One Foot on the Third Rail (and One on a Banana Peel)
It's funny how you know it when you're hallucinating.
Or maybe not.
Fluffy orange spiders had been dripping off of the texture painted ceiling all night. Usually, they scuttled off the edge of the bed as soon as they hit the comforter. If they got too close, Danny would point his finger, cock his thumb, and fire. Then they'd explode into purple, pink and yellow Styrofoam peanuts. Or maybe, it was the heavy drops of rain, colored orange by the streetlight, plopping off of the eaves outside. Spiders. Orange rain. Hard to tell the difference.
Danny and the cold remedy weren't getting along.
He'd been aching and dragging ass all day. They'd gotten a tip that Terreforte was over at his mother's house, and gone to check it out. They had to stand outside in the drizzle getting soaked, while she called them 99 kinds of a son of a bitch through the screen, and then accused them of harassment. The least she could have done was invited them in.
The words 99 kinds of son-of-a-bitch boogied through Danny's restless mind, and then looped around: 99 kinds of son-of-a-bitch, 99 kinds of bitch. It didn't make sense, but it had a good beat, and you could've danced to it.
After leaving Mrs. Terreforte, Danny had switched on the Camaro's heater, and turned it up.
"You okay?" McGarrett had said. "You look a little pale."
"Just a chill. Probably catching Gracie's cold."
"Kids," McGarrett said. "Disease vectors on two legs."
"Watch it! My kid is perfect. It's her snot-nosed friends that are two-legged…whatever-you-saids."
"Did you get a flu shot?"
"When have I had time to get a flu shot? It's just a cold."
"Well, watch it, there's some nasty twenty-four hour thing going around; half of Internal Affairs is out."
"Good. I hope they die."
"Play nice. Want to hit Patterson's after work?"
"Not tonight, honey, I have a headache."
"Whoa! You must really be coming down with something."
By the end of the day there'd been no doubt of it.
When he pulled to a stop in front of his apartment, his head was pounding, and chills were rolling through his body in waves.
Dialing up the thermostat didn't help; the draft just made him shake harder.
He absorbed a beer, thought about dinner, and passed on cooking; there was nothing in the fridge, anyway, but a pack of Ballpark franks. That left carryout, but even the thought of the smell of pizza was revolting, and Chinese was almost as bad. He was so tired, and so achy, and there was so nothing on the television, and the screen was annoyingly bright. The only thing to do was take his head to bed and try to sleep it off.
He checked the medicine cabinet. There was still some of the cherry-flavored decongestant Rachel had given him for Gracie to take, but barely a couple of tablespoons. He chugged it, on the theory that it couldn't hurt. Then he noticed there was a green box with some packets of over the counter cold stuff. He didn't remember buying it, but the picture on it promised a hot, soothing, lemony flavored beverage that would cure the Black Plague overnight.
He fixed a cup, but it didn't taste very strong, so he added another packet. The heat felt good going down. By then he was starting to a little sleepy, so he pulled out the bed and crawled in. The stuff was magic. In a few minutes he was passed-out asleep.
A gunshot blasted him from sweet oblivion. Attack! Attack! Man down! He hurled himself across the bed, groping uselessly in the sheets for his weapon. There was another bang! And then the deep rumble of a revving engine and the squeal of tires reminded him that it was the idiot two doors down, leaving for work. It must be close to morning.
He lay sideways across the mattress, wide awake, shivering, and panting, from the adrenalin surge. That jerk was getting a ticket; no more Mr. Nice Guy. But, right then, his head was pounding too badly to even think about anything but making it stop. He dragged himself out of bed, and fixed another cup of that wonderful lemon stuff. Then, because it was so nice and hot, and lemony, he fixed himself another.
It didn't have the same soporific effect this time, almost the opposite, in fact. But what it did it do was push the chills and aches further away. In fact, it pushed everything so far away, so that he felt like he was floating, and wasn't particularly discombobulated when the spiders started falling off the ceiling. Cute spiders, too. Too bad he had to shoot so many of them.
