Chapter Two
The next morning I was awoken by someone calling themselves a crisis counselor. She wanted to `talk' about anything that was bothering me. I really didn't have a lot to say to a stranger and I especially didn't want her asking a bunch of questions and trying to out me or something. I am always distrustful of these counselor types trying to get me to out myself and then blabbing it to my parents or something. I already have a pretty good idea of how my parents are going to react and I don't want some counselor or therapist thinking that they knew better than me how to handle the situation. Granted, she probably only wanted to talk about the accident and how I felt about losing my closest friends, but I didn't trust her from the beginning. I gave her a lot of monosyllabic answers to her probing questions and she finally left.
Dr. Andrews stopped by mid-morning. He took off a couple of my bandages and unwrapped my ribs for the first time. I was solid black in a couple of places and purple in a lot of others. I guess the pain medication is actually doing something because although I'm in constant pain, it doesn't hurt as bad as it looks. He also removed the IV. I can start to eat at lunch time, so that's cool. Not that I'm optimistic about the food tasting good, but it seems like I'll feel more normal when I can eat again.
He took out the catheter last. That was an experience I never want to repeat. Now I have to get up to go to the bathroom. That means I have to call a nurse to help me out of bed and to go. That part I'm not so excited about, but now that I'm off the catheter I can start walking around. Once I'm on my feet, I can get out of here sooner. My whole life is centered on getting out of the hospital as quickly as possible. Dr. Andrews wants me to take it easy and not re-injure myself, but I can't wait to get the hell out of this place.
As expected, lunch wasn't great and I couldn't really eat much. I think I'm down to about 110 pounds. I was never much more than 120 and I'm only 5'7" so I'm not that big of a guy. My ribs are sticking out now. I need to put on some muscle. Dr. Andrews mentioned something about physical therapy, so I'm hoping that I can get some muscle weight put on. After lunch Tony, the orderly, showed up.
"Hey buddy," he said, backing into the room pulling another hospital bed with him. I cringed when he called me `buddy' like we're friends or something.
"Hey Tony," I replied in a flat tone. Even though it was lonely without a roommate, I wasn't exactly looking forward to sharing my room either.
"Gotcha a roommate here," he said while flipping the bed around so I could see who was inside. My jaw dropped. It was Drago. Of course it was Drago. Why was fate putting that asshole in a bed next to me? I can't even leave to get away from him.
"Hey loser," he said when he realized it was me. His huge frame filled the hospital bed. He must be nearly 6'3" or 6'4" now, and all muscle from playing football. His shoulder-length dark blonde hair looked dirty. He looked like he'd been through hell.
"Fuck off Drago," I said and reached out and pulled the curtain closed. It only went halfway, but at least I didn't have to look at him anymore.
"Whoa, guess you guys know each other already," Tony said, laughing.
"Oh yeah, me and fag-boy go way back," Drago said, obviously trying to get a reaction out of me.
"Hey, no name calling around here," Tony replied. I didn't say a word. Drago had called me names like fag-boy, queermo, and a whole bunch of other degrading names over the years, although I don't think he knows I am actually gay. I think he believes I'm straight and that the names really hurt because I'm not gay. I turned up the sound on the TV and did my best to ignore his presence.
"Okay, I'll be a good boy," Drago said sarcastically. I flipped through channels on the TV as Tony secured Drago's bed, my anger building up inside. This was such bullshit. Whose bright idea was it to put that asshole in the same room as me? Why didn't Drago refuse? Why would he want to share a room with me? Doesn't he have anything better to do?
Finally, Tony left, although I wasn't sure that his leaving was a positive because I am alone with Drago now. I kept flipping through the channels, unable to focus for longer than a few minutes on any one program. I scribbled a question in my notes about attention span, although I couldn't think of the words attention span. My mind is all over the place and it really didn't help to have my biggest tormentor from high school breathing too loudly in the bed next to me.
"Just put it on the baseball game, Alvin," he blurted out after I'd run through the channels about four times.
"I hate baseball," I said flatly, but put it on the Rockies game regardless. I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep, but for once I couldn't fall asleep.
"Fuck, the Rockies really suck, huh?" Drago said as the game came to a close. The Rockies lost 6 to 1, the 1 being a late homer in scrub-time.
"Yeah, I guess," I replied. Why was he talking to me? I guess we're both bored, but it's not like we've had a civil conversation in six years.
"What do you think of the Broncos chances this year?" he asked. Ah, typical Colorado small talk -- `how 'bout them Broncos'? I guess it can't hurt to make small talk. Maybe it will make the time go faster.
"I still can't believe they drafted a tight end in the first round," I said, finally showing some emotion.
"I know, that and signing Joe Flacco," Drago said. The curtain was still pulled halfway shut and neither of us attempted to open it while we talked. It seemed to suit us to pretend it was someone else on the other side of the curtain.
"I'm not real sure about that coach. I thought they would fire him after last season, but I guess they can't keep firing coaches year after year," I said, starting to get into the conversation.
"Yeah, I getcha. Maybe now that the players know the system, things will get better. Can't get much worse," he said.
"No doubt. Still can't believe the Patriots won the Super Bowl again," I said, shaking my head.
"Yeah, right? I'd rather it were anyone but them," Drago laughed. I laughed, too. It was almost like we are friends. Except that we aren't.
"Did ya hear the rumor that the Broncos might try to get Tom Brady?" I asked.
"Yeah, that would be some shit. I don't think I could bring myself to cheer for him," Drago said.
"No, couldn't do that," I replied. Neither of us spoke for a while. The afternoon game was the Dodgers and the Giants -- two teams I can't stand. I may not know much about baseball, but I know the teams I like and dislike.
