Dave Zeltserman - Fast Lane

The waiter showed up, and while the food was being arranged in front of us I thought about the jeep ride we were going to take. It would be a tragic, senseless accident, one which there could be no explanation for. Looking at Marge I felt sincerely touched, and I was pretty sure her passing was going to leave an emptiness in my life.

Marge was all smiles over the food. “This looks delicious.”

I grunted and took a bite, and was almost floored. A fiery pain shot through me, almost singeing my brain. I stayed in my chair, but just barely. For a second I thought I was going to pass out and then I didn’t know what to think except that I had to get moving. I said something to Marge about finding a bathroom.

As soon as I got to my feet a dull nausea chilled me. I think Marge yelled for me to hurry back before my food got cold, and I mumbled something back to her.

I couldn’t move, at least not right away. My legs were cold dead stumps, as if they were disconnected from the rest of me, and I almost collapsed before I got ten feet from the table. The restaurant staff gave me funny looks as I staggered past them, but none of them got in my way. As I pushed through the door I doubled over. A cabbie looked up from his paper and I whispered something to him.

“Que?” he asked.

“Please,” I gasped. “Take me to a hospital.”

“So doc, did I drink some bad water?”

He grunted, his face expressionless, and continued poking me. “Lie down on the table please.”

My stomach was feeling better-at least I wasn’t feeling like I was going to drop dead on the spot. I stretched out on the examining table and he jabbed his fingers into my stomach.

“How does that feel?”

“Like you were working me over with a baseball bat.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, and kept with the poking.

“So what do you think it is?” I asked.

“We’ll see. Can you sit up, please?”

I sat up and he started tapping his fingers against my back. He mumbled something in Spanish, and sat down across from me.

“How long have you had this pain?”

“A week, maybe two. Maybe longer.”

“But it has become unbearable the last week?”

I nodded.

“Have you been drinking a lot of alcohol recently?”

“Just a little,” I said. “You know, a nightcap before bed to help me relax.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, keeping his wooden expression intact. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

“I guess I’ve had a pretty tough week.”

“But you’ve come to Mexico City on vacation?”

“Yeah, that was the plan. Come on, doc. What do you think I got?”

He scribbled something into a notebook and then looked up at me. “I need to run some laboratory tests before I can be certain, but I believe you have colitis, an inflammation of the membrane surrounding the colon. I need to take a biopsy of the colon to be sure. I also would like to take blood and urine samples to rule out other possibilities.”

“Wait a second.” I shook my head. Colitis. The sound of the word made my head spin. “You’re not cutting into me and I’m not sticking around for any tests. What do I do to get rid of this?”

He scribbled some more in his notebook. “It could go away with rest and proper diet. No alcohol, and drink plenty of fluids. Depending on the severity, it could require an operation.”

“How did I get it?”

“Hard to say,” he shrugged. “Colitis can be hereditary. There is also some thought that it can be triggered by stress. Usually the type caused by a traumatic episode. I must recommend that you let me perform the tests.”

“Sorry, Doc.” I shook my head. “But thanks for the help.”

“I see.” And for the first time a thin smile cracked his face. “You do not trust Mexican doctors?”

“That’s not it. I-”

“Never mind,” he said, softly. “Let me check that wound.”

He took the bandages off my forehead. “We can leave these scratches uncovered. They’re not infected but scars are going to be left.” His smile stretched out an inch. “You should have had a doctor stitch them for you.”

I was beginning to feel a little antsy. I knew I had to go back to Colorado. Running wasn’t going to work, not if it made me so sick with worry I was going to develop colitis.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Anyway, thanks for everything, Doc. How much do I owe you?”

He shrugged. “You won’t accept my advice, why should I accept your money? There’s no charge.”

He turned his back. I started feeling a little hot around the collar and I wanted to get out before the heat spread. “Sure, if that’s the way you feel about it. Well, thanks.”

As I was heading out the door, he spoke. “If the pain doesn’t go away you should see a doctor. Left untreated, you could die.”

No, I thought. Not me, but others were going to.

* * * * *

I went straight to the airport. I had my passport and money on me, and the clothing and other stuff I’d brought along weren’t worth going back to the hotel for.

At the airport, I had a long talk with a ticket agent and finally got myself booked on a flight to Dallas that was leaving within the hour. I was able to board the plane as soon as I got to the gate. After taking my seat, a quiet calm took over me.

Fleeing to Mexico was a challenge to the natural order of things. I had sent everything out of skew-it was like I’d been trying to fly a kite in a storm, and it had left me feeling pulled and twisted from every direction. Now that I’d decided to let go, an inner peace warmed me.

All the worry and ailments I’d suffered were the result of trying to resist the unchangeable. Accepting fate removed the burden from me. I was meant to go back to Denver and take care of things. I understood it and embraced it.

After landing in Dallas, I took the first available flight to Denver, and by morning I was home. A pile of newspapers had collected outside my front door, but I was too tired to deal with them. I headed straight to bed. I think I was asleep before my eyes closed.

* * * * *

The phone woke me. I shielded my eyes from the light and let the phone ring, too tired to reach for it. My answering machine clicked on, but whoever it was must’ve been shy because he hung up. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the light, and I squinted and read my watch. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Twenty-four hours since I had collapsed on the bed.

I laid around for a few minutes, just sort of daydreaming, and then glanced at my watch and saw it was noon. I got up, and headed down to the kitchen. After putting some coffee on, I stepped outside and brought in the newspapers from the front step.

When the coffee finished brewing I poured a cup and sipped it slowly, surprised at how good it felt in my stomach. I guess all I needed was a good twenty-four-hour sleep. During my plane trip, I’d figured how everything was going to work out. How everything was meant to work out.

Glancing through the newspapers I found an article about Craig Singer. He had committed suicide by slashing his wrists. The article hinted about marital problems and despondency over injuries sustained in a fall. I remembered how I’d thought he had way too much blood in his lips. I started laughing as I thought how bleeding to death had solved that problem.

When I was through laughing I found the Sunday issue with my feature. The story had the title, ‘Johnny Lane-The First Case’.

It was about the Walter Murphy shooting-the original write-up I did for the Examiner. They’d included pictures of both Walter Murphy and Rose, and seeing them made me panic. I guess I was afraid if Mary were to see it she’d spot the resemblance between herself and Rose and put two and two together. I took a long look at Rose’s picture and calmed myself down. It was actually a pretty bad shot of her, making her look heavier and shorter than she was in real life. Not only that, but her face was out of focus. Mary wasn’t likely to make a connection from that picture.