Hour 2.5: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bathroom
I’m pretty sure I blacked out for at least a few moments because I don’t remember actually landing. I should probably be thankful about that because I think that it probably wouldn’t really be a good memory to have ingrained in my head. As it is, I’m lying flat on my back on a cold hard surface and my head is throbbing in exciting and strange places but otherwise I don’t feel any particular pain. For a brief moment I’m terrified that maybe I don’t feel pain because I’m paralyzed or something. A quick mental inventory of my extremities tells me that everything is still working, though. No broken neck, no broken back. I don’t think there are any broken bones at all. Which means that it’s safe to move.
Unless…what if the guy who attacked me is still here? Maybe he’s waiting for me to open my eyes because he doesn’t like torturing people without getting a reaction. I swallow fearfully. He could be standing over me right now, waiting to chop me up into tiny little pieces because he didn’t find anything in my backpack that was to his liking.
Come to think of it, though, I think I’d probably be even more disturbed if my dirty scrubs were to his liking. I picture a grungy guy sitting in a dank apartment clutching my shirt in his grubby little hands and sniffing it in deep inhaling whiffs. Yeah. That’s definitely more disturbing. I shudder.
I’m sure he’s long gone and I’m lying at the bottom of the stairwell all safe and sound. I can feel my body trembling slightly; telling myself that I’m safe isn’t working. Guess I’ll have to open my eyes and find out for sure.
“Gyaaaah!!” I scream as I find myself looking up at Dr. Doug Murphy hovering over me with a scalpel in his hand.
“Gyaaaaah!!!” he screams right back at me as he leaps backward, sending his implements of torture tray and himself sprawling. I leap off the autopsy table to scurry in the opposite direction, but am stopped as my earlier nausea is joined by an intense wave of dizziness. My legs won’t hold and I find myself sprawled on the floor again. I gulp as I see a pair of hiking boots appear in front of my face.
“I told you we should have used the tape,” I hear the janitor chide Doug. I feel his hands grip me under the arms and hoist me back up onto the table. Tape? I blink as my mind flashes back to earlier when I saw him by the elevators. Duct tape. The janitor wanted to tape me to the elevator wall, and now apparently wants to tape me to an autopsy table. I inch back on the table. “So you don’t fall off and hurt yourself again,” the janitor adds, looking at me with an expression that fairly convincingly mimics concern. If I didn’t know any better I would probably mistaken it as such. But he won’t fool me. “Found you in the stairwell,” he explains. “You should have taken the elevator.”
I so don’t think so. I shake my head and immediately regret it as the dizziness returns and my stomach roils. I reach up and tentatively touch my temple where the gun hit me. It feels slightly wet and quite sticky. Further exploration reveals that there’s also a pretty nasty knot on the back of my head. Great; I probably have a concussion.
“Are you okay?” Murphy asks.
When I don’t immediately answer, the janitor queries, “How many fingers am I holding up?”
I glance at him to find that he’s holding up not only his own hands, but also that of the corpse that is splayed out on the adjacent table. “Thirteen,” I answer at the same time as Doug. The janitor looks rather disappointed, but Doug beams that he’s answered correctly. I shake my head. Once again, big mistake. Will I never learn? To answer my own question I shake my head again. Damn it!
And now the room is spinning. I lay back on the table and close my eyes, hoping it will stop before I get sick again.
“Corpse-five!” I hear the sound of flesh hitting corpse and cringe inwardly. Why is the Todd down in the morgue? Then again, I probably don’t want to know. I swear the guy has some sort of internal homing device that hones in on any given opportunity to slap a raised hand.
“You were supposed to go home before resting, Gretchen,” Cox gripes and I become aware that he’s suddenly standing over me. When did he get here? Did I fall asleep or something? I wince as fingers pry my left eyelid open and a bright light blinds me momentarily before the same thing happens to my right. “Pupils equal and reactive. Good boy.” Am I still a puppy? “No, you’re not a puppy.” Oops, I must have said that out loud. “No, Newbie, you didn’t say it out loud, I just know you better than I ever wanted. In fact, I would venture that I know more than any sane person could ever possibly want now or anytime in the future including any future wife or any of the incredibly annoying little Dorian children you may somehow convince someone to pop out could ever want to know. Now, tell me, how did you manage to do this?” For once the question sounds sincere and not just a setup for some sort of punch line. I wince as his fingers lightly probe my temple.
“He fell down the stairs,” the janitor informs him. “I found him and brought him here.”