"Are you gonna be able to play football this year?" I asked before thinking about my words. It just popped into my head, but if he was as hurt as my dad made it sound, he probably didn't want to be reminded that he wouldn't be able to play. He'd also gotten into CU, but on an athletic scholarship. I couldn't believe that we'd both be going to the same college. It's like I can't escape him. I wonder why he wants to be so close to home. If I could have gone anywhere else, I definitely would have and the thought of living at home is an absolute nightmare. But he seems happy to live at home. At least that is my impression watching him from afar.
"Maybe. We'll see after physical therapy. My knee was dislocated. I had surgery to repair it and then another surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff. That's why I'm still in the hospital--I had two surgeries," he said, seemingly rather upbeat. "But as long as I heal on schedule and there's no setbacks, I should be able to start practicing with the team in July."
"Wow, that's really fast," I said wondering how long it will take me to get back to normal. No one has talked to me about any kind of schedule for healing. Maybe it's because of my head injury. Maybe someone has talked to me about it and I've already forgotten. I'd better write some of this down so I don't forget to ask.
"Yeah, I'm young and in prime shape," he said. "Unlike you, all skin and bones. Bet you can barely hold up that guitar of yours," he said, laughing.
"Yeah, whatever," I mumbled, scribbling down a couple of more questions. It didn't take long for him to start giving me shit again, that's for sure.
"Hey, I was just kidding, you know," he said after a few minutes of silence.
"Sure, man, whatever," I said back. I don't want to let my guard down with him because it will just give him more opportunity to start shit again.
"Whatever," he said and he started changing stations on the TV. I closed my eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted.
I woke up when dinner was delivered around 6:00. I am still losing big chunks of time to sleep. I could hear Drago's parents talking quietly to him on the other side of the room. I wonder when my parents are going to come by. They haven't been here at all today. Plus, I really want my guitar. I miss playing and already feel out of practice. Drago's mom suddenly peered around the curtain.
"Oh you're awake!" she exclaimed. "Alvin, it's so good to see you," she said, throwing the curtain open and wrapping me up in a hug.
"Um, thanks Mrs. Jenkins," I managed to choke out around her strong embrace. Drago's dad came over and vigorously shook my hand.
"It's been too long, son," he said and as soon as Mrs. Jenkins let me go, he also hugged me. I forgot how nice they are. No wonder Drago wants to be at home.
"Yeah, it's been a long time," I said, returning the hug. Somehow their hugs felt more genuine than my own parents' hugs had felt. I kind of didn't want to let go.
"How are you boys doing in here? Is there anything we can bring you?" Mrs. Jenkins asked, looking from Drago to me. I just shook my head `no'.
"Mom, you've gotta bring us some food that we can eat. This stuff is slop of the worst kind," he pleaded. His parents both laughed.
"Bill, why don't you go and get the boys some burgers and fries?" Mrs. Jenkins requested of her husband.
"Sure thing. Any preference? BK? McD's?" he asked, pulling his keys from his pocket.
"Jack in the Box, right, dude?" Drago answered looking over at me. I nodded again, surprised that he'd asked me.
"Jack in the Box it is, guys. I'll be back in a flash," Mr. Jenkins said. He kissed his wife and was out the door, just like that. There's no way in hell my dad would have done anything like this. It's weird to see how Drago's parents act differently from mine. I guess he's an only child so it's not the same.
Mrs. Jenkins kept us engaged in chit chat until Mr. Jenkins came back with two big bags of food. He threw one bag to Drago and put the other one on the table next to my bed. Mrs. Jenkins picked up the hospital food trays like they were poisonous and set them out in the hall. Drago tore into the bag and had half a cheeseburger eaten in less than a minute.
"Wow, thanks Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins," I said, opening the bag to see what was inside. It was a ton of food! I pulled out a cheeseburger and couldn't believe how hungry I felt all of the sudden. After all this time not eating real food, I hadn't gotten my appetite back until now. The smell of food triggered my appetite and I dug in.
"Yeah, thanks Mom and Dad," Drago said in between bites. He was shoving French fries in his mouth now. It is amazing watching him eat. I guess he's a football player and has probably ten inches of height on me, but he can Hoover down a lot of food fast.
After he finished two double burgers and a large fries, he looked over to see what I had left.
"You gonna finish that?" he asked pointing to the bag of food I had left. I'd eaten a double burger and most of the fries. I really wanted to eat more, but my stomach has shrunk and there is no way I can eat any more, so I threw the bag over to him. He finished off the other burger and a chicken sandwich before burping really loud.
"Ahhhh, that was fuc...I mean flipping awesome," he said, patting his stomach. His mom just laughed and his dad grinned at him. Only parents think it's cute and clever when their son eats like a pig.
Drago's parents stayed until the nurses kicked them out after visiting hours ended. My parents never did show. It seems weird that they didn't come to visit, but maybe they have hospital fatigue or something. I heard one of the nurses talking about that while I was walking around to build up my strength. I miss my guitar more than I miss them, I guess. That is what I think about more than anything.
Sunday morning rolled around with a visit from Dr. Andrews. I had my pad and questions ready. I managed to get some of the more important stuff answered, like my physical therapy schedule. It looks like I am going to do PT, as the doctor called it, for three months. I am going to see a cognitive therapist on Monday and will probably need to do some kind of counseling with that person for a while, too. Brain exercises, or something like that.
To my surprise, Drago actually helped me remember some of the stuff I forgot to write down. He asked a ton of questions about my exercise regimen. I figure that he must know all this stuff because of his athletic background. My eyes kind of glazed over while they talked. A few minutes later I realized that they had stopped talking and were both looking at me.
"Huh?" I asked, the model of intelligence and paying attention.
"I asked if you were feeling up to a visit from the physical therapist this afternoon," Dr. Andrews said.
"He's like that a lot. He's spaces out and forgets what's going on all the time," Drago said before I could answer.
"Thanks for that," I snapped at him and turned back to Dr. Andrews. "I've been having a hard time focusing but I wouldn't say that I `space out and forget' all the time," I said mocking Drago's comment. Drago flipped me off behind the doctor and I made a face at him.
