Disclaimer: Jay & Silent Bob are the intellectual property of Kevin Smith and View Askew Productions, and I have no intent to profit financially from the use of these characters.
THIRTEEN
So hushed and sedate in here at night. Muted beeps and clicks from the machines in the room are about the only sounds. The nurses whisper, the TV is off, and the lights are dimmed. Ought to be easy to doze off in this environment, that's the point, after all, but for me, it's difficult. Rock hard chair, rock hard muscles. Could go down the hall, to the waiting room, the couches, and sometimes I do. But not tonight.
Tonight I watch Jay, because his sleep is uneasy. And once in a while, I watch the other kids.
It's a pediatric intensive care unit, four beds, all taken. The boy nearest Jay is nine, comatose after a skateboarding accident that's left him brain damaged. On the other side of him is a five year old girl who was mowed down by bullets meant for someone else in a drive by shooting. And the boy against the far wall is twelve, injured by a drunk driver who jumped the curb.
They've all got families. Welfare families, this being a county hospital, gaunt in their threadbare clothes and their grief, but loving families nonetheless who try to spend as much time here as they can. We talk. They're not so much friendly as they are shell shocked, reaching out to somebody who might understand.
A single mom, a wife and husband so young they must have had the five year old when they were in high school, and an elderly couple raising their grandchild. Siblings visit too, aunts, cousins, family friends. There's always someone hovering close, reading a book, knitting, talking, holding hands with those children and stroking their hair.
Jay studies their interactions now and again, brows drawn, breath anxious through the tubes in his nose, jaw clenching. Try to distract him, try to find something on television to draw his attention, try to get him talking about Wolverine or Morris Day or Batman or any other goddamn thing in which he's ever expressed interest.
Never works. Even if I succeed in spurring him to words. Doesn't calm his breathing or dull the pain in his eyes.
Glance at the clock. Three a.m. If he wasn't moaning occasionally, moving beneath his covers, working one foot against the mattress, I might have gone home to grab eight hours in my own bed. Busy day tomorrow, shopping, starting my hunt for gainful employment. But his restlessness makes me nervous and so I stay.
Shift in the chair, lump of folded papers at my back. Took a trip to the cafeteria after he dozed off for the night, drank coffee, ate mystery meat and wrote until my fingers cramped. These idiots are gonna want to do a body cavity search before they're done, judging by the number and the nature of the questions in these forms.
Haven't told Jay yet, about my decision. Figure I should wait until I've at least lined up a job, because what if I can't? Whole prospect, such as it is, goes down the toilet then, and just as Julie said, the last thing he needs is one more rug yanked out from under him.
Julie. I shake my head. Blowing in here this afternoon with her well meaning middle class perspective, petrified of upsetting Jay and managing to do quite a job of it anyway. Unlike anyone else I've dealt with in a long time. Unlike anyone else in this room, for that matter.
Look over my shoulder at the children, all sleeping or unconscious. At their families, occupying every chair tonight, in various states of awareness and discomfort.
Jay coughs, eyes fluttering open, and I jerk to attention, reach behind me for the privacy curtain and yank it around. For once it doesn't snag or screech along it's track. Thankful we've got the end berth nearest the hall so it's the only curtain I have to close.
Kid doesn't seem to notice my obvious move, still half asleep and blinking at the ceiling. "Silent Bob?" he whispers uncertainly into the semi-darkness.
"Right here, Jay." Lean forward, slip my arm through the bedrail and take his hand. His fingers twitch and then close around mine. He sighs, relieved.
"Time is it?" Coughs again and his other hand settles against his side.
"Three in the morning."
"What the fuck you doin' here at three in the fucking morning?" he says, turning his head toward me.
I shrug. Been here almost every night, many times in this chair, and he knows that, as much from the nurses commenting on it as from waking sometimes and finding me nearby.
"Three in the fucking morning." he mumbles, echoing himself. He frowns, moves his fingers from his side to his face, runs them over the scar on his upper lip. Shuts his eyes, winces, swallows. His hand starts to tremble in mine.
"You ok?" He gasps, pushes his head back into the pillow, and covers the side of his face. "Jay, talk to me, what's wrong?" No alarms going off on any of the monitors so I keep my voice down. So far. I scoot closer, squeeze his hand a little tighter.
Seems to help. Jay opens his eyes, stares at me hard, takes long, halting deep breaths. Forcing himself to shake off whatever's pulling at him. Not an easy task, obviously, but eventually the one hand slips down off his face to rest on his chest and the other hand stops shaking. And he blinks.
