Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“No!” I whined pitifully, as I wiggled myself to my feet. Hands started gripping me tightly. “I was disciplining him for his mother.”

In an unharmonious chorus they all started disagreeing with me, each supplying his own renditions.

“Shut up!” she yelled, pointing her gun. “I’ll call the police here and solve the matter for everyone.”

“Hell no,” Junior replied. “We’re not letting him go.”

“Get the hell out of my store!” The lady spoke with a full maternal authority. Abruptly it felt like an anvil dropped on my head. I was dropped flat on my back and resisted passing out. The lady walked over and stood between me and the pack. Pointing the revolver at Junior, sternly she said, “Get the hell out of my store this instant.”

“Fine,” Junior said with a smile, and then addressing me he added, “We’ll wait for you outside, coach.”

Out they filed, one by one, waiting for me just beyond the door. She quickly had one of the employees lock the door and instructed the other one to call the police and an ambulance. She then helped me to a comfortable position and with a wet napkin she started wiping off blood. Judging from the sorrowful expression on her face, I must’ve been a mess.

“Thanks,” I blurted.

“It ain’t even loaded,” she whispered while dabbing my face with a wet napkin. I tried to rise, but pain had replaced all senses.

“Just lie still.” She looked at me intently. “Can you see me?”

“Yeah, why.”

“There’s blood in your eyes.” There was blood oozing from everywhere, and soon, to the tune of sirens, I drifted. Through a heavenly fog I heard the queries: Why did they attack you? Who were they? Who’s your nearest living relative? It was a reenactment of the Blimpie’s aftermath weeks earlier only this time I had advanced from secondary character to lead victim. After a long wait, lying numbly in a gurney in the emergency ward of Long Island College Hospital, I was stripped, cleaned, bandaged, X-rayed, given a skull series, spine tapped, and ready to roll again. A calm doctor itemized my bill; I had a slight concussion, several broken ribs, a broken nose, a deep knife wound in my right thigh, and a large side order of bruises and abrasions. Then I was injected with some antibiotics and a local anesthetic. The bones were realigned and the thigh stitched up. When they found out I was financially unprotected, I was ready to roll yet again, this time to the overcrowded charity ward where I spent the night. I no longer got as many miles to the gallon but I still had some tread left.

A charity ward is not a quiet place, and the next morning when I awoke, a cliché was sitting in the visitor’s chair at my right. I knew he was a cliché because he looked like every detective I had ever seen on TV from “Dragnet” through “Hawaii Five-0” to “Barney Miller.” He wore the bland suit and had the badge hanging out of his outer jacket pocket. A wheeled curtain was pulled tightly around my bed; privacy.

“How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“What happened?”

“An altercation.”

“It looks like someone altercated the hell out of you. Wanna tell me who did it?”

I asked the cliché if he would pour me a cup of water. He did and I quickly considered the situation. I had beaten on Junior pretty brutally, and I wasn’t a particularly bitter person. Although he didn’t succeed in either maiming or blinding me, he had broken a front tooth. But none of the injuries were really debilitating. Perhaps I realized that despite the pain and agony I was pretty lucky and it was a good time to cash my chips in and vamoose.

“I don’t want to press any charges.”

“Pardon me?”

“What good would it do?”

“What good? I’ll arrest him, stick him behind bars.”

“Can you arrest his mother’s loneliness? Or put my greed behind bars? Can you arrest his father’s neglect? ‘Cause they were all accomplices.”

“Spare me the melodrama. I get that in court,” he said and then as if I didn’t know, the cop explained. “This kid pounded the shit out of you. Now, why don’t you tell me who it was and I’ll make sure he doesn’t do this again.”

“He’ll never do this again. He’s actually a pretty decent kid.”

“I don’t believe this…” the officer pressed further. He wanted righteous outrage, but I was tired. He pressed until I feigned a massive headache, and only then did he go away. The rest of the day I spent asleep; I was still pretty drugged out. The next evening, I was allowed to make a local call. I called the theater. As soon as Miguel recognized my voice he hollered, “What the hell’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Marty called and the police came by here. Where are you? What the fuck is going on?”

“What did he tell you?” In other words, do you know the truth?

“No one would tell me a thing. Marty said you raped somebody. But then he hung up and said he’d call me back later.”

“I accidentally slept with Ternevsky’s girlfriend.”

“Jumping Jesus!”

“But I didn’t rape anybody. She was just as high as I was. I’ll deal with it.”

“Where are you anyway?”

“I’m at the hospital, I got banged up a bit.”

“Which hospital?”

“Beth Israel, why?”

He then paused, and I thought I heard someone whispering to him, and then he asked, “What happened?”

“I got mugged.”

“Well, are you okay?”

“Slightly busted up, but I’ll recover.”

“It’s not at all related to the Ternevsky episode, is it?”

“No, ’course not.”

“Well, how long will you be out?”

“I should be coming by soon. First I’m gonna straighten things out and then I’m going to be staying a bit with Donny.”

“Listen, what’s your number? I’ll call you right back.”

“I’m at a public phone in the hall and there are people waiting for it. I’ll call you later.” Quickly I hung up and dialled Ternevsky. I didn’t mind helping Janus out, but there was no way that I was going to end up in prison over it.

“Hello.” I heard that cute little voice of hers.

“Janus, thank God I got you. What the fuck is going, on?”

“Sorry, but there’s no Henry here, you must have the wrong number.”

“Don’t fuck with me. I’ll tell Ternevsky the truth.”

“Absolutely.”

“Is he there?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“Do I have any reason to be worried?”

“None at all.” She kept her delightful tone.

“I’m at Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn. I got busted up pretty badly and…”

“Fine, sorry, bye.” And she hung up. An attendant wheeled me back to my room. For the next twenty-four hours, sleep was pills and wakefulness was pain. Finally, on the third day, the nurse woke me with a paper cup filled with pills of different colors. I spent that morning thinking about Miguel. Incipient anxieties took a paranoid turn for the worse. Gradually each of his reasonable questions seemed to have a duplicitous underside. For the first time I realized that Miguel had all my money. Questions blistered: Who was the other voice in the room? Why did he want my number? Why did he want to know how long I was going to be away? When the doctor made his morning rounds, I asked him what time I’d be able to check out.

“Hopefully, in another week or two.”

“Another week or two! You don’t understand, I’ve got to go today.”

“Today’s out of the question.”

“Look this isn’t a prison, and I can heal at home for free.”

“You’re in a charity ward. You’re not paying a cent.”

“I might lose a lot more than you can imagine.”

“The X-rays show that your skull was fractured. But the brain is much softer and far more delicate, and there is a short grace period between the time we can detect damage and the time the damage becomes fatal.”