"It's concerning that you are still having memory loss and that your focus is lacking. I'll schedule an MRI and CT scan for this afternoon instead of physical therapy. I want you to stay in bed and keep resting until then. No vigorous activity and no arguing between you two," Dr. Andrews said, looking to Drago for confirmation.
"Yeah, man, you can count on me," Drago said in a bored tone. It sounded sarcastic to me, but Dr. Andrews took him for his word and headed out to order my tests.
"Thanks for that," I said, definitely sarcastic. I don't want any more tests. I don't want them to find any reason to keep me here any longer than they have to.
"What dude? If there's something wrong, they need to know about it," he said and then stuck his tongue out at me and made a face.
"I guess," I sighed and fell back into the pillows. "I just want to get out of here. And it would be really nice to have my guitar. I feel like I should be playing. It's like an itch I can't scratch or something," I said, feeling dejected. Drago was getting stronger and healthier and I was just barely maintaining.
"I'm sure your parents will be around today. It's Sunday, that's like hospital visitation day or something," he said, attempting to make me feel better. I just nodded and then closed my eyes. I didn't fall asleep but I didn't feel like talking either.
A few hours later I was rolled into a huge donut-shaped machine and they took pictures of my brain. After that I was put on another machine for more brain investigation. One was an MRI and the other a CT scan but I couldn't tell you which was which. It was dinner time before I was wheeled back into my room. Drago had been moved to the side of the room with the window. He grinned at me as an orderly plugged my bed in and got me settled. As soon as the orderly was gone, I tore into Drago.
"What the fuck? That was my side of the room!" I glared at him angrily.
"Yeah, you were gone for soooo long, I had to move so I would have something to look at," he said, a devious smile playing on his lips.
"Fuck you. I hope you choke on your dinner," I said and rolled over to turn my back to him as much as I could. My IV was pulling, but I didn't care. I couldn't believe that he took my side of the room while I was out getting my head X-rayed. What kind of bullshit is that?
"Oh, I already ate. My parents brought KFC earlier," he said with a smirk. I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. It figures that his parents brought him dinner. I thought it smelled like fried chicken in here. That's just great. It smells like fried chicken and I didn't even get any. At least I didn't have to watch him eat again. That is just about disgusting.
"C'mon man, roll over and talk to me," he pleaded about an hour later.
"Fuck you," I answered and shut off the light above my bed. I just can't deal with him anymore. I don't know why he even wants to talk to me. Probably just bored. I'm not going to put on like we are friends or something. No one said anything for quite a while. My stomach was growling. I'd missed lunch because I was supposed to do those tests on an empty stomach and for some reason no one brought dinner for me either. Drago got up and put something on my table.
"Here. My parents brought you chicken, too. Sorry I was fucking around about it. I got kinda pissed off when you told me to fuck off," he said. My stomach growled again. I had this horrible urge to throw the bag back in his face, but I am seriously hungry and the smell of chicken was driving me nuts.
"Uh, thanks, I guess," I said and opened the bag. I half expected it to be the bones from his dinner and for him to start laughing at me again, but it was actually a four-piece meal. I ate two pieces and the biscuit and potatoes and gravy. Even though it was cold it was still really good. This time he didn't even have to ask, I just gave him my leftovers and he scarfed them down in an instant.
"Thanks. I'm still hungry, though," he said. I have a feeling he is always hungry. He seems to burn more energy laying in a hospital bed than most people do running a race. I looked over at him.
"Hey, you're off your IV," I noticed that he wasn't attached to any cords or cables anymore. "Lucky," I said wishing I were in his place.
"Yeah, it looks like I'm getting out of here tomorrow afternoon, or maybe Tuesday morning," he said with a big smile. "Cannot wait to sleep in my own bed," he said putting his arms behind his head. I was jealous of his range of movement. I just nodded at him.
We ended up talking about school some. He hadn't heard about what we were supposed to do about finals, either. His dad told him that we'd probably just be given average grades--whatever we normally would have gotten in our classes--without finals. He'd heard that there was going to be a tribute at the graduation ceremony for everyone that died. I realized that not one kid from school had been by to see either one of us.
"Has anyone visited from school? I mean any of the other kids?" I asked him. He shook his head `no'.
"My dad says they were told to stay away so we can heal. Supposedly the cheerleaders are planning something for tomorrow. I talked to Michael St. John on the phone a couple of times and he told me about it," he said.
"Yeah, I guess I thought that someone would have, you know, stopped by or something," I mumbled. I don't want to cry. Well, I do want to cry, this really sucks, but I don't want Drago to see me cry.
"Maybe you aren't the only one who blames me for this shit show," Drago said staring at the ceiling. It looks like he's trying not to cry, too.
"I don't really blame you, ya know," I told him. It was true, now. I knew that what happened was an accident.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
We didn't talk again until lights out. We both laid in the dark.
"Hey, your parents never came," he said sleepily.
"Thanks for reminding me," I said sarcastically. On one hand I was surprised that they hadn't been by, but on the other it kind of reinforced that they don't really think much of me. It still hurts, though, even if I don't think much of them, either.
"Sorry, dude. I didn't think before I said something. I bet they'll be here tomorrow," he said and before long I could hear his steady breathing indicating he'd fallen asleep. I laid awake for quite a while.
Morning came with a ruckus. The cheerleading squad came in doing a cheer for Drago and me. My head pounded but I knew they meant well, so I just smirked and clapped along. After they left, the drama department came and made an appearance. They decorated our room with cards from practically every kid in school and the banner the cheer squad left behind. There were balloons and streamers. It looked like a ten-year-old's birthday party.
Kids streamed in and out throughout the day. People brought stuffed animals and more cards and some other junk from the hospital gift store. It's nice that people finally stopped by but in a way it made me miss my best friends even more.
