I lie back on the table, pants hung over a chair in the corner, and he puts on his gloves. I have known him for years, sometimes medical, sometimes social. His name is Jack. There is a poster reproduction of a Picasso on the wall and I look at it as he puts his goggles on. In the painting a fellow lies in perfect repose while a flame explodes out of a candle next to him. The flame is narrow and tapered at the ends and with a wide and inviting opening in the center of it like it's something to fuck. On the other wall is an abstract monstrosity that when stared at long enough looks like a small red cow about to be sacrificed.
Jack lifts my package tenderly and moves it to one side and then the other all the while looking closely with his goggles on. He holds a small flashlight and I am reminded of a mechanic I once knew years back in the place I lived before moving here. I wonder what ever happened to that mechanic. He was good to my car. There wasn't a thing he could not fix, not a problem he could not solve. He was old and is probably dead by now. Almost certainly dead.
He leans his face up close and now I am looking at the top of his head, can see the pattern of his transplant, the plugs all lined up perfectly in neat rows like houses in a new development. He puts his face in even closer and I lean back and close my eyes. It is as if I am no longer the patient, my penis is, and I no longer exist. They keep looking at one another and he begins to whistle a popular tune and I can almost feel his breath on me down there. He squints and says, While we have you here we might as well knock this out of the way, and he pushes me to my side and the patient's one eye winks at him when I draw my legs up tight to my chest and he goes in with several fingers. He catches what comes out of the eye on a glass slide, a little dew drop of liquid. Just a formality, I'm sure, says he and a busty nurse with a face as blank as a hole appears, takes the slide and leaves, comes back, draws blood from my arm and leaves again, all the while I still lie with my knees touching my chest. It feels as if something is still inside of me even though I know that is not the case.
Infection, he says with finality after stripping off the gloves. What have you been doing down there?
The usual, I say. Just scratching lately.
Come now. Come clean, he says while rubbing his hands together vigorously under the faucet. Any oils? he asks Have you been putting oils down there? I suspect oils. This stinks to high heaven of oil. He lifts the goggles and swings around to face me.
There was that one time, I say, that she and I used some oil. Olive, I think. It was all I had. Things were getting kind of raw so I made a move to the pantry. The asshole was being offered and there was no way I was saying no. There was no getting around it, Jack.
There you have it, he says. All in a nutshell. You abused oil. So, did you like my nurse? he asks.
That one that just left? Her? There were a couple of things I liked about her actually. Big things.
Don't get any ideas, he says. Strike your head clear. That's my cousin from Sweden. Very religious. Wants to be a movie star. Can you make a call?
She acts?
As if that makes a difference. Just help me out on this. She's a horrible nurse. I need to do something with her. My wife wants her out of the house, it's chilling the way they look at each other, and my teenage son, well, you can imagine what he wants. Caught him in a tree out back staring into her window the other day, the little dreamer. If I was a spot more nimble I'd have climbed up and joined him. Instead I had to settle for a Polaroid. Interested?
It is an excellent picture. The nurse, white skirt only, arms raised and hands behind her head unpinning her blonde hair, several wisps falling down over her blank face, eyes almost closed, mouth opened not sensually but more in a stunned gesture, the two stars of the program thrusting out from her like independent beings, full of life, beaming.
Nice, eh?
I'll get her in to see somebody. One phone call. That's as far as I'll go.
Good, he says, stuffing the photo down the front of his pants. That's settled then. I was afraid you'd hold out for video. Now get this filled and pay up front, he says, handing me a piece of paper that is already filled out with pen markings and is crumpled as if he has been carrying it around in his pocket for weeks. By the by, you're looking mighty fit. Dumped a few pounds, I see. Any tips? He pats both his hands on his belly.
No more bread. I took your advice and gave it up completely. I am completely starch free.
Good job. Wish I could do it.
You mean you aren't? You're the one who told me to give it all up.
I did? Hey, the doctor's kids always go sick. Or is it the cobbler's kid lost his shoes? Along those lines, anyway. It's like someone has taken a drill and bore holes through my memory, can't remember a damn thing. No getting around it.
My friend, he says when I am walking out the door.
I turn and say, Yes?
Nothing, he says. I had a thought but it just went.
I get the prescription filled and even though the swelling goes down and the skin is no longer purple, the hair does not come back and quite to the contrary it all completely falls out, leaving me bald down there and on my legs and soon my chest as well and the dizziness I feel when standing too suddenly clings to me for minutes at a time. And whatever it is completes fully its northward migration and settles into my scalp and now I walk around the house with both my hands holding my head like a madman of some sort and it can only be a matter of time before my pate is bare as the black hairs have already begun to pry themselves loose while I sleep and gather in a clump to greet me mornings on my pillow.
I stay inside and even avoid the yard as the skies have opened wide for a week now and the television says houses are slipping as foundations crumble and roads are washing away and all there is out there is mud and nothing else.
I stand naked before a mirror and my penis looks like a Count without his cloak.
The doorbell.
Hey, I say to the wet soaking thing at the door holding court under a huge green umbrella that hardly protects her as the wind is blowing the rain almost parallel to the ground. Hey, Sage. How goes it?
Notice that you're naked? she says, sitting, dripping, water pooling onto the floor under the chair and I genuflect before her and pull off the boots and she is wearing no socks, her toes painted red. Her skirt is long and thin and I hope she doesn't catch cold with only a tee-shirt on and why the hell did her mother send her out without socks and a slicker?
Look closely, I say pointing.
My god, what happened to you? Your bush? Oh shit. You look dead already.
Thanks. You are looking nice though. Lovely as usual. What's the weather like outside?
Why are you naked? Is somebody here?
