The Fellowship of the Chicken

Photo by Ben Moreland

Greeted by an automated screen, we followed the prompts until the machine spat out a ticket with a number on it – #104. Sitting down in seats that allowed us to keep one eye on all the crazies, Evie and I surveyed the scene. Fluorescent lights shone so brightly that their radiance bounced off the linoleum floor illuminating the underside of everyone’s chins. And boy, did the faces atop those chins look miserable. A heavy-set fella in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers sat forlorn with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around one wrist. Perched forward with his face in a sick bag, a balding man heaved up his final course, as his entrée festered on the floor. Under the watchful eye of two police escorts a disheveled guy babbled incoherently at a volume impossible to ignore. Contorting his body in a myriad of ways a rather flexible fellow valiantly attempted to make a bed out of his chair. And in the seats closest to the front, two girls in their mid-twenties wearing pajamas added some contrast to this otherwise listless scene by appearing to be quite sprightly.

DING!

“Will ticket #103, please see the triage nurse at counter one.” Announced an automated voice over the PA system.

“That means we’re next Chicken; are you okay?” I said to Evie, as another grimace pulled at her face.

“Yeh, I’m fine,” she chirped back, although, we both knew she wasn’t fine.

No one takes a late-night trip to the emergency room when their fine. While I’m not at liberty to divulge Evie’s issue, I will tell you that my poor, brave, silly Chicken is such a freaking trooper that she’d been feeling sick all evening but had waited until I’d finished writing to tell me, because, and I quote, “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

And given that I often write for much longer than I plan to – because, you know, I’m an obsessive-psycho-who-doesn’t-know-how-to-chill – this meant we didn’t make it to the hospital until well after 10pm.

DING!

“Will ticket #104, please see the triage nurse at counter one.”

After talking with a lovely nurse named Bruce, we were directed to, “Follow the yellow line, to the next waiting room at the back.”

The yellow line disappeared behind two glass sliding doors which would not open no matter how much I danced for the sensor. That’s when we met Jordan. Waving at the sensor on his side of the doors, a short stocky guy wearing shorts – that said, Don’t bully me, I’ll cum – let us into the ironically named, ‘Rapid Response Area’. There was nothing rapid about that room, that is, except for Jordan’s mouth. Before we’d even sat down, this guy, who bore a striking resemblance to Samwise from Lord of the Rings, had already said a thousand words to us.

“Hey-I’m-Jordan-but-my-friends-call-me-Fuzzy-not-coz-I’m-like-fuzzy-in-the-head-but-coz-I’ve-had-a-beard-since-I-was-like-thirteen-although-I’m-kinda-fuzzy-in-the-head-right-now-coz-like-I’m-soooooooo-high-what-are-you-two-in-here-for? Fuck-I’m-actually-soooooooo-high-right-now-ohhh-my-God-they-gave-me-oxxy’s-in-the-ambulance-and-now-and-now-wait-what-was-I-saying? Oh-yeah-now-they’ve-given-me-this”. Fuzzy exclaimed, triumphantly extending a green whistle up to the light as if it was the one true ring of power.

I didn’t know what to do about Fuzzy. He seemed harmless, but I was worried his energy was making Evie more anxious than she already was. Part of me wanted to be like; listen bro, I need you to sit down over there and leave us alone. But who was I kidding? I’m no tough guy, I’m a talker. And the truth is, if Fuzzy had of flipped out and gotten hostile I didn’t like my chances of containing him – I mean, the cunt was as solid as a tree-stump. And so, I talked to him. Or should I say, he talked to us.

In the brief time we spent together Fuzzy told Evie and I more about himself than was reasonably necessary. In case you were wondering, Fuzzy works at a motorcycle auto-parts store that used to be run by one family but has since been bought out by a larger company. And despite the buy-out the son of the family who owned the store originally, still works there, and apparently, him and Fuzzy don’t see eye to eye. And while his testimony, being under the influence and all, may be questionable, Fuzzy believes he is single-handedly turning that motorcycle shop around – despite that lazy good-for-nothing son. Fuzzy also told us exactly how much the West Australian Health Minister earns each year, and how it seems like an absurd amount of money, given that, “The-stupid-freaking-sliding-doors-in-this-goddamn-hospital-don’t-even-open-unless-I’m-around-to-wave-at-them.”