Lucky Drago actually did get released in the afternoon. He left the decorations and gifts behind, saying that he would be by to get his stuff later that week. I still don't have a release date. Apparently my tests from Sunday afternoon weren't especially promising. The cognitive therapist didn't show up until Tuesday. She ordered more tests but didn't say much of anything else.
I realized Tuesday afternoon that I actually miss Drago. In the big whirlwind of visitors on Monday and then his release afterward, we hadn't talked since Sunday night. He hadn't been especially kind or cool or anything, but it was something. I sat staring at the cards and decorations. Most of them were for Drago. Which is understandable. He is popular, a football player, big man on campus or whatever. I was like an afterthought. Nothing like a life-threatening accident to let you know just how insignificant you really are.
Tuesday rolled into Wednesday. I underwent a bunch more tests. I am bored and lonely and feeling sorry for myself. I fell asleep again, more out of boredom than need for rest and was awoken by someone playing guitar and singing. Horribly. It was Drago.
"Every rose has its thorn, just like every night has its dawwwwwnnn," he drawled out strumming randomly on my prized acoustic guitar. I saved every penny for two years to buy it and here he is singing some crappy hair band song and dragging his fingers across the strings.
"Oh shut up and hand it over," I laughed covering my ears. He laughed, too and gave me my guitar.
"Here ya go, special delivery," he said. He didn't let go and we nearly dropped it before it finally ended up in my hands. My heart was pounding by that point, but then I relaxed. It felt so wonderful to have my guitar back in my possession.
"Thanks, man," I said, strumming and tuning immediately.
"Wow, that already sounds better than what I was playing," he said laughing again. He sat down in the chair by the window. I'd been moved back to the window after he checked out. "Well, what are you going to play for me?" he said, seemingly settling in. As confused as I was that he was hanging out, I was so happy to have my guitar that I didn't even ask what he was doing there or why he had my guitar.
"I've had this song stuck in my head for days...I'm not even sure what song it is, I just know I want to play it," I said, trying out a few strains. I closed my eyes and could see the music. Not exactly the notes, but more like the way that the music should sound. It doesn't make any sense and I can't exactly explain it, but I can SEE the music and want nothing more than to play the song. I began playing.
After about five minutes, I paused and opened my eyes. I'd never had such an experience in my life. It was exhilarating. I could see the music, feel it. It was a part of me like nothing had ever been before. I met Drago's eye and he looked surprised. Maybe even impressed.
"Wow," he whispered and I continued the song, seemingly unable to stop. I played another couple of minutes and finally ended the song. My fingers felt like electricity shot through them. Part of that was the sheer excitement of the experience and part was that my calluses weren't as tough as they were before the accident.
"That was fucking incredible," Drago said enthusiastically. "What song was that?" he asked. I shook my head in disbelief.
"I'm not sure. I think it's something I played back when I took lessons, but I guarantee that I've never played it like that before," I said, amazed at my own performance. I was good at playing guitar before the accident. Possibly even better than good--I've been told I am a great player and have lots of talent. But what I just played was like perfection.
"Well, it was super cool. Play something else," he encouraged. He was sitting up in his chair with an excited look on his face. I started on an old Metallica song just to fuck with him.
"Ha! Is that Master of Puppets?" he laughed as I eased into the song. With no hesitation, I played a song that for the life of me I couldn't remember having played in probably four years. I laughed, too, and rocked that song as best I could on an acoustic guitar. Drago started singing along. I was shocked he knew the words and that he was enjoying my rendition. He even tried some head banging, which cracked me up. I knew I couldn't because of the whole head injury thing, but it was still fun to watch him.
"Do you know War Ensemble?" he asked when I wrapped up Master of Puppets.
"The Slayer song?" I asked incredulously.
"Yeah!" he exclaimed.
"How do you know these songs?" I asked.
"Guitar Hero!" he said excitedly. Ahhh...he came to these songs second hand, so to speak. I began the song, sure that I hadn't played it in several years. Again, Drago sang along. His voice sucked but he was so enthusiastic that I didn't say anything, I just grinned.
"I had no idea you were so good," he said when we finished the song.
"I don't think I was," I mumbled.
"What do you mean?" he looked as confused as I felt.
"I've never been THIS good. I mean I'm good and have some talent or whatever, but I've never been this good at playing guitar," I said looking at my fingers on the strings.
"No way!" he exclaimed. "Maybe your head injury triggered some kind of guitar prodigyism or something," he said. I actually wondered the same thing myself. I'd heard of people who had head injuries that ended up with weird skills but that kind of stuff doesn't happen to real people. That's like a plot to a bad movie. But my guitar skill had improved immeasurably. And I wanted to play so badly. It's almost like I HAD to play.
"Play something else. Something classical!" he said, clapping his hands. He wasn't just making requests now, he was throwing out challenges. I played a Tarrega piece that just appeared in my mind. I have never experienced the kind of recall that I am having today. I can just call up a piece and play it from memory like it was nothing.
"Awesome, okay now something by Joe Satriani," Drago commanded. I played Flying in a Blue Dream. A song I don't even like. But I could play it to perfection. I'm not sure I ever finished playing that song before when I used to take lessons. But now I can play it with my eyes closed. When I finished, I moved into another song that I couldn't remember the name of but just wanted to play. No, it's more like I feel compelled to play.
When I finished, Drago started clapping. Then we heard the nurse's station applauding and people from the rooms around me. I called out a `thank you' and blushed.
"That was so great," Drago got up and fist bumped me.
"Thanks, man. And thank you for bringing my guitar. It was driving me crazy wanting to play," I said, looking him in the eye. Sometimes I could see my old friend still there behind all of the assholery.
"Whatever, dude. I'm going to bring some chicks around and see if I can get in their pants when you play some songs. God knows that you won't want anything to do with them," he winked at me to let me know he was kidding, but it still pissed me off a little. He can't go fifteen minutes without some shitty remark about me being gay.
"Fuck you, dude," I said, but I smiled. I was too happy about my guitar showing up that I couldn't really be too pissed off at him.
