Daniel Rose - Larry's Kidney, Being the True Story of How I Found Myself in China

“Power props?”

“When I was first starting out, I got myself invited to the Cosmos Club off Dupont Circle in D.C.,” he says. “One of the most exclusive clubs in the world. Teddy Roosevelt’s still trying to become a member, ha ha. Long story short, I was invited for dinner when I was eighteen. Not worth going into details, but I managed to scoop up a dozen match-books, knowing they’d come in handy someday. Sure enough, three years later I’m entering into negotiations with a hotshot lawyer who pulls out an expensive cigar. I’m there with a light, after which I place down the matchbook facing the guy. Guy reads the inscription, Cosmos Club. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ the lawyer asks.”

“You were pretty savvy for being so young,” I put in.

“Nah, way too obvious. You know what I would do differently today? Place down the matchbook facing myself. So you catching on?” Larry asks. “It’s not like you don’t know this stuff abstractly, it’s just that you never had it spelled out for you in the context of real life. Let me give you another example.”

And so forth. Somehow, before I know it, we’re at the hospital. I’ve gotten both more worldly and more world-weary with each tale. The shadow cab has drifted away. How many pounds have I lost, in sweat and anxiety? I’ll never know. Nor do either of us know if the whole scare was a false alarm. Maybe they took stock of us back at the stop sign and felt they’d get too scratched up? Maybe our cabbie became mesmerized by all of Larry’s gobbledygook and dropped the ball? We’ll never know. Anyway, a couple of exhausted men in box-turtle sunglasses and Rolex brass knuckles are finally delivered to the hospital entrance, safe and sound. I’m only too happy to pay the cabbie in full, even tipping him twenty RMB for not kidnapping us. Ciao, ciao. “Oh, and I’ll take a receipt, please.”

Stepping out of the cab, I thank Cool God that the scare is over. But when I look back at Larry, expecting to see a similar relief on his face, I see nothing but a blank stare, slack and emotionless. For him, looking up at the eleven floors of this great, grim hospital, the Giant Mushroom of Hope and Dread, the real scares are just beginning.

Without rice, even the cleverest housewife cannot cook.

Suddenly silent. The glass doors of the hospital close behind us to seal out all sound. No honking, no jostling. All is shiny emptiness, a great big McSpace Age lobby that is eerily vacant except for a couple of severe-looking, vaguely threatening Arab men who saunter through, holding hands. Relatives of patients? From far off I hear the sound of…a badminton birdie being hit? Larry and I walk toward the elevator bank, followed by a maid who soundlessly polishes off our footsteps so no dust remains on the glittering marble.

On the ninth floor, still ghostly quiet, there are a few patients sitting around on windowsills and wearing colostomy bags. In their Yankee uniforms with limbo dinge, they’re from no country but the Land of Weary. We make it to the nurses’ station and say we are looking for Cherry. When she arrives, toting her ever-present pocketbook, she escorts us to Larry’s new home: a double-room suite with twin beds, fridge, and flat-screen TV. I plug everything in and feel the room buzz to life.

“Did we miss lunch?” Larry inquires.

“No lunch,” Cherry replies.

“Are we too early for dinner? I finished my last Girl Scout cookie twenty-four hours ago.”

“No dinner.”

Turns out they don’t serve food in this hospital. Families have to bring their own. There are no plates for patients to eat on. Or glasses to drink from. Or towels. Or soap.

“Or toilet paper,” Larry calls out from the bathroom.

“Is Dr. X around?” I ask. “I’d feel better if we could talk to him directly.”

“He at conference, back at end of week.”

In his absence, preliminary tests are taken by two of the medical residents we met last night: a gangly man who suffers from acute self-consciousness and an ungainly woman who could profit from a little more self-consciousness. Have they never schooled female residents to sit with their legs closed? The poor woman looks like she’s struggled over every hill she’s ever come across and reminds me of someone I can’t put my finger on. One good sign, however-and I’m desperate for good signs-is that she’s very adept at spinning a purple pen around in her hands. Great manual dexterity.

I offload all of Larry’s stuff in his room, his suitcases and crate of teacups, and help him get organized. “Also, you should give me your passport for safekeeping,” I say.

“I’m a big boy, I’ll keep it with me.”

“Larry, we went to a lot of trouble and expense to get a replacement. We can’t afford to lose it again.”

“More important, we can’t afford to lose my self-respect,” he says, reaching down to retie his shoe slowly enough that finally I just do it for him. “So that’s the way it’s going to be.”

His obstinacy is a healthy sign, I decide. I’ll choose my battles. “Fine,” I say, making a mental note to steal it later if it comes to that, “but where will you keep it so you don’t lose it?”

“In my slacks.”

Slacks? Why not just call them chinos, britches, knickerbockers? What generation is he from?

“Better yet, I’ll keep it in this Kleenex box with my glasses and wallet. Since I apparently won’t be wearing trousers.”

Jodhpurs, lederhosen, pantaloons?

He changes into a hospital robe.

The compressor of the fridge starts making prudish squawking noises. Larry turns up the volume of the flat-screen TV on the only station he can find that’s broadcasting in English: Al Jazeera.

“Is there a way to shut off the music?” I ask, because a lullaby-type tune warbles softly from invisible ceiling speakers. The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout…

“And the A/C?” Larry asks. “I’m not accustomed to the arctic blast.”

“By the by,” Cherry says, not hearing us, “we need two thousand RMB to start account rolling. For diagnostic workup, such and such.”

Apparently everything’s done in cash on the barrelhead: Before we can get under way, we have to open our wallets and fork over almost all the bills we have on hand. Next they want to see the medications he’s on. Larry rummages until he finds two leather satchels and empties their contents onto the glass tabletop. Seventeen plastic vials in all. The residents start giggling.

“You take these every day?” Cherry translates, clucking with dismay.

“Two and sometimes three times a day,” Larry answers.

The residents’ amusement turns to disbelief as they turn the vials around and around, as if inspecting cucumbers too rotten to buy. “But these pills do not work,” Cherry says. “Blood pressure is two-fifty over two hundred,” she says.

Larry shrugs. “I’m just showing you the cards I’m holding,” he says.

The residents confer until they reach a decision. All medications from home will be stored in a safe place where Larry will have no access to them. “First thing first, we remove pills, then see how your condition is,” Cherry says.

“Cold turkey?” Larry asks. “What about my antidepressionists? You sure that’s safe?”

“First thing first,” Cherry says. “We must bring down blood pressure, also resume dialysis starting tomorrow. As needed, we give you clam pill to keep you clam.”

Before undressing, Larry empties the contents of his shirt pocket. Two pairs of reading glasses, two pairs of shades. A handful of American change. Business cards from the crew of the plane he took here from Florida. Tube of toothache gel. While I unpack Larry and get him settled in-he won’t part with his Businessman’s Running Shoes, a concession they allow him-a woman comes into the room and gives Larry a Chinese-looking haircut. A man comes in and takes Larry’s picture. Larry morosely pays each visitor, though each puts him to some discomfort. “Is all this really necessary?” Larry asks when yet another man comes in to sell him a bunch of plastic clothespins.