Different Circles

“Uh ... well ... I’m not really sure,” she said. “If I make a good reduction and the splint is applied correctly, you will have some basic movement and function of the distal joints of your fingers, but no grasping ability. Will you be able to operate the controls of your plane under those circumstances?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“I would strongly suggest that if you have any doubt whatsoever, that you refrain from flying until you have full use of the appendage again.”

“I understand, doc,” he said. “Trust me, if I don’t think it’s safe, I won’t do it.”

Dr. Wei looked a little dubious about this but said nothing. “Let me make an examination of the hand,” she said.

Jake showed it to her, and she seemed impressed. “It is extremely swollen,” she said. “This was just from one punch?”

“Well ... only one punch, but I probably did not help things by playing out my set after it happened.”

“Your set?” She was unfamiliar with this term.

“I was at the Tsunami Sound Festival,” he explained.

“Ahh yes,” she said. “We’ve had a number of people come in here from there this weekend. The nurses tell me that you were one of the musicians playing there tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said, realizing that the doctor had no idea who he was—even after being told. “Laura and I—Laura here is my wife, by the way—we both played last night and tonight. It was a sixty-five-minute set and on every number I played the guitar with this hurt hand. It started to hurt more and more as the night went on.”

This time her expression became something that almost looked like respect. “You played guitar for sixty-five minutes with his injury?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s right,” he said.

“We’re you taking any analgesic medications? Opioids, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to get opioids. Wouldn’t want them even if I could get them. I just took Motrin and Tylenol,” he said. “That helped a little—at first anyway.”

“Wow,” she whispered as she palpated his hand gently. “That is probably how the fractures ended up so displaced. Going out to play after this injury was not a very good idea.”

“I had to,” Jake said.

“You had to?”

“The show must go on,” he said simply, the way she would have said ‘brain perfusion is life’.

“Even when it is detrimental to your health?” she asked.

“I didn’t know it was going to be that detrimental,” Jake said. “But even if I had, a whole bunch of people paid good money to see me there tonight and there would have been wide-reaching repercussions if I had not been able to play, not to mention that I would have been out more than half a million dollars.”

She raised her eyebrows a bit at this. “They paid you half a million dollars just to play your guitar?”

“And sing,” he said. “And it was actually six hundred thousand ... per show.”

“Per show?” She shook her head. “I think maybe I picked the wrong profession.”

“Trust me, doc, I paid some serious dues to get where I am. And besides, I don’t get to keep all the money. I have to pay my band members and my road crew and my sound people and, of course, the good old IRS and state franchise tax board.”

“Interesting,” she said, finally releasing his hand. “Are you injured anywhere else? I see you have that swelling on your face. Is that from the same incident?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got tackled and punched by a guy who was about the size of a refrigerator/freezer combo you might have in your kitchen. He tagged me in the face and a couple of times in the ribs.”

She examined his face and then his ribs. She told him she was going to order x-rays of the ribs and a CT scan of his facial bones and brain. She then asked him if he would like some pain medication.

“I’ll pass on that,” he said.

“Are you sure?” she enquired. “It’s going to be a little while before we’re able to do the sedation and reduction. A little Demerol will take the edge off for you and get you more comfortable.”

“I’m cool, doc,” he said. “A good friend of mine started taking that Demerol shit once. It didn’t work out too well for him in the end.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Well ... let one of the nurses know if you change your mind. I’m going to put these orders in and we’ll hopefully get you out of here in a few hours.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said.

She left the room. The little stool she had sat her butt on did not even have a chance to return to room temperature before the door opened again. This time it was a uniformed Las Vegas Metropolitan police officer. He was tall, looked to be in good shape, sported a mustache, and had a reasonably friendly expression on his face. He carried a metal clipboard in his left hand. He introduced himself as Officer Levitt and asked if he could come in and have a few words.

“Sure, why not?” Jake replied.