"Awww, c'mon. You know I'm kidding, he said, offering a fist to bump again. I hesitated, but then hit his fist anyway. Just then one of the nurses showed up and said that Drago had to get going because it was past visitor's hours.
"Later days," he said, with a final fist bump. "Hope the guitar makes time pass by faster."
"Definitely," I replied, still with a stupid grin on my face. His behavior was baffling, but I wasn't going to question it too much. I am sure he will be back to his asshole-self at any moment. He left and I kept playing guitar until the nurses made me stop. I had a hard time stopping. I just wanted to play for the rest of the night.
As soon as I was awoken by the evil needle nurse--the one who comes to take my blood every morning--I picked up my guitar. The compulsion to play had increased. I just can't put my guitar down. I closed my eyes and thought of music to play and it simply flowed through my fingers.
"Wow, that's incredible," my eyes flew open when Dr. Andrews spoke to me mid-morning. "I haven't seen you this animated the entire time you've been here," he said. I blushed.
"Thanks," I mumbled. I have a hard time taking compliments gracefully.
"Seriously, you told me you love to play guitar, but you are truly amazing," he said, coming over to the side of the bed and peering under my head bandage.
"Dr. Andrews..." I started saying. I wanted his opinion on my sudden increase in skill on the guitar but I don't really know what to say without sounding like I am crazy. "Uh, well, I've always been good at playing guitar, but since the accident..." I trailed off unable to put to words how the accident had changed me.
"What is it? Are you still having memory lapses?" he asked, now shining a light in my eyes.
"Uh, yeah, but that's not what I mean," I said. "I've never played guitar as well as I have since the accident. It's like I can see and feel the music in a whole different way. I play songs I don't remember ever learning and play songs that I know better than I've ever played them. And I feel this compulsion to play. I can't put down the guitar. It's all I want to do. It's the only time I feel clarity. Otherwise my brain feels kind of cloudy and I have trouble focusing," I said, excited now. This is exciting, after all. I felt a passion for the guitar previously, but now it has accelerated somehow.
"Really? Do you feel this way about anything else?" Dr. Andrews asked, now performing some nerve tests on my arms and legs. He'd told me what he was testing for but I can't remember the names of the tests or the reason he performed them. And I'm pretty sure he's told me more than once. I can't recall those kinds of details, but I can remember everything about the music I'd played.
"No. Not even close," I said as he tapped the nerve endings in my knees and then felt pressure points in my feet. He didn't say anything for a few minutes.
"Are you having headaches?" he asked once he completed his examination. He tucked his instrument in his coat pocket and looked me in the eye.
"Yeah, sometimes. Not when I'm playing, though," I told him. I'd been playing down my pain, and my headaches especially, because I don't want to be in the hospital anymore. I keep hoping that if I didn't complain about the pain they will release me. So far that hasn't been the case.
"Let me bring in a colleague and we'll continue your exam when he gets here," Dr. Andrews said and he stepped out into the hall and made a phone call. I closed my eyes again and started playing some Brahms.
I kept playing until I heard Dr. Andrews clear his throat. My eyes opened and saw that Dr. Andrews now stood with another doctor.
"Alvin, this is Dr. Winters, he's a neurologist. I've explained to him what you told me about your guitar playing experience and he's been listening with me for the last ten minutes," Dr. Andrews introduced me to the other man. He was a tall man with a dark brown beard. He looked to be in his late 50s. Too bad he isn't sexy hot like Dr. Andrews, I thought as I shook his hand.
"Hello, Dr. Winters," I managed to spit out. My shyness makes meeting new people difficult and this guy is somewhat intimidating. He has a death-grip handshake that made me grip his hand firmer. I suspect that it's some kind of test to see how hard I can grip, but it still unnerved me.
"Good morning, Mr. Jacobs," he said in a deep baritone that didn't help my uncomfortableness with him. "Do you have any recordings of your guitar playing prior to the accident?" he asked, getting straight to business. He peered into my eyes and lifted my eyelids and ran his finger tip in front of me and I watched it go back and forth.
"Yeah, I've got my performance from the school talent show on my phone," I said. "I'm not really sure where my phone is, though," I said, looking around blankly. I'd had it yesterday, but set it down somewhere in the meantime.
"Is this it?" Dr. Andrews picked it up from the table on the side of my bed.
"Yeah, thanks," I said unlocking the home screen. "Let me pull it..." I stopped abruptly and my jaw dropped. My wallpaper had been changed to a picture of two guys fucking. The top had his huge cock about halfway up the bottom's ass. I blushed and adjusted myself. I hid my phone as best I could. "Uh, sorry. Someone playing a prank on me," I mumbled as I pulled up my video folder as fast as I could. Fucking Drago! It had to be him.
I scrolled through my video files only to discover that at least six videos had been added that were gay porn. He must have had my phone for quite a while to have changed my phone this much. I finally found the clip I was looking for.
"This was taken in March," I said, turning the screen for them to see me play at the talent show. I'd played Recuerdos de la Allhambra, a Tarrega piece--different from the one I'd played for Drago, but one of my favorites to play.
"Okay, play that now," Dr. Winters commanded when the video ended. I set down my phone and adjusted myself again. That picture of the two guys from my phone had me boning up. I was glad the sheets covered my package. I took a couple seconds to make sure I was in tune and started to play. I didn't even think about the piece first. I knew the song well and had played it recently, but never with this kind of heart. It was like emotion pouring out of my heart into the song or something.
When I'd completed the song, I opened my eyes and looked to Dr. Winters. He looked kind of angry, or maybe like he was in deep thought. I couldn't tell if he'd liked the piece or not, but Dr. Andrews was clapping loudly.
"That was fantastic, Alvin!" he exclaimed. "The difference from the video is striking, wouldn't you say, Michael?" he asked Dr. Winters. Dr. Winters nodded briefly. Then he broke into a torrent of questions.
