Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“As soon as I feel faint I’ll hop in a cab and rush right over.”

“You’re still here for observation. We haven’t even made a full diagnosis yet. For all we know, you have a hemorrhage and if the inter-cranial pressure gets too great, and we’re not there to operate immediately, you could die.”

“Doctor, I know that you’ve got my interest at heart, but if I stick around here I’m definitely going to lose my business and I won’t have any life to return to.”

“Would you rather have the luxuries or the life to enjoy them with?”

“Let me put it this way: I’d rather live a short high-quality life than a long bitter existence to mock myself with.”

When he started nodding his head in resignation, I replied, “I’ll make you a deal. As soon as I secure all my loose ends, I’ll check back in.”

“This isn’t a hotel. The bed space in the charity ward is always in short supply. If you leave here, I can’t guarantee a return ticket.”

“Look, don’t try to scare me. I got to go. This is my life.”

“Fine,” said he, and was gone in a huff. A few seconds later the nurse came in with a clipboard. On it was a form freeing the hospital of all liabilities. She said I had to sign it before I could go. I signed it, and for the last time, she sponged me, redressed my bandages, and got my clothes. As I slowly dressed, she asked the name of the recipient picking me up. It was for the records.

“Irving R. Towers,” I replied, “but he’s as shy as the moon in the daytime, and he’s probably waiting in his car around the corner.”

“Fine.”

She was gone. The doctor returned and handed me a small menu of prescriptions. He quickly reviewed the particulars of how, when, and why each pill should be taken. I didn’t listen because I couldn’t even afford a cough drop. I was issued a cane, but then helped into a wheelchair and the hospital attendant quickly wheeled me out to the front lobby. Slowly I angled my bulk between my legs and cane and wobbled down Atlantic Avenue.

Everything reflected my aches. The sky was overcast. The air was still cold and uncirculated. The streets were still filthy and hard. The people were still bitter and ugly. The entire city of New York was sick and in desperate need of a vacation. Turning down Court Street, 1 finally found my old and undiscrimmating friend Irving, a.k.a. the IRT. After the patient wait came the not-empty train. I took the closest seat and counted each stop with a silent scream. As the train screeched into the stations, the metal bar jawed my foot-stomped ribs, taking sharp bites out of my lungs. Quickly I thought of a game plan. First, I had to secure my holdings with Miguel, and next I had to go somewhere and recuperate. In order to check into the YMCA, I remembered that I needed money and ID. I could borrow the money but I’d lost my ID ages ago.

I got offat Union Square and slowly caned it over to the Zeus. The office door was unlocked, but the office was empty. Miguel was probably coming right back. Opening the lost-and-found drawer in the desk, I saw there were a bunch of wallets. Pickpockets usually worked the theaters; swiftly they’d grab the money and dispose of the evidence and we’d be too lazy to call the dispossessed. Looking at his ID, I realized my name today was Sven Cohen. Suddenly Miguel opened the door.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he gasped. Then, helping me into his swivel chair, he mumbled, “You poor baby.”

“Nothing happened! I got into a fight. I’m better now.” I shoved the wallet into my pocket.

“Are you sure Marty or Ternevsky had nothing to do with this?”

“Yes.”

He glared at me with such dismay that I was curious to see myself. Looking into the small wall mirror, I saw my face filled with Halloween colors and inflated like a balloon. The streaks of blood in the pupils of my eyes accented the nightmarish effect. It hurt me when I laughed.

“You really should go to a hospital.”

“I just checked out of one.” I held up my wrist to show him the plastic ID bracelet.

“They should’ve been able to do a lot more for you than this,” he pointed to my face, a case in point.

“They wanted me to stay for a week.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I stared at him for a moment until he looked away. He probably sensed my worry, my distrust of him. “I’ll be ready to work tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll scare people away.”

“Miguel, how close are we to finishing up here?”

“Huh?”

“Toward Hoboken.”

“Real soon.”

“I’d like you to sign some kind of document stating that I have at least twenty-five percent of this business.”

“If I signed something like that it might imply our little situation here.” He pointed to the gauge.

“I’m completely unprotected. If I can’t get some kind of documentation, I want my share of the money.”

“Even if I did try to screw you, all you’d have to do is turn me in. That’s pretty good insurance.”

“Yeah, but after all this is done …”

“Look, there’s still a lot of time before we’re finished here, and you’ll see the title of the place in your name by then.”

“Listen,” I replied, using his line of reasoning against him, “if you can trust me about this little secret then you can certainly trust me not to turn you in. Besides, if I turned you in, I sure as hell don’t gain anything by it.”

“All right!” he finally said, and sitting at the desk he took out a piece of paper and said, “Now, what would you have me write?”

1 dictated some feeble statement saying that he owed me thirty percent of any movie theater he might buy and operate. He signed and dated the document and gave it to me. I knew that it and a nickel couldn’t get me a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. But it offered some psychological comfort.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I don’t know what prompted all this, but I’ve been a little edgy lately.”

“Why are you edgy?”

“Because I saw someone in a car across the street most of yesterday.”

“Probably some pimp.”

“Maybe, but I figure that the only way they can catch us is by counting exactly how many people come in over the course of a day and then checking it with our figures.”

“Maybe we should stop for a while.”

“Well, you can if you want, but we’re very close and time’s getting shorter. I’m making a dash for the finish line.”

“Then I’m with you.”

“Well, you’re no use to me like this. Straighten things out with Ternevsky, heal some, and then I’ll give you your shifts back.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, by the way,” he concluded, “I heard that Tanya’s going to be back in town in a couple days.”

“Who?”

“Tanya,” he said and then I remembered how I had fraudulently gotten the job. “We’ll all get together.”

“Great,” I replied blandly. I had enough to sweat over for the time being. I told Miguel I was staying with the fictitious Donny, but that I was broke and needed a couple bucks. Miguel opened the petty cash box, and counted out five twenty dollar bills. If memory served, that much should be able to float me for the better part of the week if I ate shitty food and checked into the Sloane House on Thirty-fourth. Even though it was a bleak outlook, I thanked him and told him all would be fine. I’d be well soon and wouldn’t disappoint his faith in me. With one hand on the cane and the other on the unclaimed documentation in my pocket, I made my way out of the theater.

It was now about five, rush hour, and the recurrent nightmare of a packed subway seemed unbearable. I took a cab to the Sloane House; my bruised body begged for that one indulgence. But the cabby knew only two speeds: accelerate like a rocket and stop on a dime. After all the potholes, I felt like a golf ball after a tournament. Abandoning the cab on Thirty-fourth and Eighth, I breached through the repeated breakers of retreating commuters heading toward Penn Station and aimed my cane toward a cheap deli with blinking Christmas lights circling a big poster in the window written in day-glow pink, “Cold cut sandwiches, only $1!” I went in and asked for a dozen sandwiches.