J. Wachowski - In Plain View

Six months ago I was one of the toughest videographers in the business. Now, I’m the Joe Atlas wimp getting sand kicked in my face.

What the hell has happened here?

Jenny was of the same opinion. She stood there in the kitchen doorway, fists on her bony hips.

I slid down onto the cold ceramic floor and braced my back against the sink cabinet. I could tell it was going to be a few minutes before I could even make a call; my teeth were chattering too hard to speak clearly. Typical aftereffects of adrenaline: chills, shivering, light-headedness. All completely normal.

Eyes narrowed, Jenny peeked around the corner cabinet.

“I’m not dead, Jen. I’m just sitting on the floor.” The words set off another bout of chills.

Jenny remained skeptical. “Why?” she asked.

“Felt like it.”

With a huffy snort, she came over to sit beside me and check out my leg. I must of hit a rock when I went down. There was a gash near my knee about four inches long. I’d used my sock to slow the bleeding, but it was still seeping down my calf. I’m fine with other people’s blood; mine bothers me.

“I bet you need stitches.”

“Probably.”

“I got stitches once.”

“Yeah?”

“It hurt.”

“Your mom pinch you for those, too?”

“No. She had to hold me down.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be right back.” Jenny patted me on the head, once, and scrambled out.

Inside, my muscles registered full of juice, ready to fly. Outside, I was crusting over with drying sweat and dust. A wobbly drip of bright red blood clung to the rivulet that streaked my calf. I flexed my toes inside my running shoe and watched the drop release- splish, splash -quickly followed by two more. The white ceramic tile made a dramatic contrast where it landed.

Everything tunneled down to breathing. Slow, in through the nose. Out through the mouth.

A few months ago my sister had a car roar up behind her. But she didn’t slide down a ravine to safety. I opened my mouth and gulped air, trying to settle my stomach.

Do not think. Do not puke.

No way could I tell Jenny a car was involved. Neither of us would survive the resulting panic loop.

Work. Work was the way out of this, away from this feeling. Work brought calm.

Calm would help Jenny.

I hit the auto-dialer. Ainsley picked it up in one ring.

“You got the morning off, College.” I’d made arrangements for Ainsley and me to go in and rough cut with the engineer. “Call Mick and ask him if he can meet us tonight for a few hours, instead of this morning.”

“Sweet. Why?”

I checked for Jenny before I answered. “Some asshole in a SUV didn’t want to share the road.”

“No way.”

“Way. I’m headed over to the emergency room.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Add insult to injury, College. Ask me another stupid question.”

“Geez, how bad? You need a hand?”

I slumped lower against the kitchen cabinet, closed my eyes and pictured my choices of worst-case scenarios: totaling the Subaru as I lost consciousness and spun out of control, versus Ainsley holding me down for stitches in the emergency room.

“No thanks. I’ve got it under control,” I told him.

“This stuff might help.” Jenny appeared carrying her mother’s Rubbermaid tub of all-purpose medical repair. My sister had been an emergency-room nurse. If anyone was prepared for trouble, it was her. “Worst case scenario, first case scenario,” I used to tease.

Too bad, I was right.

“Where’d you find that?”

“The little one stays in the linen closet. The big one was in the garage. Mom kept it in the car for emergencies.”

Hunkered down beside me, Jenny started digging through the tubs, passing right by the latex gloves, bottles of pain relief and piles of unlabeled foil-blister packets. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant as the supplies appeared: one box of princess band-aids, rubbing alcohol, three ace bandages, a stethoscope and a rubber tourniquet.

“Make sure we have an engineer tonight, College.” I spoke very deliberately into the phone. “And I’ve got a new list of pick-ups we should go after. I want to go back to Jost’s apartment and try his partner Pat again. See if we can catch him off-duty.”

“You got it, boss.” I could hear him fluffing his pillow in preparation for another few hours of sleep. “I’m yours to command.”

Jenny took a rubber strap between both hands.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“This will stop the bleeding by cutting off your circulation.”

“Anything else?” Ainsley asked.

“These are for pain.” Jenny held out the giant bottle of acetaminophen and a foil-blister pack. “Or maybe it’s these?”

The only words stamped on the back read: SAMPLE NOT FOR RESALE.

“I’ll stick with the usual.” I tossed the packet back into the bucket. Jenny shook out two tablets. “Get me some water would you, kiddo?”

“I’ll meet you at the station tonight,” Ainsley said. “What time?”

“I need you earlier, but don’t panic. It involves food. How’d you like to go picnic with the sheriff today?”

“Uh…”

“Great. Pick us up at noon.”

1:02:59 p.m.

Socializing at a garden party after stitches in the emergency room is like eating brussels sprouts after army-issue MRE’s. Some improvements aren’t worth the wait. Unfortunately, the Curzon family picnic wasn’t a meal I could skip.

It took forever to haul ourselves less than ten miles through small-town traffic to the old neighborhood where the Curzon family manse was located. We got caught behind two freight trains going opposite directions. The old Subaru wagon I’d inherited had a cassette prey-er, no tape ever ejected with its guts still intact, so Ainsley and Jenny sang to the radio Top 40 countdown. I was safely insulated by the meds they’d given me for the stitches.

According to Ainsley, the houses in Curzon’s neighborhood were built back in the days when middle-class families hired architects who would build-to-suit. We passed cottages and castles, Tudor beside Victorian, and the occasional practical brick bungalow, all on lots big enough to require gardeners. From what I’d heard, the area was mostly interchangeable old-money Protestants and new-money Republicans. Broad lawns and narrow minds, as the saying goes.

Ainsley parked the wagon at the back of a line of cars half a block away. The house was a big faux-French cottage built of yellow midwest limestone. Tall windows. Iron fence. A string of Curzon for Sheriff signs across the yard. And a cement duck dressed in a pumpkin costume.

Jenny took my hand as we wandered toward the front door. As we came around the cubist shrubbery, I could see the garage door and hear the sounds of battle. The Curzon men were engaged in our local blood-sport: man-on-man driveway hoop.

Worth watching.

The sheriff’s face was dripping sweat. The younger guy-I knew he must be related, same coloring-wasn’t as sweaty but blood marked his face, from nose to cheek. In Chicago Land, backyard basketball is nothing like the long-court ballet of the NBA. Whether it’s cement playgrounds with chain nets or blacktop driveways with acrylic backboards, the game is played rough and up under the net-hustle, push, hip-check. Make that elbow connect! Whip the ball around your opponent, bounce once, shoot, grab, twist-do it again. No blood, no foul.

Jenny, Ainsley and I stood there admiring the action for a while.

An older guy with a face that made you think basset hound was watching from the raised bluestone patio that surrounded the house. Waving a crystal highball glass in one hand, he leaned out over the wall to shout at the players, “Come on, you old fart. Can’t you do better than that? That’s it! Ooh, Nicky, you gonna take that?”