Needless to say, I liked Fuzzy. He reminded me of the people I used to hang-out with back in my partying days, who, with the right concoction of chemicals coursing through them, could talk at you for an hour about a subject they knew absolutely nothing about with the conviction of a college professor. Fuzzy’s constant chatter also seemed to help take Evie’s mind off her pain, which I appreciated. And so, by the time the nurse arrived to call him in we were both sad to see him go.

With Fuzzy gone the drag of waiting began to really set in. Fidgeting in our chairs, Evie and I felt every drawn-out second as we were subjected to the ridiculous-dribble of some reality show that blared from the TV, about, get this – botched surgery’s! What sort of sick-twisted-mudafucker thought it would be a good idea to have a show like that running on repeat in a freaking hospital? Already worried about what’s wrong with you; well, don’t forget, sometimes these medical professionals really fuck up! Fortunately, the show was routinely drowned out by a loud, jarring, metronomic BEEP! that resounded somewhere off in the distance like a shipping-container’s foghorn. And with Fuzzy gone, I took over as the dancing monkey who opened the glass sliding doors whenever someone sought entrance into this room where time ceased.

There were also the lights. Ohh-my-God how I hated the lights. Once I got sober, I became somewhat of a health nut – I had to put my addictive tendencies to use somehow after all. Amongst an array of incredibly boring ‘health protocols’ one of the things I do is get natural light in my eyes early in the morning and dim the lights in my house at night. And if I ever have to look at a screen at night, I wear red-light glasses, which, apparently, do some fancy shit to block out the light waves you don’t want. Besides genuinely improving my sleep, the side-effect of this protocol is that I am now, incredibly sensitive to bright light at night – go figure. And given that it was now well past midnight, I decided it was perfectly reasonable to put on the hat and red-light-glasses I’d brought with me in anticipation of this issue. My tactics offered little reprieve, however, and Evie mocked me to no end – as she should. But as ridiculous as I am, it did, at least for a moment, make Evie laugh, and who knows, maybe that was my real intention.

A strange game developed out of our desire to escape that waiting room. The room looked out into a hallway and all we knew was that somewhere down there was where we wanted to be. And so, every time someone walked down that hallway Evie and I perked up like house pets whose owners were arriving home as we hoped that this was the person who was finally going to call on us to go for ‘walkies’ down that mystical expanse. And every time that person walked straight by without even glancing our way, a little part of us died. It was a fun game.

Cold showers are another one of my boring health protocols, and while they certainly offer quite a kick – they’ve got nothing on the surge of adrenaline that ran through me when the nurse finally appeared to call us in. As Evie followed the nurse down the hall, I frantically gathered up all our shit before running after them with a renewed vigor. Like beating a boss in a video game, a weird excitement accompanied our progression deeper into the belly of this sterile-brightly-lit-constantly-beeping beast. We’d made it to our own room! Well, sort of. A hospital bed, a plastic chair, and all the fancy medical equipment you’ve seen in shows like Botched, were contained within this curtained area. And lucky for us, on the other side of that curtain, was the police-escorted patient we’d seen earlier who, was, of course, still babbling incoherently at a volume impossible to ignore.

Judging from her demeanor, I’m willing to bet our nurse had been in the game a long time. She was calm, reassuring, and professional but she was also quick-witted and ironic in a way that added an air of levity to an otherwise unpleasant situation. Beyond her quippy comments, which Evie seemed to grasp much quicker than I did, what struck me about this nurse was the bulky pair of DJ-headphones she wore around her neck. I mean, they didn’t exactly scream hospital grade equipment. But just like I was inept at deciphering much of her irony, Evie informed me I’d also misinterpreted that nurse’s neck-accessory.

“There not headphones, they’re a personal fan, haven’t you ever seen them before?” she said, rolling her eyes as if to suggest I was some sort of fool for thinking that things are what they look like.

Handing Evie a gown, the nurse, told us in that apologetic way common amongst people who have to explain the tardiness of their superior to others, that, “We’re not toooooo busy, tonight. So, the doctor, should be in to see you soon. I hope. Fingers crossed.”