A car door slammed. Somebody else was going to work; maybe he should think about getting up, too. But a cop who's hallucinating orange spiders in bed should probably not be walking armed among the general public; he called headquarters, and left a message on the sick-line; he called McGarrett, and left a message on his voice mail, apologizing. Then, having done the responsible thing, he went to shooting spiders, and trying to sleep.
No luck.
He made to the bathroom just in time and, when the spasm was over, sat on the cold tiles with the spiders skittering companionably around him. You wouldn't think a man who hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, except a chicken salad sandwich, three dill spears, a bag of wasabi flavored potato chips, eight mini powdered sugar doughnuts, and two beers, would have that much in his stomach. He stayed on the floor until he was pretty sure that it was safe to crawl back to bed.
He made it the second time, too. But this time he just threw up a lot of acrid bile, retching until his stomach had tied itself in knots. Afterward, he rinsed his mouth, and took the plastic lined wastebasket back to bed with him.
He was able to drowse for a bit, and it was just too bad he missed the wastebasket a few times after that.
At some point, he must have fallen asleep, because he was dreaming that the kitchenette light was on, and Steve McGarrett was sitting in the arm chair with his bare feet on the foot of the bed.
"Hey!" Danny said.
"You know it's really noisy around here. How do you sleep?"
Neat. His dream bitched just like McGarrett, too.
Danny smiled at it, and said, "Sexy toes!"
"Sexy toes?"
"You have the sexiest toes I've ever seen. I tell you?"
"No."
It was a nice dream. Except that somewhere, probably the jerk next door's apartment, Roger Daltry was going, 'Mama's got a squeezebox she wears on her chest…' Which reminded Danny of something he'd been meaning to say.
"You have the cutest ass. Makes me wanna grab it, and squeeze..."
"You've never mentioned either of those things to me before."
"There's a spider," Danny said.
McGarrett sat up abruptly. "Where?"
"Playing the accordion on your knee. Brush him off or shoot him. They don't mind."
Danny started to get up.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm thirsty. Going to fix some of that…Thera…whatever…uh-oh, dizzy…"
"Lie down; I'll get it."
"Thank you." Danny lay back down and watched McGarrett read the green box, and chuck it in the trash. He watched McGarrett poke around in his cupboard, and put a pan of water on the stove.
…She goes, squeeze me, come on and squeeze me
Come on and tease me like you do
I'm so in love with you…
It was agreeable, having a McGarrett puttering about in the kitchenette.
"You're the sweetest little jellybean I ever seen."
"Thank you. I guess."
"Can I keep you?"
"We'll see. In the meantime, try to drink some of this."
McGarrett presented him with a spicy smelling mug.
"What is it?"
"Constant Comment. You don't have any herbal tea."
"I should hope I don't. Why would I...whoa…" Suddenly, Danny was leaning over the edge of the mattress, vomiting his guts up again.
McGarrett held the wastebasket, and rubbed his back until it was certain that nothing else was coming up.
"How long has that been going on?"
"How should I know? All day, all night…Ow!" McGarrett had pinched the back of his hand. Danny rolled over, and curled up in a whimpering ball. "What'd you do that for? That was mean. Go away. Go hallucinate somewhere else."
"I'm going. I'll be back in a few minutes, but you have to promise not to shoot any spiders while I'm gone."
"Spiders are my friends," Danny said, and shot three of them that had gotten too close. "You're not my friend."
Nonetheless, he felt sad when McGarrett was gone.
The spiders tried to cheer him by covering the best of Harry Bellefonte; he wished he could just stop crying…
There was a hand tugging on his shoulder and it was having an unfortunate ripple effect on his stomach.
"Don't do that!"
"Come on, Danno; wake up."
"McGarrett? What are you doing here? How'd you get in?"
"Through the door. Drink this."
Suddenly thirsty, Danny groped for the glass.
"Gimme…"
"Careful!"
He'd drunk most of it, before he realized how foul tasting it was.
"Yuk! What is that?"
"Coke. I stirred the bubbles out."
"Warm flat Coke? That's un-American."
