Frank took a job at The Barstow Community Hospital. Why the he’ll not? The job was perfect for Frank. He’d push patients, in their hospital beds, and got a way with a small talk staying at arms length from bodies arms stick like, and thinning hair. Once in a while a cherub face rolling toward pain.
Long shifts. Frank keeps to himself eating in the corner of the cafeteria. He has nothing to say and makes this known.
At night, Frank disconnects himself from the fast food line of bodies, waiting on sharp instruments, catchup like plasma propelling souls into permeant darkness. Frank crawls in to his smashed up emotional shelter( rusted house trailer) resting in doublewide grave yard. Frank drinks and rolls the day back. He’s a spectator to the horrors of modern medicine. Pinkish, aged skin hanging lose from the patients arms. They remind Frank of half eaten chicken bones scattered over a blanket at avSunday picnic.
It was a afternoon, Frank was paged by a monotoned woman’s voice. It came over the hospital’s public address system instructing him to move a patient from her fourth floor room to the X-ray room for a Saturday Cat Scan. Frank floated along with his on again off again gate. He rolled the transportation bed up to her crisp, white, eclair shaped bed.
Frank felt himself picking up a feather lite woman’s body. She emotionally affected him right away. Vibes corresponding to what he liked and what he rejected. He eyeballed her chart. Her name was Rachel Stine. She was Jewish. First one he’d seen he knew of. Her face was anemic, pale, olive skin and a discharge of soft, brown hair.
He hoisted her chart He wasn’t a doctor however, he’d been around enough fucking organ donors to know how to read one. She was in morbidity and was headed for destiny.
Pushing her towards the X-Ray area she glanced up at him. He looked at her. His eyes clear, her’s glassy, brown with flecks of green. Frank felt movement inside. On the way home, he conjuring up them tussling naked in a road side motel.Her on top, brown hair cascading on his chest, he on the bottom thrusting up.
This idea had to go. It wasn’t Frank not liking women. He loved them. He’d been married once; never again. It was after that he decided to make the world alone, disconnected, dealing with reality only when he had too.
A week later, standing over her bed, Frank ran his eyes over the multi assemblage of tubes,wires and pumps. He started to have black thoughts. He saw himself yanking out the tubes, the wires that kept her alive. He had no reason to do it. He craved the complete panic and razor wire thrill of death.
The next day Frank cornered the woman, with a big beehive hairdo in HR, and got his check.He packed up and never went back.

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