“You didn’t think--and I know that is a great challenge to you with that oh-so-underused-that-it-has-actually-become-rusted-out-like-an-old-saw-blade-that’s-been-left-out-in-the-rain-wa-hon-too-many-times noggin of yours--to maybe take him…I don’t know…to an a-hac-tual doctor?” Doug’s a doctor…though honestly with his mortality rate, I’d prefer he not ever treat me. “Up, up Newbie.” And awaaaaaaaaay! Judging from the look that Cox gives me as he stops helping me sit up, I’m guessing I did say that out loud. Either that or he really does know me. I flash him a small innocent grin that only makes him look more disgusted. Still, he doesn’t take his duties lightly. “Well, I don’t think we’ll need any sutures. Did you get any other ‘owies’ when you fell?”
“Knot on the back of my head,” I inform him.
Cox looks at me strangely. “What…did you *bounce*?”
Did I? I look up a little and start to consider.
I start to fall, hit a stair and bounce 15 feet in the air, do a flip, hit a few steps down only to fly up and do triple flip before landing at the bottom. Carla, Turk, and Elliot all hold up score cards. Only a 6.5?? I’ve been robbed!
Wait, I was robbed; I should probably tell them that. The guy could still be somewhere in the hospital and since he really didn’t get anything of interest (don’t think about him sniffing your scrubs don’t think of him sniffing your scrubs) from me, he could well try to get something from someone else. Oh, but note to self, when you build your own house make a set of trampoline stairs.
“No. Back of the head is from the fall; this is from the gun.”
“…Gun, Newbie?”
“Yeah. Guy hit me, took my backpack, and shoved me down the stairs.”
My words set into motion a flurry of events that finds me mere minutes later lying in one of the hospital’s luxury suites.
“I really don’t think I need to be admitted,” I protest, though I have to admit that it does feel really nice as one of the nurses pats my forehead lightly with a wet cloth while a second holds a glass of nice cool water for me to sip from, and a third fluffs my pillow for me.
Actually I take it back. The person fluffing my pillow isn’t actually a nurse. My eyes widen as I discover it’s actually Dr. Kelso. “Only the best treatment for my best doctor!” he assures me and pats me on the shoulder. What the…? Wait. I’m his best doctor? That’s all kinds of awesome!
“Vanilla bear?” I hear Turk call for me as he peers into the room. He has a surgical suture tray with him.
“Only the finest surgeon to make sure you don’t get a scar,” Kelso assures me as he waves Turk in.
“You really think so?” Turk asks. Though Kelso doesn’t answer, it’s clear what the answer is. I raise my fist to give him a congratulatory bump.
“Dear, God,” I hear Dr. Cox from his spot in the doorway.
“I took the liberty to have Ted get you replacements for all of your things,” Dr. Kelso informs me as Turk starts assessing my wound. Ted wipes sweat from his brow and it’s clear that he’s been running around to collect the items. He hands me a brand new backpack (Oh, cool, it’s Scooby Doo!) along with a new set of scrubs. “Ted will go ahead and take the security report down to the police department.”
“But I was going to--" Ted starts to protest, but then stops, “who am I kidding, I was just going to go home and watch Antique Roadhouse…”
Turk and I exchange glances, but say nothing about his choice of programming. Why would anyone watch that when they can watch reruns of Diff’rent Strokes?! Turk nods in total agreement without me even having to say it. He then returns his attention to my temple.
“Well, congratulations. It looks like you don’t need any stitches,” he informs me and starts to turn away.
“Stitch it!” Kelso snaps, then turns back to me with a big smile and another shoulder pat. Why is he being so nice to me? It’s actually borderline creepy.
“I really don’t need…” I start to protest again.
“Just want to make sure you’re all taken care of.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake, he’s not going to sue,” Dr. Cox announces with a pained voice.
Kelso looks expectantly at me for confirmation.
“Of course I’m not--"
He presses a document and a pen into my hands and motions for me to sign it. The moment I do so, his smile is gone. “You’re okay. It’s just a little concussion. We need this bed for actual patients. Now get out.” He whisks out of the room with Ted in tow.
I sigh as I throw back the covers and get out of the bed. Turk reaches out to steady me as I nearly topple over. “I’ve got a surgery, but I know Carla’s off in a few minutes. Hang out for a few and I’m sure she’ll get you home.”
“Nah. I’m okay. I’ll just take Sasha--"
“No driving. I won’t have you get into an accident after we release you,” Kelso scolds as he returns to the room. What did he want now? “Ted,” he looks to his lackey.
