Dave Eggers - What Is The What

Ihave been to this hospital. Shortly after I arrived in Atlanta, Anne Newton brought me here to get a physical. It is the finest hospital in Atlanta, she told me. Her husband Gerald, who I do not know as well-he is a money manager of some kind and is not always home for dinner-came here for surgery on his shoulder after a water-skiing accident. It is the finest we have, Anne said, and I'm happy to be there. In hospitals I feel palpable comfort. I feel the competence, the expertise, so much education and money, all of the supplies sterile, everything packaged, sealed tight. My fears evaporate when the automatic doors shush open.

'You can go home,' I tell Achor Achor. 'This might take a while.'

'I'll stay,' he says. 'I'll wait till they treat you. Then you can call me when you need to be picked up. I might try to go back to work for an hour or so.'

It is four o'clock when we step into the reception area. An African-American man, about thirty years old and wearing short-sleeved blue scrubs, is at the receiving desk. He looks us over with great interest, a curious grin spreading under his thick mustache. As we approach, he seems to register the injuries to my face and head. He asks me what happened, and I relay a brief version of the story. He nods and seems sympathetic. I feel almost irrationally grateful to him.

'We'll get you fixed up quick,' he says.

'Thank you so much, sir,' I say, reaching over the counter to shake his hand between my two hands. His skin is rough and dry.

He hands me a clipboard. 'Just fill in the blanks and-' Here he cuts his hand horizontally through the air, from his stomach outward to me, closing his eyes and shaking his head, as if to say, This will be easy, this will be nothing.

Achor Achor and I sit and fill out the forms. Very quickly I arrive at the line asking for the name of my insurance company, and I pause. Achor Achor begins to think.

'This is a problem,' he says, and I know this is true.

I had insurance for about eighteen months, but have been without it since I started school. I am making $1,245 a month, and school fees are $450, rent $425, and then food, heat, so many things. Insurance was not an expense I could work into the equation.

I complete the form as best I can, and bring the clipboard back to the man. I notice his nametag: Julian.

'I can pay you in cash for whatever you do,' I say.

'We don't take cash,' Julian says. 'But don't worry. We'll treat you whether you have insurance or not. Like I said-no sweat.' He makes the horizontal gesture again and again it puts me at ease. He must be able to pull whatever strings are necessary. He will personally make sure this is done quickly and done well. Achor Achor is sitting down when I return from the desk.

'He said I'll be treated either way. You can go now,' I say. 'You should get back to work.'

'It's okay,' Achor Achor says, not looking up from his magazine; for some reason he is reading Fish and Game . 'I'll wait till you go in.'

I open my mouth to object, but then catch myself. I want him here, just as he wanted me with him when he got his driver's license, and when he applied for his first job, just as we have wanted each other near on dozens of other errands when we felt stronger and more capable as two rather than one. So Achor Achor stays, and we watch the TV above us, and I flip through a basketball magazine.

When fifteen minutes pass, I suppress my disappointment. Fifteen minutes is not long to wait for high-quality medical care, but I did expect something more from Julian. I feel the disappointment, hard to justify but impossible to ignore, in knowing that my injury does not impress Julian or this hospital enough that they throw me onto a gurney and send me swiftly through hallways and doors, barking orders to each other. I have the fleeting thought that perhaps Achor Achor and I can find a way to get my head to bleed again, if only a small amount.

Twenty minutes, thirty minutes pass, and we become engrossed in a college basketball game on ESPN.

'Do you think it's because of the insurance?' I whisper to Achor Achor.

'No,' Achor Achor says. 'You told him you would pay. They just want to make sure you can pay. Did you show him a credit card?'

I had not done that. Achor Achor is annoyed.

'Well, show him. You have a Citibank.'

Julian has not moved from the desk since we arrived. I have been watching him as he fills out forms and organizes files, answers calls. I approach him, removing my wallet as I arrive at his station.

He preempts me. 'It shouldn't be too long,' he says, looking down at my clipboard. 'How do you say your name, anyway? Which is first? Deng?'

'Valentine is my first name, Deng the last name.'

'Ah, Valentine. I like that. Just have a seat and-'

'Excuse me,' I say, 'but I was wondering if the delay in treatment is due to a question about my ability to pay.'

I see Julian's mouth begin to open, and decide I need to finish before he misinterprets me. 'And I wanted to make sure that it is clear that I can pay. I know that you cannot take cash, but I also have a credit card-' now I remove my new Gold Citibank card from my wallet-'which will cover the costs. It is guaranteed and my credit limit is $2,500, so you should not worry that I will leave without paying.'

The look on his face indicates that I've said something culturally indelicate.

'Valentine, we've got to take care of everyone who comes in here. By law, we do. We can't turn you away. So you don't need to show your credit cards. Just relax and watch the Georgetown game and I'm sure you'll get stitched up soon. I'd do it myself but I'm not a doctor. They don't let me near the needle and thread.' Here he smiles a generous smile, which slips quickly into a tighter grin, one that indicates that our discussion is finished for now.

I thank him again and return to my seat and explain the situation to Achor Achor.

'I told you,' he says.

'You told me?'

A phone rings and Achor Achor's raised finger tells me to stop talking. He is a truly exasperating person. He answers the call and begins to talk quickly in Dinka. It is Luol Majok, one of us, now living in New Hampshire and working as a concierge at a hotel. It is said, mainly by Luol Majok, that Luol Majok knows Manchester better than anyone born or raised there. The conversation is animated and full of laughter. Achor Achor catches my stare and whispers, 'He's at a wedding.'

Normally I would care about whose wedding it was-I soon gather that it is an all-Sudanese wedding, there in frozen Manchester-but I cannot muster the enthusiasm to hear more details. Achor Achor begins to explain to Luol that he and I are at the hospital, but I wave my hands in front of his face to cut him short. I don't want Luol to know. I don't want anyone to know; it would ruin the celebration. The phone calls would not end. Within minutes, the rumors would have me comatose or dead and no one would feel right dancing. Soon Achor Achor is finished and puts his phone back into his belt holster. Overnight, it seems, every Sudanese man in Atlanta has acquired a belt holster for his cell phone.

'You remember Dut Garang?' he asks. 'He's marrying Aduei Nybek. Five hundred people there.' In Sudan, weddings are without limit; no one is excluded, whether a guest knows the bride and groom or not. All can attend, and the expense, the speeches, the festivities, they do not end. Sudanese weddings are different in the United States than in Sudan, of course. There are no animals sacrificed, for instance, no checking for blood on the immaculate sheets. But the spirit is similar, and the weddings will be coming quickly from now on. The first of the Lost Boys will soon get their citizenship, and when they do, the brides from Kakuma and Sudan will come flooding over, and the Sudanese population in America will double quickly, and then double again. Most of the men are ready to have families, and they will get no argument from their new wives.