"Shit." he whispers. Nothing else for a few seconds. Then, "Shrink'd call it a flashback. I seen shrinks, you know, back when I was in school and pissing people off all the time. Make enough noise and they'll try anything to shut you up."
Pull out the most important piece of information buried in all those words. "Flashback?" Jay nods.
"Yeah. Flashback. You know what one is? You ever read anything besides fucking comic books?" Pushing me back. Pushing away the feelings he was battling just a moment ago. Maybe he doesn't want or need to talk about this right now. Maybe he really wants me to retreat.
Then his fingers curl more solidly around mine and his gaze goes back to the ceiling.
"Yeah, I'm familiar with the term." I say carefully. "Post traumatic stress, right? Bad memories surfacing."
Jay snorts. "Maybe you ain't so retarded." Avoiding my eyes, insulting me, keeping an edge in his voice. None of it stings because it's all there to manage the distance between us. Enough that he feels safe but not so much that I'll leave. Quite a delicate balance he's trying to achieve.
Doesn't realize I know the drill. Knowing it brings me even closer.
"Dream about it sometimes." he goes on eventually. "First time anybody ever put their piece in me. Woke up with my mom's new boyfriend shoving his cock into my mouth. Couldn't fucking breathe. I started fucking swinging at him, trying to get away, and he beat the shit out of me. S'what happened to my mouth."
Runs his fingers over that scar one more time, sighing. "Twenty eight stitches to sew my lip back together. Got a concussion too, stitches in the back of my head, cause every time he hit me, he slammed my fucking skull into the headboard of my bed. Spent a week in the hospital."
Holy Christ. My stomach lurches but it isn't until I ask him how old he was and he says "Eight." that my throat closes up. Goddamn. Angry and disgusted and sad. Horrified. What the hell must that have been like? How big could he have been at that age?
I think of the nine year old on the other side of the curtain, trying to get an approximation, and have to stifle a sob. So fucking small and defenseless . . . Jay was probably even smaller, as slender and hyperactive as he is. God. Waking up with a cock down his throat, then pummeled probably half to death by a grown man . . .
"What stopped him?" I choke out. "How'd you get to the hospital?"
"Cops. Neighbors called the cops. Heard me screaming. Heard the headboard whacking the wall." He gives me the information in monotone. Jesus Christ. Screams and thuds loud enough to wake the neighbors. Eight years old.
If this is what's been brewing in his mind the last few hours, it's no wonder he was kicking and groaning and twisting the sheets.
"What are you thinking over there, Silent Bob?" he says, glaring up at the ceiling. "Sitting there feeling sorry for me? Don't. Don't you dare feel fucking sorry for me."
Pulls his hand loose so I let go, sit back, rub the tears from the corners of my eyes. I feel the distance now, the chill he's emanating, having exposed so much. Maybe more than he meant to. Or maybe it's just that he didn't expect me to care so much and it's obvious I do, no matter that he hasn't looked at me once since he started talking.
Arguing, debating my feelings with him, would be useless. He's through for now. And what would I say, anyway? I am sorry, if sorry means that I can hardly stand to know this ever happened and that I want to just sit here and sob for what he's been through.
God it's hard knowing him. Suddenly feel so tired, so drained. If it's this hard to care about Jay, I can't imagine how hard it is to be Jay. How does he carry around this much pain without buckling beneath the weight of it?
He rolls over a bit, turning that much further away from me. Goes back to sleep after a few minutes, somehow, slight, breathless snores confirming the fact. Reach inside my coat and find the bottle of pills they've prescribed me for my hand and pop a couple of them. I don't indulge during the day, ignoring the constant itching and throbbing, because I don't want to be dopey in case he needs me.
Dopey would be fine just now, though. Dopey would be great. The burning heat of a shot of vodka might be better, but you work with what you have. Settle back, cross my good arm over the one in the sling and close my eyes.
- - -
A few hours of drugged sleep later and I'm good as new. Or as close to that as I can hope to get anytime soon.
Climb onto the bus one handed and dump change into the slot. Jay was still asleep when I left, recently dosed with medication that's probably going to keep him that way for a while. I told the nurse on duty to be sure he understood I was coming back, and to tell him that the moment he woke up.
Don't want him thinking he chased me off with that memory he shared last night. If anything, I'm more determined to stick around. The need is more obvious than it's ever been.
Wade through the outstretched legs and briefcases and elbows that jut into the aisle and ease into a seat by the window. Damn that feels good, cool cushioned seat under my ass and at my back, after so many hours crammed into that molded plastic chair. I roll my shoulders inside the waist length coat that's been in the back of my closet since I bought the trench, loosen my muscles, crack my neck.
