Choke Page 19

  Picture yourself on the examining table with your knees pulled to your chest in what they call the jackknife position. Your buttocks would be separated and held apart with adhesive tape. Somebody would apply periabdominal pressure while somebody else would insert two tissue forceps and attempt to transanally manipulate and extract the foreign body. Of course, this is all done with regional anesthesia. Of course, nobody is giggling and taking pictures, but still.

  Still. This is me I’m talking about.

  Picture the sigmoidoscope view on a television screen, a bright light pushing along a clenched tunnel of mucosal tissue, wet and pink, pushing into the puckered darkness until it’s there on TV for everybody to see: the dead hamster.

  See also: The Barbie doll head.

  See also: The red rubber butt ball.

  Ursula’s hand has stopped its up-and-down jumping, and she says, “I can hear your heart beat.” She says, “You sound pretty scared.”

  No. No way, I tell her, I’m having a swell time.

  “You don’t feel like it,” she says, her breath hot on my periabdominal region. She says, “I’m getting carpal tunnels.”

  “You mean carpal tunnel syndrome,” I say. “And you can’t because it won’t be invented until the Industrial Revolution.”

  To keep the foreign body from moving higher into the colon, you can provide traction by using a Foley catheter and inserting a balloon into the colon above the body. Then inflate the balloon. More common is a vacuum above the foreign body; this is usually the case with self-administered wine or beer bottles.

  Her ear still against my belly, Ursula says, “Do you know whose it is?”

  And I say, that’s not funny.

  With bottles self-administered open end first, you have to insert a Robinson catheter around the bottle and allow air to flow past it and break the vacuum. With bottles self-administered closed end first, insert a retractor into the open end of the bottle, then fill the bottle with plaster. After the plaster sets around the retractor, pull it to remove the bottle.

  Using enemas is another method, but less reliable.

  Here with Ursula in the stables, you can hear it start to rain outside. The rain pattering on the thatch, the water running in the street. The light in the windows is dimmer, dark gray, and there’s the quick repeating splash of somebody running for cover. The deformed black-and-white chickens squeeze in through a broken board in the walls and fluff their feathers to shake off the water.

  And I say, “What else does the TV say about Denny?”

  Denny and Beth.

  I say, “Do you think Jesus automatically knew he was Jesus from the start, or did his mom or somebody tell him and he grew into it?”

  A soft rumble comes up from my lap, but not from inside me.

  Ursula breathes out, then snores again. Her hand goes limp around me. Limp me. Her hair spills across my legs. Her warm soft ear is sunk into my stomach.

  The hay itches up through the back of my shirt.

  The chickens scratch in the dust and hay. The spiders spin.

  Chapter 38

  How to make an ear candle is you take a piece of regular paper and roll it into a thin tube. There’s no real miracle to it. Still, you have to start with the stuff you already know.

  This is just more flotsam and jetsam left over from medical school, something I teach now to the field trip kids at Colonial Dunsboro.

  Maybe you have to work your way up to the real bona fide miracles.

  Denny comes to me after stacking rock outdoors in the rain all day and says he’s got earwax so bad he can’t hear. He sits in a chair in my mom’s kitchen with Beth there, standing by the back door, leaning back a little with her butt against the edge of the kitchen counter. Denny sits with the chair pulled sideways to the kitchen table and one of his arms resting on the table.

  And I tell him to hold still.

  Rolling the paper into a tight tube, I say, “Just supposing,” I say, “Jesus Christ had to practice being the Son of God to get any good at it.”

  I tell Beth to turn off the kitchen lights, and I twist one end of the thin paper tube into the tight dark tunnel of Denny’s ear. His hair’s grown out some, but we’re talking less of a fire hazard than most people have. Not too deep, I twist the tube into his ear only far enough so it stays in place when I let go.

  To concentrate, I try and not think of Paige Marshall’s ear.

  “What if Jesus spent all his growing up getting things wrong,” I say, “before he ever got a single miracle right?”

