he never sat; past pizza boxes empty but for the crusts of each slice, turned rock-hard, forgotten.

Henry flicked a switch on the inside of the bathroom doorway; a fluorescent light above the sink flickered, shot to life.

He pulled his shirt over his head as he walked in, dropped his pants around his ankles, stepped out of them. He took his underwear off, then stood up straight, turned to his left, saw himself in the mirror. Nearly every inch of his torso was composed of scar tissue; his legs more of the same. There were only small patches of skin left unmarked.

No way I’m even close, Henry thought. Not a chance I’m anywhere near Milo’s percentage… But fine, fuck it, I’ll check.

Fingers trembling, heart thudding, Henry brought his hands up from his sides, placed them gently on his chest… and moved them around in slow circles. He rubbed around his nipples, pushed in near his armpits, squeezed the flesh around what remained of his ribs, sank his fingers deep into his stomach. Both arms. Pressing, concentrating, trying to feel as deeply within his body as possible. It was a crude manner of examination for the information he was trying to obtain, but it was all he and others like him had. Someone had stolen an X-ray machine a few years back (Henry had no idea how), but it broke down – got shot up, actually – so they were back to these hands-only self-examinations.