I've been slightly ill. How is school going? Making friends? Ninth grade is it? Or tenth now?
Blow me, asshole, she says and stands and puts her hands on my shoulders and swings her head and her wet hair whips me across the face and I stand and she falls into me and I fall into her and once the blurry in my head stops I carry her, so long, such a tall thing, her feet hitting the doorway and set her on the bed and pull off her shirt and dry her with a towel around the nipples, so cold they're purple, and pull the skirt down and get to work with the towel.
Why haven't you called? she whispers. I miss you.
Look at me, I say. Just look and you tell me.
Chunky, she says and touches my dick, touches with a single finger, and he begins blowing himself up, coming up from a bent at the waist bow and beginning to stand. Tell him to calm down, not to get his hopes too high. I'm mad at you still.
Come on.
Look at you. Hairless. You decide everything and then when I try to call you never answer the phone. You are such an asshole.
You came in the rain, I say. You came to see me in the rain. The least you can is blow me.
Asshole, she says and lowers her head and takes him in her mouth and he rises and fills and one two three one two three one two three like a series of mini-strokes the poor bastard suffers and empties and slumps dead and she brings her face up and I say, Have you been eating tapioca again; what did I say about all those extra calories? She brings her mouth to mine and I taste myself, not tapioca at all.
I dress slowly and she comes in and helps, puts on my shoes for me and ties them while I lay back on the bed and she has a look a worried look, a concerned look, I see a tear, yes I do and I pull her down fast on me and do kiss her once between her where her long legs come together but then go black.
And somehow then we go out into the rain, it actually making my face feel better, cooling it and I lean on her as we struggle together down the driveway arm in arm we get into the Rover and she drives down the hill much too fast and passes other cars, some stalled and stuck in the sludge tearing loose from the hills and it reminds me of the sanitation facility I used to work at in college the county dump and it stunk like death and rotten fruit and I vomited everyday until I finally got used to the smell and it didn't matter anymore what it smelled like because we adjust to whatever gets handed to us. And we pull up at the side door of Cedars with me slumped low and both my hands all over my skin tearing at it as it is now a full-blown enemy with war declared and my breath thinking maybe it can take a breather and run out on me and she Sage runs in and soon I am being laid down and carried out.
Do something, okay? Sage says to the medics and pops her gum and I hear it in the dark as they wheel me away. He really looks crummy. He doesn't usually look like this. He's pretty handsome in real life.
Don't worry, a nurse says. You just sit over there and as soon as we know how your father is we'll let you know. Will your mother be coming down? Sage cackles and even I have to smile under the mask but it's like the skin is so tight on my face it's ready to rip. God she is fucking cute.
Prednisone antihistamines adrenalin valium sleep.
During the night Sage is sitting at my bedside and a dark fellow with shiny black hair hovers over me and I lay staring up and he asks, So, small questions which we will make fast. Shall your daughter please take leave, thank you very much?
She can stay.
Okay sir, but they are of personal nature these questions. Embarrassing to some.
Shoot.
Okay. I start. Do you like the boys or do you like the girls?
Huh?
The boys or the girls? Do you like one or the other? Or maybe both. Some they like both the boy and the girl.
Girls. I like the girls. Very much. Maybe a boy one time on a train. You can never really be too sure what with hairstyles and all.
Good thank you. Do you like the prostitute?
Which prostitute?
The prostitute. Do you like the prostitute?
Sometimes I like her.
Okay yes. Very good. Do you like her with a condom or do you like her without?
Without.
You sure your daughter shall stay? Okay indeed we shall continue. Do you like the drugs? he asks and I show him my arms, the faint stab of pinpricks even now visible under the rash.
Ah. Yes. Very good then. Not so good the answer yes but good to answer honestly. Is this perhaps an addict that you are?
I'm not addicted to anything. Just a chipper. A real gift, I guess.
Ah. Maybe not a gift. What you call a chipper can sometimes become an addict. Not all water goes over the back of a duck.
Right.
And so to continue, are you sharing perhaps with the needle?
It isn't what you think it is, I say. Not the virus. I had a test. Recently. Negative.
Ah. Very good then, thank you yes indeed for that information. Still. The blood we will still check. New viruses every day. Many many new strains. They come first one and then the next.
Can't you give him something to rub on his skin, Sage says, to take away the burning? Maybe get some of his, you know, hair to come back?
Ah. Good question your daughter does ask. Problem not with the skin. Problem somewhere else. Your skin like this means something inside of you, maybe blood or we shall see, something wrong inside. We check. Very good then. You rest. The heart is monitored and put the mask here on your face like so when the breathing difficult. The medicines will bring down the skin and swelling so you can be good on the outside of yourself then we start on the inside. If this we do correct the hair and all will return to take its place. Now rest.
The lights behind his head are bright and vibrating and I lay back and close my eyes and wonder what next. What next. Next.
He leaves and I close my eyes and begin to sleep again for I don't know how long and then the sheets rustle and I feel myself being pushed over and Sage squeezes in next to me. I try to turn to face her but can't because of the IV and the heart monitor so she gets out and pads to the other side of the bed and climbs in again, this time resting in the crook of my body, leaning back perfectly nestled against me, cuddling like a puppy frightened by the rain. I hold her tightly and listen to her breathing, feel the rise and fall of it. What next. That, I hope. Or maybe this.
Tom Bonfiglio's stories have appeared or are forthcoming in over a dozen publications, including Fiction, Northwest Review, The Florida Review, Lake Effect, The Literary Review, Wag's Revue, Mixer and Fringe Magazine. He won the Robert C. Martindale Prize in Long Fiction, and has received Special Mention in the Pushcart Prizes: Best of the Small Presses. He lives in Paradise Valley, Arizona.