  Denny sitting in the chair, in the dark, the white paper tube juts out his ear.

  “How is it we don’t read about Jesus’ failed first attempts,” I say, “or how he didn’t really crank out the big miracles until he was over thirty?”

  Beth pushes out the crotch of her tight jeans at me, and I use her zipper to light a kitchen match and carry the little flame across the room to Denny’s head. Using the match, I light the end of the paper tube.

  From striking the match, the room smells full of sulfur.

  Smoke unwinds from the burning end of the tube, and Denny says, “You’re not going to let it hurt me, are you?”

  The flame creeps in closer to his head. The burned end of the tube curls open and comes apart. Black paper edged with worming orange sparks, these hot bits of paper drift toward the ceiling. Some bits of black paper curl and fall.

  That’s really what this is called. An ear candle.

  And I say, “How about if Jesus got started by just doing nice things for people, you know, helping old ladies cross the street or telling people when they’d left their headlights on?” I say, “Well, not that exactly, but you get the idea.”

  Watching the fire curl closer and closer to Denny’s ear, I say, “How about if Jesus spent years working up to the big loaves-and-the-fishes thing? I mean, that Lazarus deal is probably something he’d have to build up to, right?”

  And Denny’s eyes are twisted over to try and see how close the fire is, and he says, “Beth, is it about to burn me?”

  And Beth looks at me and says, “Victor?”

  And I say, “It’s okay.”

  Leaning back even harder against the kitchen counter, Beth twists her face not to see and says, “It looks like some kind of weird torture.”

  “Maybe,” I say, “maybe even Jesus didn’t believe in himself at first.”

  And I lean into Denny’s face, and with one puff, blow out the flame. With one hand cupped under Denny’s jaw, to keep him still, I slip the last of the paper tube out of his ear. When I show it to him, the paper is gummy and dark with the earwax the fire wicked out.

  Beth turns on the kitchen light.

  Denny shows the burned little tube to her, and Beth smells it and says, “Stinky.”

  I say, “Maybe miracles are like a talent, and you have to start with the small stuff.”

  Denny puts a hand over his clean ear and then uncovers it. He covers and uncovers it again, and says, “Definitely better.”

  “I don’t mean like Jesus did card tricks,” I say, “but just not hurting people would be a good start.”

  Beth comes around, and she holds her hair back with one hand so she can bend and look into Denny’s ear. She squints and gets her head around to see in from different angles.

  Rolling another sheet of paper into a thin tube, I say, “You were on TV the other day, I hear.”

  I say, “I’m sorry.” Just twisting the paper tube tighter and tighter in my hands, I say, “That was my fault.”

  Beth stands straight and looks at me. She shakes her hair back. Denny sticks a finger in his clean ear and digs around, then he smells the finger.

  And just holding the paper tube, I say, “From now on, I want to try and be a better person.”

  Choking in restaurants, fooling people, I’m not going to do that kind of shit anymore. Sleeping around, casual sex, that kind of shit.

  I say, “I called the city and complained about you. I called th
e TV station and told them a bunch of stuff.”

  My stomach hurts, but if it’s guilt or impacted stool, I can’t tell.

  Either way, I’m so full of shit.

  For a second it’s easier to look at the dark kitchen window above the sink, the night outside it. Reflected in the window, there’s me looking as wasted and thin as my mom. The new righteous, maybe-divine Saint Me. There’s Beth looking at me with her arms folded. There’s Denny sitting beside the kitchen table, digging in his dirty ear with his fingernail. Then he peers under the nail.

  “The thing is, I just wanted you to need my help,” I say. “I wanted you to have to ask me for it.”

  Beth and Denny look at me for real, and I look at all three of us reflected in the window.

  “Sure, yeah,” Denny says. “I need your help.” To Beth he says, “What’s this about us being on TV?”

  And Beth shrugs and says, “It was Tuesday, I think.” She says, “No, wait, what is today?”

  And I say, “So you need me?”

