End Grain Boards

The Downstairs People

One

I wake up with a searing headache behind my eyeballs, like small bursts of lighting that pulse from the back of my sinuses to the front of my temples and back again.

Go back to sleep, I tell myself. Don’t open your eyes or the light will burn a hole in your brain pan, boy. Just go back to sleep.

“Shit.”

Now that I’m awake enough to feel the lightning I know I can’t go back to sleep. But I can’t open my eyes yet either. I try to move my right arm but something is in the way. It clenches my wrist and makes a soft “clink” sound. I also feel tape tugging at the hair on the back of that hand. What’s that about?

“Double-shit.”

I’m mumbling, I know, but I also know I’m going to have to look down to see what going on with my right hand. I feel like that’s going to take more effort that I can give at the moment. I decide to put it off until—

I hear breathing. Heavy breathing.

The faint lurch of a chair sliding across a tiled floor.

My eyes open against my will and, sure enough, the soft fluorescent lighting immediately fires up another crack of thunder through my head. I blink fast, and I see him. A man, standing over me, searching my face with small blue eyes and a stupid grin on his face.

I squeeze my eyes shut again, but now I’ve got an idea of who’s in the room with me. He’s not big, maybe five foot six or so, and no more than 150 pounds max. Dull blonde hair, pale, pudgy face. He reminds me of Baby John from the ancient vids of that musical, West Side Story. So … is he a Jet and I’m a Shark? Or are we both on the same side?

“You awake, bud? That you in there?”

His voice has the mild whine one puts one when speaking to a skittish puppy.

“Who the hell are you?” I mumble through mushy lips, “and where the hell am I?”

He doesn’t say anything at first, but his breathing turns quick and shallow, like he’s excited just to hear my voice.

“He’s awake,” I hear him say after a moment, and I wonder who he’s talking to. I risk another peek around the room, bracing myself for the lightning flash inside my skull.

Baby John is talking on a vid-phone now, the old kind that uses core earth metals for transmitters. I see now that I’m in what appears to be a private hospital room, undecorated white walls, random medical equipment here and there. The only real furniture is my bed and a chair set off to the side. A line from an IV bag is punctured into the back of my right hand and held in place by way too much bandaging tape.

And, adding insult to apparent injury, that same hand of mine is handcuffed to the shiny metal bar attached to the side of my bed …