A decommissioned Crown Victoria
I had to go for a follow up ultrasound this evening. Apparently, Glop has a little friend, or possibly pet hanging out on my liver. But that is just to provide context about why I was at the hospital again.
Towards the end of my stay in the ER, a young man was brought in by an ambulance. He had be questionably conscious and may have had a seizure. More importantly, he didn’t want to be at the hospital and he spoke only Spanish. The EMTs were unable to speak to him. He was understandably agitated. Before the translator got pulled into the situation, a security guard showed up. I’m sure someone called for him, but he was being unnecessarily forceful. He had his hands all over the kid, who kept refering to him as “Loca,” which, from what I remember of high school Spanish, is a double insult.
The kid was saying he wanted to leave. He was fine. He wouldn’t even give them his name. And here was this puffed up Gomer Pyle, finger pushed against his chest, blocking him from the exit. Even through the morphine haze, it stuck with me.
So, when Private Pyle eye-fucked me in the radiation department’s waiting room today, I remembered him. And when I looked up from reading one of my textbooks because I felt the uncomfortable weight of a longer than casual glance, he didn’t stop. In fact, as we made eye contact, he smirked.
He was lucky not to catch the driest, heaviest book I own about sex upside his too-small head. (And no, you could not read the title. Only the slightly scandalized middle-aged woman sitting next to me who didn’t know who Scott Brown was knew what I was reading.)
He passed by. I went and got some new black and whites of my internal organs. And through luck, there was construction that blocked the exit, so I had to take a detour. And there he was. And he did it again. And I upgraded my regular bitchface to bitchface that has smelled something terrible. I wish I had gotten his name so I could complain.
But I’m sure this isn’t the last time I’ll be seeing him…