  And Denny still sitting in the chair, he nods at the paper tube I’ve got ready. He lifts his dirty ear to me and says, “Dude, do it again. It’s cool. Clean out my other ear.”

  Chapter 39

  It’s dark and starting to rain when I get to the church, and Nico’s waiting for me in the parking lot. She’s struggling around inside her coat, and for a moment one sleeve hangs empty, then she snakes her arm back inside it. Nico reaches her fingers inside the cuff of her other sleeve and pulls out something lacy and white.

  “Hold on to this for me,” she says and hands me a warm fistful of lace and elastic.

  It’s her bra.

  “Just for a couple hours,” she says. “I’m not wearing any pockets.” She’s smiling with one corner of her mouth, her top teeth biting a little on her bottom lip. Her eyes sparkle with rain and streetlight.

  Not taking her stuff, I tell her, I can’t. Not anymore.

  Nico shrugs, and tucks the bra back inside the sleeve of her coat. All the sexaholics have gone inside already, to Room 234. The hallways are empty with shiny waxed linoleum and bulletin boards on the walls. Church news and kids’ art projects posted everywhere. Finger-painting pictures of Jesus and the apostles. Jesus and Mary Magdalen.

  Heading for Room 234, I’m a step ahead of Nico when she grabs the back of my belt and pulls me over against a bulletin board.

  The way my gut aches, the bloating and cramps, when she pulls on my belt, the pain makes me belch acid up the back of my throat. My back against the wall, she slips her leg between mine and lifts her arms around my head. Her breasts wedged warm and soft between us, Nico’s mouth fits over mine, and we’re both breathing her perfume. Her tongue’s more in my mouth than in hers. Her leg’s rubbing not my erection, but my impacted bowel.

  The cramping could mean colorectal cancer. It could mean acute appendicitis. Hyperparathyroidism. Adrenal insufficiency.

  See also: Intestinal obstruction.

  See also: Colorectal foreign bodies.

  Cigarette smoking. Fingernail biting. It used to be my cure for everything was sex, but with Nico swimming against me, I just can’t.

  Nico says, “Okay, we’ll find a different place.”

  She steps back, and I bend double with the ache in my guts and stumble down to Room 234 with Nico hissing behind me.

  “No,” she’s hissing.

  Inside Room 234, the group leader’s saying, “We’re going to work on the fourth step tonight.”

  “Not in there,” Nico’s saying until we’re standing in the open doorway being looked at by the crowd of people sitting around a big, low table stained with paint and lumpy with dried paste. The chairs are little plastic scoops so low everybody’s knees jut up in front of them. These people just stare at us. These men and women. Urban legends. These sexaholics.

  The group leader says, “Is there anybody here still working on their fourth step?”

  Nico slides against me and whispers into my ear, she whispers, “If you go in there, in with all those losers,” Nico says, “I’m never getting with you again.”

  See also: Leeza.

  See also: Tanya.

  And I come around the table to drop myself into a plastic chair.

  With everybody watching, I say, “Hello. I’m Victor.”

  Looking into Nico’s eyes, I say, “My name is Victor Mancini, and I’m a sexaholic.”

  And I say how I’ve been stuck on my fourth step for what seems like forever.

  The feeling is less like an ending than just another starting point.

  And still leaning in the doorway, not just eye juice but tears, rolling black mascara tears, burst out of Nico’s eyes, and she smears them away with her hand. Nico says, she shouts, “Well, I’m not!” And out of the sleeve of her coat, her bra drops on the floor.

  Nodding at her, I say, “And this is Nico.”

  And Nico says, “You people can all get fucked.” She snatches up her bra and she’s gone.

  It’s then everybody says, Hello Victor.

  And the group leader says, “Okay.”

  He says, “As I was saying, the best place to find insight is to remember where you lost your virginity. …”

  Chapter 40

  Somewhere north-northeast above Los Angeles, I was getting sore, so I asked Tracy if she’d let up for a minute. This is another lifetime ago.