And then, she disappeared behind the curtain, leaving us to ponder how much time the word ‘soon’ actually denotes.

Taking it upon myself to entertain Evie while we waited for the doctor, I decided to take advantage of all the wisdom I’d obtained working as a tradesman.

“Alright, alright, alright, I’ll show you what’s wrong with the ceiling. You don’t have to pester me about it.” I said, preparing to regale my darling with some riveting banter.

“I’m not pestering you; I didn’t even ask.” Evie responded, clearly suffering from a sickness-induced delirium.

Pressing on, I pointed out the many defects in the hospital’s sad-looking ceiling, while Evie listened intently before asking me many thoughtful questions, like; “I don’t care” and “Will you please shut up.”

“Okay…” I said, “if you insist, but you never know when you might need to know such things.”

Turning our attention to the clock on the wall, we debated whether it had a low battery or if the purgatory of waiting around in a hospital actually altered one’s time perception like some drugs are wont to do. We also reminisced about how much fun we’d had with Fuzzy. We spent some time watching our fingernails in the hope that we’d catch them growing. And I found great delight in fidgeting about on the plastic spike the hospital was trying to pass off as a chair. At one point, even the police-escorted-patient next door offered some entertainment, by beginning to shriek like a dying seagull, which, coupled with the continued BEEPING of that far-off foghorn, created a soothing seaside warble that reminded us of a serene summer’s day down by the water.

Coming in hot with some nice alliteration, Doctor Dave introduced himself, before asking Evie a comprehensive list of questions about her symptoms, medical history, and, strangely enough, if she was aware of the defects in the ceiling. Winking at her as if to say, your welcome, I quietly listened to their back-and-forth, only butting in like five times. What? This doctor needed to know how serious Evie’s condition was and I wasn’t going to let her politeness confuse things. The only thing hotter than that doctor’s name, was his beard, which, much like the setting sun, shone a bright auburn. Watching this man pull his stethoscope out from behind his fiery mane, it’s considerable length and heft reminded me of Gimli’s beard from Lord of the Rings. Tickled by this budding theme, I started to wonder if, Evie and I had slipped into some alternate dimension where people resembled Lord of the Rings characters. The curious themes didn’t end there either, as the only difference between this doctor’s beard and that axe-wielding dwarfs was that, get ready for this – it was fuzzier! That felt like a good omen, as if, somehow, Fuzzy was still with us.

In my humble estimation, being a little crazy is only a problem if you can’t find anyone who matches your distinct wavelength of cuckoo. Evie and I don’t have this problem, as the first thing she said to me once the doctor disappeared was, “Did you see how fuzzy his beard was? Surely, that’s a good sign!”

That, my friends, is how love trumps insanity. Returning with the nurse and some interesting looking equipment the doctor asked me if I’d be staying in the room for the next examination. Looking at Evie for guidance, she suggested I leave. And so, like an unwanted cast-out, I vacated the area.

Stepping out to the other side of the curtain, I suddenly found myself inches away from the two police officers who were accompanying the dying seagull next door. I can’t say I was thrilled with this proximity. I mean, I’m certainly not a criminal, but then again, who amongst us constantly adheres to the letter of the law? Whatever misdeeds I may or may not have been party to in the past (outside the statute of limitations, of course), one thing is for sure: I’ve always done everything within my power to steer clear of the police. And now, here they were – only an arm’s length away. Reminding myself that I’d done nothing wrong, and that, nowadays, I’m about as close as an eccentric-writer can get to being a model citizen – I felt curiosity pulling at my gaze. Watching these two cops like they were a couple of lions in the zoo, I was captivated. Although, I’m not entirely sure why, as all they were doing was sitting there staring at their phones. Peeking over the shoulder of the one closest, I saw he was playing a car racing game. Looking up from whatever game he was playing, the other cop noticed me peering over his partner’s shoulder. Instantly our eyes locked with the fervor of two cowboys engaged in a duel. The stand-off was long. He, staring at me with a gun on his hip, and me, staring at him with Evie’s handbag on mine. Panic rose in my chest. Was he going to say something? Was it illegal to peak at a cop’s phone? Did he wonder why I had a woman’s bag on my waist? Desperate to break the tension I nodded at him. He didn’t nod back. Instead, he returned his gaze to his phone, ending our showdown. A close call, indeed.