Apartment is a sight for sore eyes, even with the stench of rotting garbage wafting out of the kitchen and a dozen dirty dishes growing mold in the sink. I peel off the coat and the sling, throw my hat on the counter and light up a cigarette.
Yeah, Jay needs me. But not every minute. I've got to take care of myself too, mind my limits.
Dig through the freezer and find a decent TV dinner, throw it in the oven while I take a shower. Hot water fucking burns that left hand but it feels good, scorches out the constant itch. I wash up and then I change the dressing on my hand before I shave and trim my beard and my mustache. Put on something clean and comfortable and watch one of those insipid morning shows while I eat.
Call Tony and set up a meet. Walk to the cleaners and find out they've given up on my trench. Damn. I stare at it, black canvas lined with sheep's wool, durable and warm, too many hidden pockets to count. It's the lining that looks the worst, Jay's blood dark and unavoidable against the wool. Time to retire the old girl.
I bus myself to a shopping center and look through a dizzying array of long coats. There's nothing like what I've lost and for a while, I'm pissed about that until I realize that nothing's ever really going to be the way it used to be, before Jay. Embrace change, Bob. Grow. Become. Don't bother looking back.
A fleck of green catches my eye in a window and I go inside. Dark green trench with black trim, rounded shoulders, a slim collar, and lots and lots of inner pockets. I try it on. Fits just fine and feels good. The price is right. I wear it out of the store.
My next stop is a comic book shop. For once I'm not looking to increase my collection but thinking of Jay. How long has it been since he's had something as frivolous or fascinating as a comic book? Every penny he's managed to score has probably gone for food or shelter or warmth for at least the last year. I pick out about twenty books I think he might like.
What else? What else would keep his eyes off those parents and grandparents? What else might make him smile? I hit an electronics place and buy him a Walkman, along with a few tapes.
Passing a department store, I think of yet something else, something more akin to a need than a want. He'll be up and around soon, out of bed. What few clothes they issue him will be thin and worn and drafty. And he doesn't have any toiletries. Walk out with flannel pajamas, a thick robe, warm slippers, a toothbrush and a hairbrush.
By the time I wander into Sharky's Pool Hall to meet Tony, I'm carrying a big paper shopping bag. He stares, one eyebrow raised. I explained about Jay the last time I saw him, kinda had to, considering the delay in payment and the setting of that meeting, down the hall from intensive care.
He was not enthusiastic about my involvement with the kid. Even if he has a straight job to offer, he may hesitate because of my reason for wanting it. But he's my best shot.
This being his place, he goes behind the bar and brings us out a couple of beers. "So what's the story, Bob? You ready to go back to work yet or you still on medical leave?" He eyes my sling as he sits down. I clear my throat and take a swig of my beer.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. You know of a straight job I could work for awhile?"
"Straight job?" Tony sits back in his chair. "You can't even make your usual collections cause you're so busy babysitting that snot nosed little – " Clear my throat and give him a hard look. "Sorry." My skills even work on a gangster like Tony. "Alls I'm saying, you don't have time to handle your normal rounds and now you want to take on something extra?"
"No. I'm gonna have to lay low for awhile. You're gonna have to hand off my regulars to somebody else. I need some kind of nine-to-five gig for now, something legitimate." Tony scratches his cheek, thinking, and munches a few peanuts.
"The cops still watching you, probably, because of that mess with the kid . . . "
Hey, why not? If it makes him more likely to help me out, I'm not going to tell him anything different.
"Well, I suppose I could use you here at Sharky's." he finally says. "Day manager I got in here is a punk, can't find his ass with both hands and a flashlight. Fucks up the inventory, pisses off the lunch crowd, and hides behind the bar if somebody gets rowdy." He quotes me a pretty decent salary, decent for straight work, anyway, and asks when I want to start.
Shit, that was easy . . . "I need a few weeks. Jay's still in intensive care." Tony rolls his eyes but says nothing. "A month, maybe less?" He's agreeable. Again I'm shocked at how easily I've found myself steady employment.
Climb back onto the bus with a smile, a big one. New coat, new job. Gifts for Jay. For some reason, that's the best part. Didn't realize how fun that was going to be, how good it felt to think about his needs and then act accordingly.
Imagine how that feeling's going to translate to the big picture, to watching his back, putting a roof over his head and food in his stomach, for more than just a few days here and there.
Damn I'm having a good day.