Different Circles

It took Jake a little longer than normal to shower as he was hampered by being unable to use his dominant hand. It proved impossible to get dressed using only his left hand, so he had to call Laura into the tiny, cramped shower room to assist him with buttoning and zipping his pants and putting on his belt. And then, once she was finished showering and dressing, she had to help him put on his shoes and socks as well.

“Are you going to be able to fly tomorrow?” Pauline asked as she watched all of this.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he replied.

A driver in one of the smaller limousines picked them up five minutes later and they headed back to Las Vegas.

“Do you want a drink, sweetie?” Laura asked him.

“I’d love one, but I’ll pass for now,” he replied. “I don’t want to go into the ER smelling like booze.”

“I’m sure they’re used to it in there,” she suggested.

“True, but I’ll pass just the same.”

They were taken to Mountainview Hospital, a new facility that had only been open a few months. Jake noted there were several Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department patrol cars parked in the parking lot as he and Laura made their way from the limo to the ED entrance but did not think too much about it. Police cars in an ER parking lot were a pretty normal thing. They went in the door and found the waiting room was all but empty.

“Thank God this happened on a Sunday,” Laura said.

“Yep,” Jake agreed.

They followed the signs to the registration desks, where a young, cute woman in her early twenties was sitting at a computer terminal behind a layer of bulletproof glass. She gave them a professional smile and asked if Jake was here to check into the emergency room.

No, I’m here for you to suck my dick, Jake thought in irritation at the blindingly obvious enquiry. Why the fuck else would I be walking up to your desk which is labeled: Emergency Department Check-In?

He kept his thought to himself, however, and politely agreed that yes, he was here to check into the emergency room.

“And what is the problem today?” she asked.

“I have an injury to my hand,” he said, showing her his swollen and discolored extremity.

“I see,” she said, looking at it without expression. “And your name?”

He gave her his name. As soon as she heard it, she looked up at his face, seeing it for the first time. “The Jake Kingsley?” she asked, seemingly in awe.

“That’s right,” he said. “The Jake Kingsley.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “You must be the one who...” she stopped, seemingly catching herself. “Never mind. Almost did a HIPAA violation there. Your date of birth?”

“March 7, 1960,” he said.

She quickly checked him in and then told him to have a seat in the waiting room and that the triage nurse would be with him shortly. They barely had time to sit down before a door was opened and a chunky middle-aged woman dressed in blue scrubs called out his name. He and Laura entered the little room and took seats where directed. The woman who had called them in had on a name badge that identified her as Annabelle Simmons, RN. Her face had the cynical, seen-it-all pose that Jake associated with long-term police officers. She had a clipboard with a complex, preprinted sheet upon it. At the top of the sheet was the word: TRIAGE ASSESSMENT in bold letters.

“Tell me why you’re here tonight, Mr. Kingsley,” she said.

“I injured my hand,” he said, showing her the extremity.

She looked at it for a moment, neither impressed or unimpressed with it. “Yep,” she agreed. “It certainly looks like you did. What happened?”

“I was uh ... well, in a bit of a scuffle with some people earlier today,” he said. “I punched one of them in the face. I think I might have a broken hand.”

“I see,” she said. “And what time did this happen?”

“Around seven-thirty,” he said.

“Seven-thirty this evening?”

“Seven-thirty this morning,” he corrected.

She raised her brows a bit. “Why did you wait so long to come in?” she asked.

“Well ... I’m a musician and I had to perform at the Tsunami Sound Festival tonight. Not going onstage was not an option. In fact, I think my performing is part of the problem. I did a sixty-five-minute set playing guitar up there and that’s when it really started to throb and swell. My punching hand is also my strumming and picking hand, you see.”

Her eyes looked at him, a certain understanding suddenly appearing there. “You’re the Jake Kingsley,” she said. “The musician.”

“That’s right,” he said. “This is my wife, Laura. She’s a musician too.”

Her eyes shifted over to Laura for a moment, looking her up and down. “I see,” she said. “And was a police report made about this incident you were involved in?”

“Not by me,” Jake replied.

“Do you wish to make one?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said.