"Do you want to play other instruments?"
"No."
"Do you play electric guitar?"
" Yes."
"Then we need to hear you play that, as well. How about headaches?
It went on and on. After about an hour of his investigation, both mental and physical, my parents walked in. It had been Saturday when I'd seen them the last. Dr. Andrews introduced them to Dr. Winters and then the two doctors said they would return the next day but that they wanted me to have my electric guitar brought up. My dad said okay in a noncommittal tone.
"Alvin!" my mother exclaimed. "My church group and I have been praying for you every day," she said, giving me a light hug. It felt fake. I've always gotten a phony vibe from my mom and this whole religion thing really struck me as phony.
"Uh, thanks, I guess," I mumbled.
"Alvin!" she slapped my arm, which still hurt from the accident. "Show some respect," she demanded.
"Sorry," I blurted out, rubbing my arm. Then she grabbed my hand and my father's hand and broke into a five minute prayer on respecting your elders, especially your parents. She threw some quotes from scripture in for good measure. My guess is that they were misquotes, but I didn't know for sure.
"And we all said Amen!" she declared at the end. My dad and I both muttered `amen' and pulled our hands away from her hot, sweaty grip. I wiped my hand on the blanket while she sat down in the chair by the window.
"I've been so busy with the church, Alvin, you can't possibly imagine how much work goes into running a large congregation," she announced as if I would be interested. Maybe that was her way of excusing the fact that she hadn't been here in five days.
"Uh, okay," I said.
"Pastor John is an incredible orator and his sermons touch so many people. And his wife, Darlene, is an absolutely remarkable person in her own right. You know that she runs the Women's Ministry, the Children's Ministry and went on two missionary trips this year?" my mother said excitedly. I nodded and looked at my dad. He was rubbing his temples like he had a headache. I imagined that this was not the first time that he'd heard this spiel.
"So son," my father broke in while my mother caught her breath. "How goes it?" he asked. I thought it an odd question to a certain extent. I mean he hadn't been here for nearly a week and I'd almost died and what not. How goes it?
"Okay, I guess," I said, not really caring to expound on that. I don't think that they cared to hear about it anyway.
"That's good," he replied. I kind of wondered why they had finally come. I guess they felt obligated. Where I previously wondered why they hadn't come, now I wondered why they hadn't stayed away.
"Oh, Alvin," my mother suddenly burst out. My dad and I whipped around to look at her. "We talked to Aldon on the phone on Tuesday. He's doing so well at school. He isn't coming home this summer because he was offered a very prestigious internship at an engineering firm that is world renowned..." she droned on about my brother's various accomplishments for another few minutes. Then my father joined in and for twenty minutes straight they told me all about his life and how proud of him they were. I was bored stiff. I like my brother, he's a good guy. We always got along well. But I was having a hard time hearing all about his achievements at this moment. I mean I'm in the hospital healing from brain surgery here. Any chance you two would want to talk to me about, I don't know, me?
"Well, son, it's about time for dinner and we really need to get going," I heard my dad say finally.
"Oh, uh, okay. I guess I'll see you later then," I said. I wasn't sorry to see them go, but I felt angry and kind of sad that they were so distant. It isn't anything like Drago's parents.
"We'll come back when you are being released, okay?" my mother said, patting me on my hurt shoulder again. I cringed a little and nodded.
"Oh, hey, can you bring up my electric guitar and amp? Dr. Winters said it was important," I remembered to ask before they rushed out of my room.
"Um, I'll have to see if I can get around to it," my dad said. Which means `no'.
"Oh, uh, okay," I mumbled. It didn't seem like much to ask, but he was already out the door. I knew he wouldn't be back until he had to come and get me. I mean, I'm 18 and can make decisions for myself, and frankly, I've been doing this for many years, but it really pissed me off that he couldn't be bothered to help me after the accident.
"Sorry to put you out asshole," I muttered under my breath and slumped back into the bed. I really want my electric guitar. Dr. Winters actually seemed interested in what is going on in my brain. And playing guitar is the only time my mind doesn't feel muddled and cloudy. I have such clarity and gain such pleasure from playing. I grabbed my acoustic and began playing some melancholy tune that I made up in my head. I feel like I can express my emotions better playing guitar than I can through words.
The next morning I couldn't stop thinking about my electric guitar. I wanted it so bad and yet my dad couldn't be bothered to bring it. Suddenly I grabbed my phone and scrolled through to find a number. Before I'd thought about it, I'd already pressed the call button.
"Sup, bro?" Drago answered.
"Hey, uh, how's it goin'?" I asked and swallowed hard. I couldn't believe I'd done it--I'd called Drago voluntarily. It was like my brain was on autopilot and I made the call before I realized what I was doing.
"My knee hurts like a motherfucker and I'm not allowed to go without crutches anymore," he said. I think he was eating something because I could hear him chewing.
"Lame. My head hurts like that sometimes, but there aren't any crutches for that," I replied. He laughed.
"So what's up man?" he asked and now it sounded like he was drinking something. My guess was the milk from the bowl of cereal he just downed.
"So this neurologist doctor wants to hear me play my electric guitar. He's interested in my new skills playing guitar but my dad isn't going to bring my guitar up here. I was wondering if maybe you could pick it up?" I asked, wondering where I came up with this idea for Drago to help me. I suppose it's something that I would have asked Shel to do before.
"Cool. Yeah, I can bring it up there. What all do you need? Can I stay and hear you play?" he asked. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I couldn't believe he agreed. I knew things were different since the accident, but I wasn't expecting him to be this nice to me.
"Okay, my electric guitar is in my bedroom in the dark blue case. You'll need to grab it, the Marshall amp, and the cord plugged into the amp," I said excitedly. "Oh crap, dude, you don't have to do this. You're on crutches," I blurted out when it dawned on me that he wasn't going to be able to just run up to my room and grab my stuff. He is in serious pain, too, he just told me that.