Opening the curtain, the doctor welcomed me back into the privacy of our curtained area as he began to explain what he thought was going on with Evie, and how he intended to proceed. Thanking him profusely, he nodded at me meekly, before saying, “I’ll be back when the test results come in, but” . . . pausing, he winced his face in a way designed to soften the blow of his final remark. . . “that might be a while.”

Walking over to Evie, I grabbed her hand and asked, “How you goin, Chicken?”

“I’m okay…”

Tilting my head, like I do whenever I’m nudging Evie to elaborate, she continued.

“I’m tired, it hurts, and I don’t want to be here.”

“Awww, I know, Chicken. It sucks. Stupid poopy sickness sucks. But you’re gonna be okay. You’re tough, and I’ve got you. Did they give you anything for the pain?”

With a cheeky glint in her eye, Evie smiled, before saying, “Yeah, they just gave me some tramadol, so I’m probably gonna be pretty ‘how-ya-going’ soon.”

Giggling her way through the next hour like a drugged-addled psycho-naut, the silly side of Evie I know so well made a pronounced appearance. Seeing her mood improve, even if it was pharmaceutically aided, was a relief. It gave me a much-needed second wind. As it was now well after 3am and I was struggling. The havoc that merciless chair had wreaked on my back had driven me to sit on the floor. The ceaseless sounds emanating from the halls of the hospital led me to stuff toilet paper into my ears. And the overbearing nature of those fluorescent beacons of hell had me rocking back and forth with my eyes closed and Evie’s jumper over my head. Anyone would have thought I was the patient, and this was the mental ward.

Failing to put my own suffering aside, I started telling Evie how skateboarding has this way of pulling you through a similar sort of ordeal where you spiral further and further into madness.

“It always goes the same way…” I said. “You start trying a trick and, at first, you’re positive and hopeful. You stay that way for about half an hour or so, but eventually, doubt starts to creep in. Maybe I can’t do this trick, you think; but you keep going because you love this thing, and you even love how it challenges you. But with each fall the fatigue and frustration mounts, increasing the doubt you’re trying to block out. Then, roughly an hour and a half in, the outbursts begin. Maybe you scream at the crack in the footpath, maybe at your board, and most certainly at yourself. The outbursts are followed by a hopeless desperation that sees you make pleas with a deity you’re not even sure you believe in. On and on this goes as you spiral further into the depths of a special kind of madness.”

Riding the wave of the painkillers she’d received, Evie laughed at everything I said, before asking, “Is that how you feel now?”

“Yes, Chicken. That’s how I feel. My back hurts and I’m so fucking tired and over it, that I feel crazy.”

“Nawww poooooor, Michael” she said, patting me on the forehead like I was her pet. “Get in bed with me. You’ll fit. Here, look, I’ll scooch over.” Shuffling over, she flung back the blankets with the giddy enthusiasm of a child. “Come on, get your butt in here, skater boy.”

Hopping onto the bed, I laid back as the magic of cushioning hugged my entire body. Putting my arm around Evie, I continued.

“There is something special about being driven into that state, though.”

“Yeh, what’s that?”

“Well, beyond seeing what you’re made of, sometimes, if you’re lucky, something magical happens. Something might click in your head, and you figure the trick out. But most of the time it’s something more intangible; like, you see a leaf or feather or something, floating in the wind and it captivates you.”

“Ohh-my-god, like a chicken feather?” she chirped, pleased with herself.

“Definitely, a chicken feather.” I smiled.

“But wait, I don’t get it, what do you mean?” She asked, from the crook of my arm.

“I dunno exactly, like, maybe it’s just because your exhausted, in pain, and at the end of your rope, but somehow, you see that feather and it just looks like the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. And in some way, I don’t really know how to explain, it’s like everything, this whole life thing, just makes sense for a moment. Like, as hard as it all is, you’re somehow glad you’ve found something you care about so deeply that putting yourself through that kind of torture isn’t even a question.”

Pausing for a second to let Evie speak, she didn’t say anything. Looking down, I saw she’d fallen asleep. Kissing her on the forehead, I said under my breath, “You’re that thing, Chicken.”

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