Bad Glass

“Take one now,” she said, fixing me with steady, forceful eyes. She pulled a can of Coke from her bag.

I swallowed one of the pills, chasing it down with a swig of warm soda. She nodded in approval and dug back into her bag.

“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?” she asked. Her voice was clipped and fast, without a trace of emotion. It sounded like she was giving a perfunctory reading from a very familiar script.

“A couple years ago,” I said. Then I smiled. I actually had stepped on a rusty nail for that one.

“Then you’re fine.” She pulled a syringe from her bag and lobbed it into the outgoing mail bin on her desk.

After a moment of thought, she pulled another bottle of pills from her bag and tossed it my way. I grabbed it from the air reflexively and let out a pained hiss as my injured hand clenched shut around the hard plastic. I muttered a curse, then turned the bottle in my steepled fingers. The pharmacy label read “Hydrocodone,” but the word Vicodin was printed underneath in shaky letters. The name of the patient and prescribing doctor had been gouged out of the paper label. “For the pain,” Sharon said with a smile. “It must be screaming like a bitch right about now.”

My eyes darted from the pill bottle back up to her face. She was still smiling, a sly understanding smile. This is how it happens, I told myself. This is where I become indebted to her. It’s one thing to accept antibiotics. Narcotics, on the other hand … that’s a completely different beast.

If I accept these pills, I become complicit.

I moved to return the bottle but stopped with my hand only partly extended. Sharon raised her palm and shook her head, warding me back like a traffic cop. “Don’t worry about it, Dean. Really, it’s nothing. Your hand is injured. It’s messed up pretty bad. I’d feel awful if I didn’t help.”

“What do you want?” I asked, letting out an exhausted sigh. I was too tired to argue. I just didn’t have the strength. “What’s the price?”

“Nothing. This is a community service, an act of fellowship. Hershel out there would call it a mitzvah.” She nodded toward the kitchen, and I guessed she was referring to the rail-thin man working at the griddle. “We’re in a dangerous situation here, and we all have to look out for each other. Am I right?”

I nodded in wary agreement. Then I waited for the other shoe to drop, for her mercenary intentions to become clear. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Although,” she said, that sly smile returning to her lips, “if it’s not too much of a problem, there is an errand you could run for me. A simple errand. Actually, it’s something you might enjoy, something you might find … illuminating.”

And with that, her smile widened.

Sharon put new bandages on my hand. She dug antiseptic and clean gauze from the depths of her bag, then cleaned and dressed my wounds, going about the task with the care and competence of a trained nurse. Every now and then, she glanced up and gave me a reassuring smile. It was the smile of a confident mother. A saint. A perfect, loving angel.

And it bothered me.

The way this was going, I couldn’t tell if she was trying to fuck me or trying to tuck me in for the night.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I pulled my hand out of her grip. “Don’t you think this whole thing is incredibly crass? What you’re doing here, to these people?” I nodded out toward the crowded restaurant. “You’re taking advantage of the situation. You’re gaining profit and power from these people’s misery.”

Sharon sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly alone in that boat, now, am I, Dean?” She seemed exasperated by the accusation but not surprised, as if she’d been waiting for this, as if she’d seen it coming. “Think about it. Think about what you’re doing here. You’re not coming into this situation as a scientist or a policeman; you’re here as a photographer, a journalist.” She nodded toward my camera bag, and I fought the urge to push it back behind my chair, out of sight. “You’re not looking for a fix or a cure. You’re not invested in the situation; you don’t have family to protect, or even property. And you’re certainly not trying to save lives. No, what you’re doing … you’re looking for the next cool shot. You’re looking for fame. Your own special kind of fame.”