"Fuck that dude. I'm so sick of being holed up in my room that I'll figure out a way to get that stuff down to my mom's car. Bro, you can't even imagine how much it sucks driving a Honda Accord after driving my truck. I can't wait for the insurance to pay out so I can get a new one," he said. It sounded like he was hobbling around his room. "Just let me get dressed I'll be out of here," he told me. For some reason I imagined what he looked like in his boxer briefs, pulling up some basketball shorts. Jesus, where the hell did that image come from? It had to be because I haven't been able to masturbate since before the accident.
"If you're cool with it, I mean I don't want you getting hurt or something," I said. I kept picturing him getting dressed--now a white tank top over his broad shoulders, fuck, I was getting hard again. I had to think about something else before he got here. There is no way I am going to let him think that I got hard because of him.
"Definitely. Alright, I'm going to get out of here before my mom and dad get home from work," he said. I could hear keys jangling in the background. "I'll be there ASAP," he said and the call disconnected. I adjusted myself and tried to think of something gross like two chicks kissing. I looked at my phone and the picture of the guys fucking popped back up. I hadn't deleted it yet. I looked at it for a couple of minutes and rubbed my junk. Was it just me or did the top look kind of like Drago and the bottom kind of looked like me? The top was a blonde jock type and the bottom had longish brown hair and was short and thin. Now I knew that I was just horny and needed to figure out a way to rub one out before I lose my mind. I deleted the pic and all of the videos Drago had put on my phone. I picked up my guitar and got lost in the music again until he arrived.
When Drago arrived I had a small audience. The nurses on my floor are absolutely enamored of me. They love calling out a song and having me play it for them. I grinned when I saw him, carrying my guitar on his back and carrying the amp in one hand and a crutch under his other arm. The cord was wrapped around his shoulders. I ended the song--Hey There Delilah! by the Plain White T's--and the nurses exploded into applause. Drago smirked at me and I shrugged my shoulders.
"Hey man, thanks for bringing my gear," I said once the room cleared out.
"No problem. You've got quite the fan club, huh," he said while setting my stuff on the empty bed in my room. I'd never gotten another roommate, which suited me just fine.
"Yeah. Sometimes while I'm playing I'll hear people in the other rooms clapping and I've actually had other rooms call with song requests," I told him. He sat down in the window chair.
"Well, it's because you're fucking amazing at guitar, dude," he said. He didn't appear to be sarcastic, either. I was having some difficulty reconciling the picture of Drago that I had in my mind with who he seemed to be since the accident. Sometimes he'd throw a nasty comment out there, but it seemed more like he was having fun with me rather than treating me like shit. He used to say and do the foulest things to me--just short of beating my ass on a couple of occasions--but now he acted like we never stopped being friends. I'm not complaining, it's just surprising. And I keep wondering if he's going to maintain this friendliness if other people are present. I don't trust him.
"Thanks, man. I feel like I can't take credit for it. It's like my brain injury triggered something that I can't explain," I said, grinning like an idiot. I'd gotten compliments on my playing before, but people seemed much more positive about my playing now than ever before. Talented, yes, but never `fucking amazing'.
"Naw, man. You're the real deal," he said. "So when you getting out of here?" he asked.
"I don't know. It looked like it was going to be Saturday, but now this neurologist is on my case and I don't know if they will release me until next week," I answered, fiddling with the tuning pegs on my guitar.
"Lame. Hey, there's a graduation party next Saturday. You've gotta get out of here before then and get your ass to Landry's house for the party," he told me.
"Seriously? Man, I don't even know if I'm going to graduation. I don't know if I'm even graduating because I haven't taken finals. I couldn't focus long enough to take them, even if they offered it to me right now," I said. I've been thinking a lot about school. I figured I was going to have to repeat my classes in the fall or something.
"No way man. We got automatic passes after the accident," he said, putting out his fist to bump.
"Really?" I said, bumping his fist.
"Fuck yeah. Everyone is all weepy-eyed about the other kids and because we survived, we're getting all sorts of free passes," he said. I guess he's been on the outside, so he was privy to this kind of information, but it seemed like crazy talk.
"So, no finals and we get to graduate?" I verified. That is fucking cool as hell. I was never that great of a student to begin with, so missing finals sounds like a dream come true.
"Totally. And there's that tribute thing I told you about at graduation. I've heard rumors that we're gonna get some scholarship money to help with college, too," he said. I can't believe this. Just because we'd been in the accident, people are offering us money?
"Nice," I said. I randomly began playing a song that ran through my head. More often than not, I have some tune or another running through my head. Drago closed his eyes and then I closed mine and I played for fifteen minutes or so.
"Hey motherfuckers," a loud voice called out suddenly. My eyes flew open and it was Malcolm Everett, one of the guys from the football team. Drago stood up quickly.
"Hey asshole," he said, bumping fists with his teammate.
"Your mom called me and made me bring your other crutch up here. She said that you're supposed to be using two or some fucking bullshit," Malcolm said. It was like I wasn't even there the way he ignored me.
"Yeah, she's been on my case about these fuckers," Drago said taking the crutch from Malcolm's hand.
"You wanna go get some food?" Malcolm said, turning to walk out the door. Drago adjusted the crutches under his arms and hobbled behind his friend and just like that they were gone. Not even a word to me. This was like the Drago I knew. Actually, he hadn't threatened me or made some cruel comment about my perceived sexuality, so he'd chilled a little. I was tempted to call out a sarcastic `thanks' but I didn't want to push my luck.
"Think about Landry's party, okay," Drago reappeared in the doorway and spoke to me.
"Uh, okay," I mumbled, stunned to a certain extent that he'd come back to say that.
"Forget something?" Malcolm said to Drago from in the hallway.