Ted looks at me with a defeated and apologetic look on his face.
I sigh and hand back the scrubs and backpack. Easy come, easy go. I watch as Ted shuffles after Kelso. So long Scooby Doo…
“So, I’ll just call Carla and make sure it’s okay.” Turk whips out his cell and makes what I call the “callin’ my baby” look.
“He probably shouldn’t be alone for at least a few hours,” Cox informs him, looking bored and disinterested despite his obvious concern. I grin knowingly at him, but he just snorts and takes his leave.
“Carla’ll pick you up right out front, and she’ll stay with you until I can get there,” Turk reports as he hangs up his phone. “You want a ride?” he asks, grinning as he motions toward the wheelchair that one of the nurses has left for me.
I plop down in the chair and look up at him expectedly.
“Um…JD? Where are your shoes, dude?”
I look down and discover that, indeed, my shoes appear to be missing. Damn it! I liked those sneakers. Turk lets out a small amused chuckle and pats my arm (what is it with people doing that today?). “Hang on!” I grip the armrests as Turk pushes off, racing me down the hall at top speed. Wheeeee!
I start to regret the decision to let Turk do the driving about the time that we take the first turn around the nurses’ station. My stomach lurches, reminding me that I really should be taking it easy. Maybe I should have waited to sign Kelso’s form until after I’d slept off my flu in the luxury suite.
I tense as we approach the elevator but Turk doesn’t slow down. In fact he speeds up. This is going to hurt. We’re going to crash in 3…2…1—DING! The elevator door opens at just the right moment; Turk stops running, letting us skid into the elevator where he spins us around to face the exit. It’s quite possibly a miracle that I manage not to vomit. As it is, my head starts spinning again.
“For chrissakes, Ghandi, the kid has a concussion. Go easy on him!” Cox growls at my best friend. See, he cares!
The last thing I notice as the elevator door closes is that Dr. Cox appears to be wearing my sneakers. I frown as he flashes me a big grin and is waving as the door slides shut. It’s only fair, I suppose. After all I did throw up on his.
I’m pretty much ready to throw up again by the time Turk is loading me into the car. “You sure you should be going? Cox’d probably let you take a bed for a few hours,” he says.
“I don’t think it’s from the concussion. It’s just some stomach bug; I was getting sick earlier.” Turk doesn’t look any happier. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to throw up in the car,” I assure him.
He nods seriously. “Good, cuz I so don’t want to clean that up.” He shuts up at Carla’s glare.
“Poor Bambi,” Carla coos at me as she reaches over and pulls on my seat belt. She waves at Turk until he turns to go back into the hospital. “You will, of course, tell me if you think you’re going to throw up, right?” she asks in a voice that is deceptively sweet, though underlying that I know is at least a small promise of death if I don’t comply. I nod seriously and she smiles, her nose crinkling just a little bit.
We’re only a few blocks away from the hospital when it hits me with sheer certainty. “Carla?”
“Yes, Bambi?” she asks as she looks over her shoulder, trying to merge with traffic.
“We’ve got a code green,” I blurt out.
The car tires screech as she weaves back out of traffic, across a busy intersection, spins a donut, and lands perfectly in a parking spot in front of the Stop-N-Shop. “Go!” she urges. “I’ll get you something to help settle your tummy,” she adds as she gets out of the car after me.
I rush to the back of the store, making it to the restroom just in time to not cause an incredibly embarrassing scene. My stomach empties, but it really doesn’t make me feel any better. I try not to think about how disgusting the restroom floor probably really is as I rest my head against the cool tiles. It feels better than it should, considering how long it has probably been since it was last cleaned.
Ew. Okay, really don’t want to think about that. I push myself up off the floor and stumble over to the sink to clean up. I feel so weak I’m starting to wonder if I really shouldn’t have stayed back at the hospital. At least it’ll only be a few more minutes before I’m home and can curl up in bed with my trusty vomit bowl.
I start to push open the bathroom door but something instinctively makes me stop. I’m not sure for a second why. I don’t think I’m going to get sick again just yet…
“Everybody, on the floor!” a threatening voice yells out and a moment later a shot rings out from the front of the store.
On second thought, guess it’s Code Green time, again.
It’s a good thing I’m not wearing shoes, or I’d have just ruined a second pair.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Not sure if anyone is even reading this, but hey. If you are, and you like it, let me know!
