Bruce Wagner - Memorial

Ray settled into the easy chair and opened the handwritten letter. It was from Detective Lake, who said he was “at the scene” shortly after the “incident” occurred. He was sorry for everything that happened, and he’d dropped by the hospital a few times to visit, but Ray was with his doctor or asleep, and he “didn’t want to disturb you any more than we already have.” A business card with a gold shield was stapled to the watermarked stationery — classy. He wrote that Ray should call any of the numbers if he wanted to talk, including the cell (he’d used a pen to add his home phone). The old man thought it a kind gesture; nothing suggested ulterior motive. Strictly mano a mano. The detective added that he was a dog lover, and even asked after the Friar.

“If there’s anything I can do for you,” he reiterated, “please don’t hesitate to call.”

THE chiropractor said he might very well have nerve damage and referred him to an orthopedist. Which freaked him out because he’d never had pain like this, pain that migrated and stabbed, pulsed and tingled, and didn’t relent. It actually kept him up at night— definitely not a good sign. Plus he was narco-constipated.

The entire culture was geared toward intractable pain: every magazine, every paper and electronic news show featured chronicles of incurable, idiopathic, undiagnosable agony. There was a lot Chess was suddenly learning about, and none of it was wonderful: like how a body in constant anguish somehow rewired itself neurologically, becoming addicted to the pain itself, which made the cycle nearly impossible to break. The field of pain management had become sexy, like software in the early 90s. Tekkies and pharmacologists were all over it — the eroticized iPain index was riding high. Pain tients were being treated with off-label potpourris of antidepressants, antipsychos, and antiseizure meds, which alchemized to fake out the nervous system, convincing it that everything was copacetic. Now here he was, one of the gang. The gang that couldn’t shit straight. That’s how fucked up his karma was.

For now, Chess was in Hydrocodone World — the muscle relaxants and anti-inflammatories didn’t really count. It was Vicodin Nation: you could download Vike (swoosh!) RAPsodies to your Nano or have the dope FedEx’d with Vi@gr and V@1ium from weirdass gray zone Internet pharmacies impossible to call back — impenetrably virtual. Flip on the tube and watch real-life addicts score Vs off dying cancer dads on Intervention, or firemen boosting Vs on Rescue Me, or a chick who feeds her habit by multiple pharmacy/doctor-shopping for V s on D V Ds of Six Feet Under. It bled from cable to network: a cancelled NBC meller featured a pill-popping priest (Episcopal — Vicodin, 500 mg), and Fox had an Emmy juggernaut about a cranky, genius MD (Brit playing American — Vicodin ES, 750 mg), each with backstories justifying their reasons to indulge. Like you needed one. It was enough that the key grips, writers, producers, and directors were users, making 10s of millions, buzzed out of their skulls! Well, maybe the grips weren’t making millions but they sure were fuckin happy. Just like the good old coke days. Only now it was legal.

Chronic pain was a serious mindfuck. Chess had panic attacks during the day and broke sweat, claustrophobic in his own body. It’d been less than 2 weeks but already he understood why people killed themselves — nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Weed didn’t even help (maybe a little) and that spooked him because he’d always heard that maryjane killed pain, that’s what the old-time lymphoma Brigadoon hospice brigade was into. It made sense that people turned to magnets and biofeedback and guided-imagery and all manner of fool’s gold voodootoxins but he definitely didn’t want to die like Coretta Scott King in some beachy New Age Tijuana hellhole. Chester Scott King! He watched a segment on 60 Minutes about a lawyer — an attorney! — in New Jersey, an affable dude who’d undergone futile back surgery. The guy wound up moving to Florida and was so wigged about keeping an emergency stash that he took extraordinary measures (who wouldn’t?) but the Feds accused him of hoarding pills with counterfeit subscriptions — and gave him 20 years for trafficking! Where’s Limbaugh’s lawyer when you need him! He refused to plea bargain because it would have been tantamount to a criminal confession plus it’d be harder for him to get meds on the street. The motherfucker was already in a wheelchair, aside from additionally being diagnosed with MS! The irony was that upon incarceration the state had been forced to provide the martyred, hapless junkie with a morphine patch. At least now he was chill, though Chess wondered why the street docs hadn’t done that in the 1st place. (The report didn’t touch on that.) The new prisoner could not believe he had been taken away from his family; his old lady couldn’t even bear to tell their kids that Daddy’d been jailed. 60 Minutes interviewed one of the men who locked him up and it was so scarily obvious the guy didn’t have a clue —he seriously thought that the fucker was dealing! He said there was no way a person could be taking 25 painkillers a day, and Chess knew that was total bullshit. The more he thought about it, the more pissed he became at his “friend.” He was in a hallucinatorture tailspin, all because of Maurice the Jew’s fucked up little stunt.

A lawyer phoned who’d heard about his case. Chess didn’t ask but figured someone on FNF had tipped the guy in exchange for a kickback. (Pretty much how the world worked.) The timing was good because he’d been thinking about getting some advice — giving Marj a jingle to find out who handled his stepdad’s legal shit (he didn’t want to bother Karen Knotts again) — so that was fine and dandy. Actually better, because when he called his mom he didn’t want to be coming from a needy place. Didn’t want her to worry. Just keep it simple and ask for bread. Though maybe now he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he wouldn’t but would anyway.

Chess was surprised when the caller said he had successfully represented “other folks” who’d been cavalierly mistreated (translation: grievously injured) by the unsolicited intrusion of reality shows. “I ain’t talking American Idol either.” He said they were “lower than the lowest tabloids,” and nobody ever had to have PSS therapy or surgery because of something written about them on Page Six. At least not that he knew of. It hadn’t occurred to Chess that an army of maimed, humiliated “contestants” was out there but when he listened to the guy, of course it made total sense. The litigator ran down some of the cases: the guy who was told by bogus airport security that he’d have to lie on the conveyor and pass through the tube along with his briefcase and computer (he got whacked by something inside); the honeymooners in Vegas who checked into their room only to discover a “dead prostitute” in the bathtub. “The newlyweds didn’t think it was so funny. Nor did I.” He went on to insinuate that these people were lavishly compensated for their physical and emotional stress, “made whole, and more so,” and for the 1st time since the Night of the Living Pantwet, Chess began to feel better.

They made an appointment for brunch. (Another “My Favorite Weekend” opportunity, and the meal would be gratis. ) He told Chess to make sure he saved medical receipts and that he ended any contact whatsoever with the producers of Friday Night Frights. Henceforward, he should refer all calls to his representative — if, of course, Chess agreed to the offer, which he did on the spot. That pleased the lawyer, who then asked if the production company had “compensated” him for being on the show. Chess said yes but he hadn’t cashed the check. “That was smart,” he said. “Very smart. Keep it in the drawer for now. My mama always told me to keep it in my drawers!” Adding, “We’re going to be scribbling some zeroes on that 15. A whole lot of em.”