The Librarianist

The stern paramedic decided to ignore the young man in the safety vest and occupied himself strapping Bob — panting, now, pain fading — onto the gurney. The gurney was raised up and Bob was wheeled from the house and to the ambulance waiting at the curb. The paramedics readied the rear of the ambulance to receive Bob’s person; the young man in the safety vest, meanwhile, had reappeared and was proffering a business card. Bob, arms bound, said, “Put it in my mouth.” He was embarrassed by the noise he’d made, and now was trying to reclaim a lighthearted attitude; but the young man didn’t understand that Bob was joking. “How about I tuck it into your shirt pocket?” he said, and he did this. Bob was loaded into the ambulance. “Good luck, Mr. Comet,” said the young man in the safety vest, and he waved as the ambulance pulled away from the curb.

BOB WAS TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL AND GIVEN A LARGE INJECTION of Demerol, his first of many. The break in his hip was complete, the bone cleanly halved, and it x-rayed beautifully and doctors and nurses and orderlies came from all around to look at it and whistle and shiver. No one could say it wasn’t a nasty injury, and yet there was no damage to his spine, and a full recovery was expected. His middle was set in plaster, like an enormous stone diaper, with one tube coming out the front and another out the back. He was installed in a sunlit room with two remotes, one for his bed, and another for the television. A nurse came in and explained about the drip. “See this button? Whenever you feel pain, or if you’re bored, press it.”

“And then what?”

“And then blastoff. You want a hot chocolate?”

With the button his constant companion, Bob settled into his temporary hospital existence. After decades of rejecting the television medium he experienced a period of not just watching TV, but watching with enthusiastic interest. All his life he had believed the real world was the world of books; it was here that mankind’s finest inclinations were represented. And this must have been true at some point in history, but now he understood the species had devolved and that this shrill, base, banal potpourri of humanity’s worst and weakest and laziest desires and behaviors was the document of the time. It was about volume and visual overload and it pinned Bob to his bed like a cat before a strobe light. One woozy morning he found the business card the young man in the safety vest had given him. At the bottom of the card it read: Questions? Comments? Complaints? These words were followed by an 800 number, and he had his nurse dial for him. A female voice answered and Bob launched into a muddled speech celebrating the character of the young man who had been so helpful and empathetic. After a while the woman cut him off.

“Sir? What is your complaint?”

“I have no complaint. I’m calling to praise your outfit. Because you hired a winner in this person. I wish I could remember his name. Actually, no, I don’t think he ever told me. What if I were to describe him?”

“Are you a customer of ours?”

“Potentially I am.”

“Well, I’m not in sales. Do you want me to transfer you?”

“Not really.”

“Then I’ll wish you a good day, sir.”

“Oh, good day to you,” said Bob, and he handed the phone back to the nurse, flush with the belief he’d done the young man a good turn. Later that same day, Bob woke up from a nap to find Linus Webster pacing at the foot of the bed in his electronic wheelchair. The bed was on its tallest setting and so Bob could only see the beret and the bloodshot eyes. Linus wheeled around to Bob’s side. “How do you feel, buddy?”

“How do I look?”

“You look pretty fucked-up, Bob. But then, so do I, and I feel great. So: How do you feel?”

“Sometimes good, sometimes less good. How’s the gang?”

“Oh, you know. Old, weird. Maria wrote you a letter.” He held this up and set it on the table beside the bed. He spied the drip button and his eyes became wide. “They’ve got you on a drip? What are they giving you?”

“Demerol.”

“Demerol? That’s cute.” He was unimpressed.

Bob told him, “I have nothing bad to say about Demerol.”

“Sure. I mean, you know. It’ll do. Want me to hit your button for you?” Before Bob could answer that he didn’t want him to, Linus was hitting the button insistently with his huge red thumb. “Every day with an opioid drip is a gift, Bob, and you’ve got to take full advantage of it. You’ll be out in the shitty cold of the shitty world soon enough, trust me, I know.”