Everything's Eventual

   He goes on chanting into the microphone, sounding more and more at ease (sounding, in fact, a little like Jack Klugman on Quincy, M.E.), and I know his partner over there behind me, the Pollyanna of the medical community, isn't thinking she'll have to roll the tape back over this part of the exam. Other than missing the fact that his first pericardial is still alive, the kid's doing a great job.

   At last he says, "I think I'm ready to go on, doctor." He sounds tentative, though.

   She comes over, looks briefly down at me, then squeezes Pete's shoulder. "Okay," she says. "On-na wid-da show!"

   Now I'm trying to stick my tongue out. Just that simple kid's gesture of impudence, but it would be enough . . . and it seems to me I can feel a faint prickling sensation deep within my lips, the feeling you get when you're finally starting to come out of a heavy dose of Novocain. And I can feel a twitch? No, wishful thinking, just—

   Yes! Yes! But a twitch is all, and the second time I try, nothing happens.

   As Pete picks up the scissors, the Rolling Stones move on to "Hang Fire."

   Hold a mirror in front of my nose! I scream at them. Watch it fog up! Can't you at least do that?

   Snick, snick, snickety-snick.

   Pete turns the scissors at an angle so the light runs down the blade, and for the first time I'm certain, really certain, that this mad charade is going to go all the way through to the end. The director isn't going to freeze the frame. The ref isn't going to stop the fight in the tenth round. We're not going to pause for a word from our sponsors. Petie-Boy's going to slide those scissors into my gut while I lie here helpless, and then he's going to open me up like a mail-order package from the Horchow Collection.

   He looks hesitantly at Dr. Arlen.

   No! I howl, my voice reverberating off the dark walls of my skull but emerging from my mouth not at all. No, please no!

   She nods. "Go ahead. You'll be fine."

   "Uh . . . you want to turn off the music?"

   Yes! Yes, turn it off!

   "Is it bothering you?"

   Yes! It's bothering him! It's fucked him up so completely he thinks his patient is dead!

   "Well . . ."

   "Sure," she says, and disappears from my field of vision. A moment later Mick and Keith are finally gone. I try to make the humming noise and discover a horrible thing: now I can't even do that. I'm too scared. Fright has locked down my vocal cords. I can only stare up as she rejoins him, the two of them gazing down at me like pallbearers looking into an open grave.

   "Thanks," he says. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts the scissors. "Commencing pericardial cut."

   He slowly brings them down. I see them . . . see them . . . then they're gone from my field of vision. A long moment later, I feel cold steel nestle against my naked upper belly.

   He looks doubtfully at the doctor.

   "Are you sure you don't—"

   "Do you want to make this your field or not, Peter?" she asks him with some asperity.

   "You know I do, but—"

   "Then cut."

   He nods, lips firming. I would close my eyes if I could, but of course I cannot even do that; I can only steel myself against the pain that's only a second or two away now—steel myself for the steel.

   "Cutting," he says, bending forward.

   "Wait a sec!" she cries.

   The dimple of pressure just below my solar plexus eases a little. He looks around at her, surprised, upset, maybe relieved that the crucial moment has been put off—

   I feel her rubber-gloved hand slide around my penis as if she meant to give me some bizarre handjob, Safe Sex with the Dead, and then she says, "You missed this one, Pete."

   He leans over, looking at what she's found—the scar in my groin, at the very top of my right thigh, a glassy, no-pore bowl in the flesh.

   Her hand is still holding my cock, holding it out of the way, that's all she's doing; as far as she's concerned she might as well be holding up a sofa cushion so someone else can see the treasure she's found beneath it—coins, a lost wallet, maybe the catnip mouse you haven't been able to find—but something is happening.

   Dear wheelchair Jesus on a chariot-driven crutch, something is happening.

   "And look," she says. Her finger strokes a light, tickly line down the side of my right testicle. "Look at these hairline scars. His testes must have swollen up to damned near the size of grapefruits."

   "Lucky he didn't lose one or both."

   "You bet your . . . you bet your you-knows," she says, and laughs that mildly suggestive laugh again. Her gloved hand loosens, moves, then pushes down firmly, trying to clear the viewing area. She is doing by accident what you might pay twenty-five or thirty bucks to have done on purpose . . . under other circumstances, of course. "This is a war-wound, I think. Hand me that magnifier, Pete."

   "But shouldn't I—"