Man Of Few Words

Chapter 17

I made the call to the hospital, described what had happened. The lady I spoke to asked how I was feeling now. I told her I wasn't feeling particularly sick, but I really didn't feel safe standing up. She asked if there was someone who could bring me to the hospital.

I said, "No." Rather curtly.

Then she said she was going to put me on hold.

"Wait!" I said. "Will there be music?"

She didn't seem sure. I insisted that she just put the receiver down somewhere and used a different phone if she had to. An inane looping music track was the last thing a man in my dizzy condition needed. She sounded a bit annoyed by this demand, but she eventually reluctantly agreed.

I sat and listened patiently to the hissing background noise - distant indecipherable voices, other phones ringing, doors opening and shutting, various pinging and buzzing sound – for quite a while. Finally, she returned to the phone and told me that a car could pick me up and bring me in, but not for another two hours.

"That'll give me enough time to crawl to the kitchen and get a glass of water," I said dryly.

There was silence at the other end of the line for several seconds.

"So, is that okay then?" she finally asked.

"Yes." I breathed in then out, slowly and shakily. "Thank you."

I hung up, slid off the bed and, as promised, crawled to the kitchen.

There I discovered a discarded plastic bottle. It had a bit of a stale whiff about it, but it was clean enough, so I hauled myself up to the sink and filled it up. It would have been tricky to take a glass with me to the hall. I took a few deep swigs, coughed a couple of times, then sagged back to my hands and knees. I was going to just shuffle all the way to the hall and wait for the car there, but then I had a better idea.

I opened the door to the hall and threw my bottle of water in the direction of the front door. It was a bit of a pathetic throw, but after clattering against the wall, the bottle rolled most of the rest of the way down the hall. I then went to the bedroom to fetch my laptop. Once there, I considered putting on a clean shirt, but the wardrobes seemed awfully high up so I negotiated a compromise with myself, replacing the shirt I'd been wearing all night with one off the floor that didn't smell too bad.

Once I'd made it to the hall, I put on the one pair of shoes that was still on the steel wire racks by the front door (the others are in various locations around the flat, I think). Then I put on a jacket, grateful that I'd previously just slung it on the black upholstered mini-armchair in the hall, rather than bothering to hang it up on one of the hooks. I still didn't fancy sitting upright, so I plonked myself on the floor with my head resting back against the seat of the armchair. Next to the chair is a little round table. I tipped a pile of unopened mail and unwashed underwear off it and placed it over my stretched out legs. Finally, I put the laptop on the table and here I am, typing to you live from my hall floor. Still another hour before the car gets here, I think.

So, looking down the hall towards the door to the living area, I can just about make out a small splatter on the Vaughn hanging on the left-hand wall. Not to mention a few streaks on the wall, and a slightly larger splatter encrusted into the once proudly white carpet below. Like I said, I kept most of the sick in my mouth as I staggered through here last night. Ah well, it's only art.

This particular Vaughn says 'deed', but is only readable if you're standing at the front door. That clever bastard has used a trick of perspective, similar to that used on some sports fields to make it look like ads painted on the turf are actually printed on upright boards. Look at it face on, and it's stretched wide beyond recognition. Plus, the letters are higher at the end of the word, furthest from the front door, than they are at the beginning, nearer the door. But if you stand in the right spot, your perspective 'corrects' it and it appears to be written normally.