"Yeah? Well, I've got a two-liter bottle here." McGarrett sat down in the corner of the mattress, against the back of the sofa, and pulled Danny over to lean against his chest. From there, there was no way to escape the glass that kept floating in front of this face. "Drink it, or we're going to the ER. I don't think you want to do that, but you're seriously dehydrated."
"If I start barfing again, it's on you." Danny warned.
"I'll deal with it, if it happens. Now, drink!"
He drank. Coke without bubbles wasn't worth fighting over. His mother used to give him cola syrup when he was sick…besides McGarrett was nice and warm.
"'Since I left Plum Tree, back in Tennessee…'" Danny began declaiming and then segued on the beat to "Drinking rum and Coca-Cola, go down Point Koomahnah…"
"I didn't know you liked Calypso."
"Everybody in Jersey… mothah and daughtah, workin' for the Yankee dollah... This is nice. You're a nice man, Hapa Haole, but there's a lot about people from Jersey you don't know."
"I'm starting to get that. Drink."
Danny drank. Other than a few burps, he managed to keep it down. Slowly, but perceptively, he began to feel better. Not great, not to the point where, given a choice between summary execution and continuing to live, he would have quibbled before asking for a firing squad. But the spiders, other than a brand-new blue one near his left hand, began to vanish. He patted the blue one to the beat of the music, in between sips of Coke, and waving "Bye-bye spider" to the others as they dissolved.
For some reason, McGarrett kept removing his hand away from the blue one.
"Danno?"
"Yes, Loo-cee?"
"For the record, how many packets of that cold medicine did you take?"
Danny held up two fingers on his left hand, then two fingers on his right, and brought them together.
"Rabbit in a mirror. Oh, and some of the cherry-flavored Gracie had."
"What part of not taking more than the recommended dosage, and never mixing over-the-counter medications, do you not get?"
"Cherry's for children. It didn't work."
"I'm not so sure about that." McGarrett removed Danny's hand and put both legs up on the bed. "That is not a spider."
"Thought he was off key." Danny snuggled closer. "Have I ever told you how hot I think you are?"
"I think you alluded to it earlier. Drink."
The rim of a glass was at his mouth; Danny drank, and then he belched loudly.
"Pardon me. That wasn't couth. But, getting back to the point, I never told you how much I want to fuck you?"
"No. And you're not going to tonight."
"Why not? I've been crushing on you since the first time you pointed your piece at me. You were the prettiest metaphor I'd ever seen, but, my God! What does it take to get through that cement skull of yours? I tease. I flaunt. I get drunk, and pass out, and you never even copped a feel! That hurts!"
"Did it ever occur to you, that I'm straight?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing. I just thought it might have occurred to you."
"Are you?"
McGarrett didn't answer; Danny grabbed the front of his jeans.
"Ha! Thought not! Oh! Where's the wastebasket?"
"Got it!"
McGarrett reacted quickly. But, after giving it due consideration, Danny waved it away.
"False alarm," he said and, since it was going to take more than a subtle hint to get his point across, he shifted to get better access to McGarrett's zipper. "Now, how 'bout it?"
"No." McGarrett removed his hand. "Danno, one of the participants in this conversation is not at his best."
"Didn't realize you were such a chicken."
Danny went for the zipper again.
"Stop that!"
This time, McGarrett secured himself by crossing both of Danny's arms over his stomach, and holding them there.
Danny began bumping his head against McGarrett's shoulder.
"You are a yellow-bellied sap-sucker! Come on, when are you going to have a better chance than this to act like nothing happened next day?"
"That's not exactly flattering. Maybe, I'd want to remem… Stop that!"
Danny wheedled.
"You'd do it, if you really loved me."
"That's emotional blackmail. Anyway, compliance under duress is rape."
"Wait just a freakin' minute! Are you accusing me of trying to rape you by trying to get you to take advantage of me?"
"Something like that."
"Are you stoned?"
"No, you are. Danny, you're having a drug reaction. You've got a fever, it's almost midnight, and, to tell the truth, you don't smell too good. Why don't you slide over to that side of the bed, and go to sleep? I'll stay on this side, and try not to sleep."
Danny rolled over.
"Meanie."
He intended to sulk for quite a while.
He fell asleep.
