The job was perfect for Frank. He transported patients made small talk, staying at arms stick like, and thinning hair. Once in a while a cherub face rolling toward pain and losing bulk. Frank and Barstow Community Hospital. Why not?
The 29 Palms Community Hospital.
Long shifts. Frank keeps to himself eating in the corner of the cafeteria. He has nothing to say and makes this known to those he works around.
At night, Frank stood staring at fast food line of bodies, razor 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 a family picnic.
Frank was paged by a woman with a robotic, flat voice over the hospital’s public address system. The voice instructed Frank to transport the patient from the 14th floor to the 6 floor room to the X-ray room. Frank transported her crisp, white, eclair shaped bed. He picked up the feather like woman’s body. She emotionally affected him. Why he didn’t know.he speculated, they were both leaves burnt by summer. Her name was Rachel Blum. She was Jewish. She must have been a dish before a God awful infection began to eat away at her. Day after day he’d take care of her rolling from exhausting test to another. There were days she couldn’t talk and a couple times involuntarily vomited on him. No big deal.
He noticed a change in her. She began to ask for him more. She put on bits of makeup, combed what hair she had left.
“I’m not worth it,” he gently held her hand his emotions thawed.
“I know,” she whispered “I’m know what’s happing to me,” she whispered through cracked lips. Don’t say a word. Please, kiss me one time,” she whispered.
Frank shuffled down the hallway. The “voice” was yelling “Code Blue.”