James Hynes - Next

I should’ve rented a car, Kevin thinks. Even if all he’d done was drive it from the airport and back again, at the very least it would have kept him off the streets, where he has been lured by nostalgia and middle-aged lust into the labyrinth of a strange city, accosted by homeless men, tripped by a dog, condescended to by a surgeon. Right now, though, he’d settle for a place to sit down. The wide-open sky hammers the cartoon colors of the fast food franchises up ahead — Schlotzsky’s, Taco Bell, Jack in the Box — their bright colors simultaneously blanched by the sun and deepened by the tint of Kevin’s glasses. A low, stucco restaurant with a big pink sign that says TACO CABANA wafts a spicy, greasy aroma across all six lanes of Lamar, but Kevin’s still too hot, shaky, and pissed off to think about food. The racket of the birds taunts him. What he needs more than a meal right now is a bench, but along the sidewalk up ahead all he sees is a NO PARKING sign and the great big red and green Schlotzsky’s sign — but no bus stop, and no bench.

“Goddammit,” he says out loud, slapping the soles of his shoes against the pavement, as flat-footed as Willie Loman. “Mother fucker, ” he adds for good measure, aware that he’s trudging even further away from where he’s supposed to be in a few hours. There’s a hill up ahead covered with trees, which means that thanks to Dr. Barrientos’s bum directions, he’s heading into residential Austin and away from downtown. He’s off the map, into terra incognita. Here there be Schlotzsky’s.

Where, it occurs to him, at least I can sit and cool off and collect myself, have a glass of iced tea. Where maybe I can lock myself in the restroom and wash my face, maybe even take off my shirt and sponge-bathe myself in the sink with paper towels. He hobbles toward the Schlotzsky’s sign, the angry rush of traffic on his left, the inhuman rattle of the birds on his right. Then up ahead he sees a bus stop sign and a bench. Kevin stops at the edge of Schlotzsky’s parking lot, trying to decide whether to go into the restaurant or wait for the bus. The vast, heatstruck Texas sky throbbing overhead, birds screaming in his ear, Kevin feels like he’s slowly melting into a puddle on the concrete. But before he can make his move one way or the other — bus stop or Schlotzsky’s — a glossy red wall of vehicle heaves to a stop right in front of him. Kevin’s too tired and lightheaded to jump back, so he just sways on his feet and blinks in alarm at the long, thin, red reflection of himself in the vast passenger door of the truck. He sees his own round, Irish-Polish peasant face in the tinted window, with the dark lenses of his sunglasses where his eyes ought to be. He looks like a ghost from a Japanese horror film. Then his image is decapitated as the window whirs down.

Saints preserve us, thinks Kevin, it’s Dr. Barrientos!

“Hey.” She gestures at him out of the tinted dusk of the truck’s cab. “I think you dropped this.”

She’s holding something pale in his direction, pinched between her fingers. Kevin blinks, sways, then steps forward, lifting his glasses onto his forehead to peer into the gloom of the cab. She’s holding his invitation letter for the job interview. He reaches slowly into the cool air blowing out the window, hears the sibilant roar of the AC ducts, and takes the letter from her gingerly, as if she might snatch it back at any moment.

“Thanks.” He roughly folds the letter into quarters and wedges it with some difficulty into the breast pocket of his shirt, crumpling the bandage she gave him.

“Would you like a ride?” says the doctor, but Kevin has suddenly swung his jacket off his arm and thrust his fingers into the inside pocket. What else has he dropped along the way? His fingers find his notebook, his boarding pass, but where are his sunglasses?

“Would you like a ride?” she says again, raising her voice. Her truck idles, a big, purring cat. “I can drop you off on South Lamar somewhere.”

Kevin just gawps at her, so she enunciates more slowly. “There are a couple of department stores I can take you to.”

But he’s not listening, he’s digging fruitlessly in every pocket of his jacket. He looks up at her. “You didn’t happen to find my sunglasses?”

Out of the gloom of her truck she says, “They’re on your head.”

Kevin pats his hot forehead, fingers the lenses like a blind man.

“Get in,” says Dr. Barrientos. “Out of the heat.”

Kevin doesn’t remember climbing into the truck, but next thing he knows he’s sitting in a padded leather bucket seat while the truck idles in Schlotzsky’s parking lot. The AC blasts in his face. Beyond the little park with the limp trees he sees the glitter of cars backed up on the bridge. Even through the closed windows and the rush of the AC, he can still hear the birds chattering in the trees. The sun shines at a steep angle through the windshield, a sharp line of light falling across his wrists. His jacket is folded on his lap, he’s holding another cold bottle of water, and Dr. Barrientos’s warm palm is pressed against his sweating forehead.

“Drink it slowly,” she says. “Just a sip at a time.”

He drinks. The water freezes his sinuses.

“How’s your blood pressure?” She turns his left arm palm up and presses two fingers firmly against his wrist.

“My blood pressure? How would I know?” You’re the doctor, he almost says.

“I mean generally, not right this minute.”

He drinks again. The cold is blinding. “Good,” he gasps.

She presses her knuckles lightly against his temple again. “Were you dizzy or nauseous before you passed out on the bridge?”

“No.”

“Good.” She rests her hand on his upper arm.

“And I didn’t pass out,” Kevin says, slightly annoyed now. “That guy’s dog tripped me.”

“So you didn’t feel lightheaded or…”

“No.” He lifts the bottle. “I’m fine. Really.”

The doctor cocks her head as if she’s considering his truthfulness. He can smell sweat, though he can’t tell if it’s hers or his or some commingling of both.

“Aren’t I?”

She nods. “I think you’re probably okay.”

“Probably?”

Her hand shifts on his arm. “I was a little worried when I saw you just now, but your pulse isn’t racing, and you’re still sweating freely, so you’re not presenting with heatstroke.”

“Glad to hear it.” Some bedside manner she’s got, Dr. Barrientos. But then she’s a surgeon: most of her patients are probably unconscious when she sees them, so she doesn’t really need a bedside manner.

“Look, I shouldn’t have left you so quickly back there,” she says. “I’m sorry if I was abrupt.” The way she’s composed her face tells Kevin that apologies don’t come easy to her, but that she has disciplined herself to make them when necessary. He is appropriately appeased that she’s taking the trouble for him.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, ever the midwesterner.

“For what?”

“For assuming you were a nurse. I mean, this day and age, I should know better.”

She gestures dismissively and looks out the windshield. She has made up her mind to be nice, and nothing, evidently, will deter Dr. Barrientos after she’s made up her mind. She has that in common with Stella.

“That wasn’t about you,” she says. “That was about something else.” She gives him another surprising, sidelong smile, only instead of knowing, now she looks rueful.

“Well, I’m sorry anyway.”

She nods and puts the truck in gear. “You’re not heatstroked,” she says, checking her mirrors, “but I’d feel better if you’d just sit and drink your water and let me drop you off someplace where you can buy another pair of trousers. Okay?”