When he woke up, it was light outside.
Gradually, he became aware of many things: his tee-shirt and pajama bottoms were damp with sweat; his fever had broken; the headache was gone; the rain had stopped; a bird was chirping its fool head off; it was Saturday; McGarrett was curled up against him, with an arm around his waist, snoring in his ear.
Danny smiled, and went back to sleep…a deep velvety sleep, from which he woke only because he imagined he could smell bacon frying, and remembered what it felt like to be hungry.
He got up on both elbows. McGarrett was standing by the stove, dipping slices of bread in a bowl. His old Mr. Coffee was spitting and popping.
"What's that?"
"French toast."
"You're fixing me breakfast?"
"That's the plan. How are you feeling?"
"Kind of blurry. I think I was kind of out of it last night. Do I have time for a shower?"
"If you get a move on."
Danny's feet came down on a wet spot on the rug.
"Oops!" He remembered something from last night. "Sorry you had to clean up the butterfly bones."
"You'd have done the same," McGarrett said, over the sound of sizzling. "You know you should buy a cast-iron frying pan."
"But then I'd have to take care of it…"
…oil its bottom; if I'm going to oil the bottom of anything…
Danny cut off the thought automatically.
He was a little shaky on his pins, when he stood up, and there was a gaping hole between his ribcage and his bellybutton…but, get food into that vacancy, and Danny Williams would be large and back in charge!
He gave his teeth an enthusiastic brushing, jumped in the shower and started soaping all of his 2000 parts. He was giving extra pleasurable attention to part No. 1 when he heard music pounding through the tiles, and started singing along:
…the kids don't eat
And the dog can't sleep
There's no escape from the music
In the whole damn street…
What is it with some guys, like the guy behind him, who never seem to get that not everyone enjoys Moldie Oldies with their bran flakes.
Come on and tease me like you do
I'm so in love with you…
Danny inhaled a face-ful of spray.
What had he done last night? What? He had to remember. His hand fumbled on the knobs and the water was suddenly running ice-cold. He remembered. A voice in his head started gibbering hysterically.
You told McGarrett you wanted to squeeze his ass! You made a full-on pass!
"You coming out and eat this before it gets cold?"
The rap on the door almost put him on the ceiling.
A policeman cannot hideout all day in the bathroom. Danny put his jeans on and went out to accept the consequences of his actions. He couldn't have fit out that window anyway.
McGarrett was sitting at the enameled kitchen table, drinking coffee. Danny sat down on the other side. There was bacon, eggs, French toast…
"Hey, this looks great."
His voice sounded fine but, when he picked up his fork up, his hand was a little shaky.
"You all right?"
Danny checked for condemnation; all that he read in McGarrett's eyes was concern.
"Didn't have anything since lunch yesterday."
"Coffee?"
"Yeah." Danny held out his cup. "I didn't know you could cook like this."
"My Aunt used to fix brunch every Sunday. I liked helping."
"Feel free to come over and do it anytime."
It sounded like a normal conversation.
"Got any plans for the day?"
"Thought I'd swing by the garden center. Pick up a couple of pots. Lost a few in the storm last week. Are you seeing Grace?"
"No. Stan's birthday."
It was so bizarrely normal, that Danny had to ask,
"What made you decide to stop over here last night?"
"You left a message on my voice mail about shooting orange spiders in bed. I got worried; even for you, that was a weird one."
"I was a little bit out of it."
"You were a total space cadet. I couldn't tell what you were ranting about."
With a shock, Danny realized that he'd been handed a Get Out Of Jail Free card.
He started to say, "I really appreciate…" and McGarrett looked away, as if he were suddenly distracted, frowning a little. You could say that was his default expression. What was unusual was the dull red flaring along his cheekbones. With McGarrett that was a sign that he was seriously pissed about something, and didn't want to talk about it.
Was that because he thought that was how Danny wanted to play this?
If it was, then Danny was off the hook.
And, if he didn't like it…there'd be no one to blame but himself.
He didn't like it; it felt crappy.
Danny held out his cup for more coffee, and said, "Are we gonna fuck, or not?"
End
March 29, 2012