  With a big hank of white spit looped between my knob and her lower lip, her whole face hot and flushed from choking, still holding my sore dog in her fist, Tracy settles back on her heels and says how in the Kama Sutra, it tells you to make your lips really red by wiping them with sweat from the testicles of a white stallion.

  “For real,” she says.

  Now there’s a weird taste in my mouth, and I look hard at her lips, her lips and my dog the same big purple color. I say, “You don’t do that stuff, do you?”

  The doorknob rattles and we both look, fast, to make sure it’s locked.

  This is that first time, what every addiction is about getting back to. That first time that no subsequent time is ever as good as.

  Nothing’s worse than when a little kid opens the door. What’s next worst is when some man throws open the door and doesn’t understand. Even if you’re still alone, when a kid opens the door you have to, fast, cross your legs. Pretend it’s all an accident. An adult guy might slam the door, might yell, “Lock it next time, ya moron,” but he’s still the only one blushing.

  After that, what’s worse, Tracy says, is being a woman the Kama Sutra would call an elephant woman. Especially if you’re with what they call a hare man.

  This animal thing refers to genital size.

  Then she says, “I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did.”

  The wrong person opens the door, and you’re in their nightmares all week.

  Your best defense is unless somebody is on the make, no matter who opens the door and sees you sitting there, they always assume it’s their mistake. Their fault.

  I always did. I used to walk in on women or men riding the toilet on airplanes on trains or Greyhound buses or in those little single-seat either/or unisex restaurant bathrooms, I’d open the door to see some stranger sitting there, some blonde all blue eyes and teeth with a ring through her navel and wearing high heels, with her g-string stretched down between her knees and the rest of her clothes and bra folded on the little counter next to the sink. Every time this happened I’d always wonder, why the hell don’t people bother to lock the door?

  As if this ever happens by accident.

  Nothing on the circuit happens by accident.

  It could be, on the train somewhere between home and work, you’ll open a bathroom door to find some brunette, with her hair pinned up and only her long earrings trembling down alongside her smooth white neck, and she’s just sitting inside with the bottom half of her clothes on the floor. Her blouse open with nothing inside but her hands cupped under each breast, her fingernails, her lips, her nipp
les all the same cross between brown and red. Her legs as smooth white as her neck, smooth as a car you could drive two hundred miles an hour, and her hair the same brunette all over, and she licks her lips.

  You slam the door and say, “Sorry.”

  And from somewhere deep inside, she says, “Don’t be.”

  And she still doesn’t lock the door. The little sign still saying:

  Vacant.

  How this happens is I used to fly round-trip from the East Coast to Los Angeles when I was still in the medical program at USC. During breaks in the school year. Six times I opened the door on the same yoga redhead naked from the waist down with her skinny legs pulled up cross-legged on the toilet seat, filing her nails with the scratch pad of a matchbook, as if she’s trying to catch herself on fire, wearing just a silky blouse knotted over her breasts, and six times she looks down at her freckled pink self with the road crew orange rug around it, then her eyes the same gray as tin metal look up at me, slow, and every time says, “If you don’t mind,” she says, “I’m in here.”

  Six times, I slam the door in her face.

  All I can think to say is, “Don’t you speak English?”

  Six times.

  This all takes less than a minute. There isn’t time to think.

  But it happens more and more often.

  Some other trip, maybe cruising altitude between Los Angeles and Seattle, you’ll open the door on some surfer blond with both tanned hands wrapped around the big purple dog between his legs, and Mr. Kewl shakes the stringy hair off his eyes, points his dog, squeezed shiny wet inside a glossy rubber, he points this straight at you and says, “Hey, man, make the time. …”

  It gets to be, every time you go to the bathroom, the little sign says vacant, but it’s always somebody.

  Another woman, two knuckles deep and disappearing into herself.

  A different man, his four inches dancing between his thumb and forefinger, primed and ready to cough up the little white soldiers.