Michael Crichton - Drug of Choice

“I don’t make anything of it,” Clark said.

“Do you think it’s a drug thing? You’re the local expert.”

Clark smiled. “Hardly.” He had done two years of drug testing at Bethesda, but it had been boring work, measuring excretion and metabolism of experimental drugs in animals and, occasionally, in human subjects. He had only done it because it got him out of the army.

“Well, could it be a bizarre drug reaction?”

Clark shrugged. “It could. Of course it could. Even a common drug like aspirin can produce strange reactions in certain people.”

Someone else said, “What about an entirely new drug?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But these Angels will take anything in a capsule. Remember the guy we got who had swallowed a hundred birth control pills?”

“I don’t think that birth control pills would turn—”

“No, no, of course not. But what if this is some entirely new drug, some new thing like STP or THC or ASD?”

“Possible,” Clark said. “Anything’s possible.” On that note, the metabolic boys went back to the labs, clutching their urine samples, and Clark went back to work.

Word of the Angel quickly spread through the hospital. A constant stream of doctors, residents, interns, students, nurses, and orderlies appeared on the floor to look at Arthur Lewis and his urine bottle. During all this time, the patient continued to sleep peacefully. Repeated attempts to rouse him by calling his name, shaking him, or pinching him were unsuccessful.

At midnight, everything on the floor seemed quiet, and Clark went to bed. He stretched out on the cot in the resident’s room, fully dressed, and fell asleep almost immediately.

At five in the morning, he got a call from Sandra. She needed him on the seventh floor; she couldn’t say more. She sounded frightened, so he went right up.

When he arrived, he found Sandra talking to an immense, bearded man in black leather. Though all the lights on the floor had been turned off except the nightlights, the man wore sunglasses. He had a huge naked angel painted on the back of his leather jacket, and on his hand was a tattoo of a heart pierced by an arrow. Underneath, in gold lettering, it said “Twat.”

Clark walked up to him. “I’m Dr. Clark. Can I help you?”

Sandra gave a sigh of relief and sat down. The Angel turned to Clark, looked him up and down. He was a head taller than Clark.

“Yeah, man. You can help me.”

“How?”

“You can let me see Artie-baby.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Come on, not possible. What is this not possible shit? You sound like a doctor.”

“I am a doctor.”

“Then you can let me see Artie-baby. All the time, this one keeps saying she can’t let me see him because she’s not a doctor. So okay, I buy it, right? It’s a slide, but I buy it. Now you start in. What is this?”

“Look,” Clark said, “it’s five in the morning. Visiting hours don’t begin until—”

“Visiting hours are for creeps, man.”

“I’m sorry. We have certain rules here.”

“Yeah, but you know what happens if I come visiting hours? I see all the sickies, and it makes me depressed, you know? It’s a down, a real bummer. But now it’s dark.”

“That’s true.”

“Yeah, so okay. Right?”

“I’m sorry. Your friend is in a coma now. You can’t see him.”

“Little Jesus? In a coma? Naw: he wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Clark said, “Little Jesus?”

“That’s his name, man. He had the crucifixion thing, you know. Every trip, he wants to get nailed. His bag: too much money, he had an unhappy childhood.”

Not knowing what else to say, Clark said, “You’d better go now. Come back in the morning.”

“I’ll be flying by then, man. Soon as I leave, I’m flying.”

Clark paused. “Does your friend also fly?”

“Sure, man. All the time. He doesn’t like his momma, see, so he does a lot of flying. He saw a shrink, too, but that wasn’t as good as a long flight.”

“What was he flying?”

“You name it Dope, Gold, Mishra, glue, acid when he was up to it, B’s all the time, goofies…”

“Did he ever try anything really unusual?”

The Angel frowned. “You got a line on something?”

“No,” Clark said. “Just wondered.”

“Naw, he was pretty straight. Never shot stuff, even. He’s the oral type, you know.” The Angel paused. “Now how about it. Do I see him, or what?”

Clark shook his head. “He’s in a coma.”

“You keep talking this coma crap.”

There was a moment of silence, and the Angel reached into his pocket Clark heard a metallic click as the switchblade snapped open. The knife glinted in the light.

“I don’t want to call the police,” Clark said.

“I don’t want to carve your guts out. Now lead the way. I just wanna see him, and then I’ll leave. Right?”

Clark felt the tip against his stomach. He nodded.

They went into the ward. The Angel stood at the foot of the bed and watched Arthur Lewis for several minutes. Then he reached into his pocket fumbled, and frowned. He whispered, “Shit. I forgot it.”

“Forgot what?”

“Nothing. Shit.”

They went back outside.

“Were you bringing him something?” Clark asked.

“No, man. Forget it, huh?”

The Angel stepped to the elevator. Clark watched him as he got in.

“One last thing,” the Angel said. “Cool it with the security guards, or we’ll have blood in the lobby.”

Clark said cheerfully, “You can see him tomorrow, if you like. Visiting hours from two to three-thirty.”

“Man, he won’t be here that long.”

“His coma is quite deep.”

“Man, don’t you understand? He isn’t in no coma.”

The doors closed, and the elevator descended.

“I’ll be damned,” Clark said, to no one in particular. He went back to bed.

Visit rounds began at ten. The visit today was Dr. Jackson, a senior staff member of the hospital. Clark disliked Jackson, and always had. The feeling was mutual.

Jackson was a tall man with short black hair and a sardonic manner. He made little cracks as he accompanied Clark and the interns around from patient to patient. Late in the morning, they came to Arthur Lewis. Clark presented the case, summarizing the now-familiar story of the motorcycle accident, and the police, the admission through the emergency ward…

Jackson interrupted him before he finished. “That man isn’t comatose. He’s asleep.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“You mean to tell me,” Jackson said, “that that son-of-a-bitch lying there is in a coma?”

“Yes, sir. The chief of neurology, Dr. Spence, thought so too. He saw the patient—”

“Spence is an old fart. Step aside.” He pushed past the interns and stepped to the head of the bed. He peered closely at Lewis, then turned to Clark.

“Watch closely, doctor. This is how you wake a sleeping I patient.”

Clark suppressed a smile, and managed a solemn nod.

Jackson bent over Arthur Lewis.

“Mr. Lewis, Mr. Lewis.”

The patient did not stir.

“Wake up, Mr. Lewis.”

No reaction.

Jackson shook the patient’s head gently, then with increasing force. There was no response.

“Mr. Lew-is. Time to get up…”

He continued this for several moments, and then, suddenly, slapped Arthur Lewis soundly across the face.

Clark stepped forward. “Sir, I don’t think—”

At that moment, Arthur Lewis blinked his eyes, opened them, and smiled.

Jackson stepped back from the bed with a grin of triumph. “Exactly, Dr. Clark. You don’t think. This man is simply a heavy sleeper, difficult to rouse. My youngest son is the same way.”