"No, just telling this loser to stop fucking calling me all the time. If he keeps fagging out on me, I'm gonna have to beat his ass, brain surgery or not," Drago said and the door closed so I couldn't hear him anymore. Is that what he really thought? Just as I suspected, as soon as he was around his friends he went back to talking shit. What an ass. I totally wasn't `fagging out' on him, either. Why did I call him in the first place? There had to be at least six other people I could have called...alright maybe like two other people, I don't really have a close circle since the accident. Fuck him, anyway.
I looked around to find a plug in for my amp and discovered something disturbing. I was hard. Like my cock had been encased in concrete. For some God-unknown reason I keep getting hard when I think about Drago. He just said something truly offensive and my dick went hard. I thought back to when we were on the phone and he was getting dressed. Fuck! What the hell is wrong with me? I really need to get off because I'm starting to have disgusting sexual feelings for a guy that has treated me like shit for longer than I care to remember.
"Mr. Jacobs," a voice boomed out as I sat there rubbing my junk. I whipped my hand away and saw Dr. Winters walk in the door with a group of med students. God I hope none of them saw me touching myself. Of course they show up right at that moment. "Oh, good, you have your electric guitar," he said, taking the cord from my hand and plugged in my amp.
"Uh, yeah," I said, still as clever as ever. I immediately began tuning my guitar. As much as I love my acoustic, and had paid a pretty penny for it, my electric guitar is possibly even more special. It is a Gibson Les Paul standard in Cherry Sunburst. I found it used for $2400 (!) and used my inheritance from my grandma to pay for it last summer. I could have used that money to buy a car, but I couldn't help it, I wanted that guitar so bad. So I had a guitar instead of a car. It is a classic and it sounds so rich and beautiful. I don't get to play it as much as I want because my mom says it is too loud and she hates every song I play. I started playing the song I had stuck in my head. I closed my eyes and fell into a groove.
In the background I could hear my audience shuffling around, but I was able to push that out of my head and soon all I could hear was the sweet sounds of my beloved guitar bringing my imagination to life. I played until Dr. Winters finally made me stop.
"Alright, son, you can stop now," he said putting his hand on my shoulder firmly. I stopped and opened my eyes. Everyone looked at me in awe. I guess I'd really been rocking or something, the way that they stared at me. I grinned at one of the student doctors. He was super cute with his shaggy brown hair and blue eyes. He reminded me a little of Dr. Andrews. He grinned back.
Before we could have a moment or anything, Dr. Winters began shooting off questions. Some were directed at me, some at the students. This went on for quite some time. I started randomly playing a song when one of the student doctors talked for too long. From Dr. Winters' expression, what she said was correct, but I just couldn't keep focused on what they were saying. My compulsion to play just took over and I closed my eyes and made the song in my mind surge from my fingers.
"Mr. Jacobs, please stop," Dr. Winters bellowed out. I begrudgingly stopped. "What made you start playing while Dr. Patel spoke?" he demanded. I could feel the now familiar tingling down below as he addressed me. Something about the forceful, domineering way he took over the room and spoke to me firmly, dare I say authoritarian, made my dick start throbbing. Although I am shy and probably a bottom if I ever have a boyfriend or a sexual encounter of any kind, I've never thought of myself as submissive. But suddenly, whether it was Drago being an asshole or Dr. Winters taking control, I felt this sexual surge from being submissive to a dominant man. My brain really is scrambled since the accident.
"Oh, uh..." I trailed off. I had no answer. I didn't know why I started to play.
"Yes?" he said, staring me down impatiently.
"Well, I couldn't focus on what you were talking about and I just feel an irresistible urge to play. It's the only time I feel clarity," I finally blurted out, feeling pressure from the doctor's glare. Several of the student doctors nodded or took down some notes. Dr. Winters squinted his eyes at me, deep in thought.
"Thoughts?" he nearly shouted and turned to his students.
"Sudden Savant Syndrome?" someone called out.
"Frontotemporal dementia?" said another.
"Autism?" Dr. Patel asked, although it seemed more like a diagnosis than a question. I gave her a dirty look. I'm not retarded.
"Yes, is he on the spectrum?" the cute doctor asked. Suddenly he didn't seem all that cute. The student doctors continued to banter about my probable autism and brain damage, and who knows what else. I just closed my eyes again and played as quietly as I could. Shortly, the room was silent again and I let myself go--I really want to get this song right. I don't really know what song it is, but I'd heard it played at some point presumably. I know it isn't one of my own creations. I just cut loose and played my heart out. When I finished, the whole ward erupted into applause and cheers. I opened my eyes slowly and saw the student doctors staring at me with various looks of amazement. One had to close his mouth because it had been hanging open.
"Eric Johnson's Cliffs of Dover is considered one of the hardest songs to master on guitar," he gushed.
"Oh, that's what that song is called," I said nodding my head in thought. The doctor just looked at me incredulously.
"Yes, that was an outstanding rendition. I've never heard anyone but Eric Johnson play that song before," he said, more to Dr. Winters than to me. I shrugged and started playing another song. I was already bored with them again. Plus, everything sounds so cool when I play it. I want to hear the music running through my head and I don't want to stop. If these doctors have something to say, they can say it in the hallway or just keep talking while I play. I don't really need to know what they are babbling about anyway. I have my guitar and my music and that is all I need.
Eventually, Dr. Winters took the students out of the room. At some point lunch was delivered. I didn't have much of an appetite again. Tony, the orderly, came to collect me and take me for more tests. I don't want to go. I think they sent Tony to man-handle me into going. He had to unplug my guitar--to the groans of several other patients who have enjoyed my playing very much. They love calling me and making requests. They haven't stumped me yet. I begrudgingly put my guitar in its case and picked up my acoustic. I can play that anywhere. I played some Dire Straits as Tony wheeled me down to yet another brain scan. I had to put my guitar down while inside the machine. I think I may have growled at the nurse who took the guitar from my hands. My desire to play is all-encompassing--to the detriment of my social skills. Which weren't the best to begin with.