The Ghost in the Machine
Chapter Three
The Heart of the Problem
Some of us are striving,
Somewhere on the mountain
Smith took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. As he sat on the end of Kai's bed with his shirt unbuttoned and shoes off, he struggled with a powerful desire to throttle Louie Patel. The dark mental image of the petite man gasping for his last breath with his frigid stethoscope wrapped around his skinny neck forced Smith to suppress a smile. He watched Patel with narrowed eyes and tensed each time his flesh touched him. When Patel first began his examination, he had felt uncomfortable and by the end he was, quite literally, ready to kill him. The fact that Patel insisted upon double-checking Smith's heart almost pushed him into a blind rage. Although he was unable to remember the most basic details of his life, he knew for certain that he did not like this man.
"Well, I've seen worse," Patel shoved the stethoscope carelessly into his duffle bag and shrugged his shoulders. "It's just a mild concussion—it looks bad, but no red flags."
"Mild? I have absolutely no memory of any event before noon today. No red flags there?" Smith growled and again comforted himself with the fantasy of beating the obnoxious quack to death.
"Michael," he smiled almost condescendingly. "It's an impressive hematoma, but it's not life threatening. The small laceration might leave a scar and amnesia rarely lasts for twenty-four hours." He raised a dark eyebrow suspiciously. "You'll probably sleep it off," he tossed Smith a plastic prescription jar. "Take this, pass out on the couch and you'll be fine." He picked up his duffle bag and left the room.
Smith followed him. "I thought I wasn't supposed to sleep? This is Xanax," Smith caught hold of the door as Patel opened it. "This is an anti-anxiety medication. I have a concussion caused by a blunt trauma to the side of my head of which I have no memory. The only anxiety I possess stems from your apparent inability to treat me. Is there not something more appropriate you can prescribe?"
"Get a second opinion, if it suits you, Mickey," Patel squeezed past Smith and looked towards the kitchen where Kai lurked. "The Xanax will help you calm down and get some sleep, besides I ain't got a lot of reasons to run about with a stock of anti-inflammatories—there's no money in it. I don't treat a lot of concussions. Usually when some body hits another body upside the head like what you've got he usually finishes the job. Bullets, stitches, painkillers and some other recreational pharmaceuticals—that's my line of work. Take a couple of those pills, some aspirin and go to bed. I doubt you're going to die or anything." He smiled flatly and the look in his eyes clearly revealed his total apathy.
It was Smith's turn to slam the door and the other picture toppled from the bookcase.
As if cued by the slamming door, Kai waltzed out of the kitchen wearing her pajamas and nursing a bottle of Harp's. Since their earlier 'discussion' she had maintained a surly silence and throughout Patel's entire visit she had been conspicuously absent. Now she emerged from the shadows and trailed after Smith as he stormed down the hall and into the bathroom. Smugly, she took up a position in the doorframe to watch him obsess over his bruise in front of the mirror.
"Do you need something?" Smith directed a cold stare at her in the mirror.
"Nope." Dismissively, she scraped at her fingernail polish and continued to watch him. She then drained her beer and belched, content in her un-ladylike behavior. "What are you doing?"
Coolly, Smith redirected his attention to the foul creature in the orange and white striped oversized pajamas—and she called him an infection? She was like a virus, a garishly dressed obscene little virus. He smiled briefly at his cleverness and returned his attention to comparing the size of his pupils. Of course, he could not remember paying attention to the normal size of his pupils, but continued to lean into the mirror as if waiting for one of them to explode and cerebrospinal fluid run out of his ears. "Patel is incompetent." Smith turned from the mirror and coolly turned his nose up at her appearance.
"No shit," she shrugged.
"I could have an intracranial hemorrhage. This could be the brief period of lucidity that precedes the onset of unconsciousness."
"You don't know the first thing about lucidity," Her tone was foreboding, but the crooked smile returned. "Lucidity?" she snorted and tossed the beer bottle into the wastebasket. "Why don't you take your lucid self into the living room then? It would be far more convenient for me if you die on the couch." Kai reveled in the sight of his deadpan expression and left the room.
"You find all of this to be amusing?" Smith sat down next to her on the couch and began buttoning his shirt. "I don't."
"I have a perverse sense of humor," she picked up her cigarettes and lighter off the coffee table. "The world I live in sucks. Everything sucks," she shook the lighter. "You're born, you live and you die. In between acts one and three you're beaten down a thousand times. You get up and someone knocks you down again. I used to obsess about the futility of it all. Then I woke up one bright rainy morning, looked out over the flowers and smog, and said fuck—it—all." She continued to shake the lighter.
"Would you rather everything be perfect? Everyone happy and content?"
"Hell no, I wouldn't have a damn thing to laugh at."
Smith snatched the lighter from her, "This doesn't work because it's out of fluid."
"Don't say that! You'll hurt its feelings."
"I can't hurt its feelings, it's an inanimate object." Smith rolled his eyes.
"You're a bloody inanimate object," she sneered. "I'll have you know, since you don't remember anything anyway, that this lighter is an antique. It's from the now defunct 'Heart O' the City Hotel,' a once prosperous and luxurious establishment."
"This is not an antique. It is a valueless piece of disposable advertising from a disreputable hotel located in a portion of the city adversely affected by the suburban exodus of the mid-1950s. It is a vacate building used by cheap prostitutes and criminals." He turned the lighter over to examine the logo.
"Oh bloody hell, Michael," She stood up, climbed over the back of the couch and seized another lighter off the sideboard the stereo sat on. "I bow down to your knowledge of dive hotels and advertising." She changed the cd and climbed back over the couch. "So tell me, love, what's it like for you?"
"What?"
"To not remember."
Smith raised a cautious eyebrow, "I thought you had your doubts whether my inability to remember was genuine or a fabrication."
She smiled oddly and pointed at the lighter. "Michael, that's your lighter. You were one who said it was antique. Sweetheart, you don't know shit." Her smile broadened triumphantly.
Smith's expression darkened. "And I presume you find this all amusing?"
"No," The smile faded and she lowered her voice. "I find it tremendously comforting," She toyed with her cigarette, but did not light it. "It makes me feel normal."
***
Once more Smith stretched out on the couch and focused on the ceiling tile. The cd ended and the room grew quiet and the shadows drew closer. His head felt better, but no thanks to Louie Patel. Instead, he discovered that once he found other things to think about, the pain diminished. Kai gave him a lot to think about. Unfortunately, as the throbbing decreased it was replaced by a persistent ringing in his ears. He debated turning the stereo back on. The ringing was maddening; he yawned exaggeratedly and took some deep breaths. The exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with him. He was tired, but not sleepy, yet he closed his eyes anyway and allowed his mind to drift. Trancelike, the sensation of falling enveloped him.
"Brilliance."
His body temperature dropped dramatically.
"Brilliance."
His pulse and breathing slowed.
"Brilliance"Instinctively, he raised his hand to an earpiece that was not there.
"Brilliance."
The ringing became more pronounced, more distinct.
"Smith."
Smith's hand dropped and he wrenched his blue eyes open. Frantically, he struggled to his feet, despite the nauseating dizziness. He clutched his chest and tried to keep from hyperventilating—it wasn't ringing he heard, it was voices.
The feel of the action
The seed of the action
Will drag you down
From Motion (Front 242, Up Evil)