Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [74]
“What?” Gerold asked.
“I’m supposed to be off now, that’s what,” the guy said. “I’ve been up thirty-six hours but now I’ve got to do this.”
“Sorry.” Gerold felt sheepish. “So . . . where am I going?”
“VA.” The guy rubbed his sandpapery chin. “You’re what we call a ‘punt.’ ”
“A . . . what?”
“A punt. We’re punting you. It’s tax dollars paying for this stunt of yours—”
Gerold’s well-developed arms tensed. “It’s wasn’t a stunt—”
“Yeah, it was. We get ‘em all the time. Look, I’m sorry you can’t walk but—shit. My brother can’t walk either—he got hit by a drunk. And you know what? He’s never pulled a stunt like this. Clogging up a busy hospital with bullshit is no way to vent your need for attention.”
Gerold winced. “You’re worse than that lady upstairs! I wasn’t trying to get attention! I was just trying to kill myself, but I fucked up!” His tempered sizzled. “And I wish to God I hadn’t.”
“You and me both . . .”
Gerold rolled his eyes.
“Anyway, we’re punting you.” The guy tapped ashes disgustedly. “See, we gotta file for the damn money we burned on you last night. We have to send in a bill, and then wait months for the provider to pay—”
“I didn’t burn any money,” Gerold spat.
“Sure, you did. Every square inch of this place costs money, pal. And us having to give you a bed in the precaution ward last night is a big ticket, probably a couple of grand—”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, see, you don’t even give a shit. Typical. You think everything should be free while guys like me gotta work our asses off catering to you. The fact is, caregivers—like me—love to help people in need. It’s our duty. But what we hate is having to help people who pretend to be fucked up in the head.”
“This is some real compassionate care, man . . .”
“Fuck off. Let VA have your ass. You can burn their tax dollars.”
“I was fuckin’ fighting for my country!” Gerold bellowed.
The guy expectorated loudly. “You were fighting for a bunch of political war pigs, man. If you want to be a patriot, you protest the war, you don’t fight in it.”
Gerold groaned. “Your political views are your business, but I sure as shit—”
“What?” snapped the intern. “You don’t want to hear it, G.I. Joe? Well, tough.”
Gerold dared to laugh. “I’d love to see you on a bivouac. You wouldn’t last a day, you’d be cryin’ like a baby, cryin’ for your mother with your thumb in your mouth.”
The intern lurched forward, gnashed his teeth, then pulled back.
“Yeah, go ahead, tough guy,” Gerold said. “Punch a guy in a wheelchair. Shit, I’d still kick your ass.”
“In your dreams.”
The hits just keep on comin’, Gerold thought. “We’re sitting out here in the hot sun for what reason?”
“Waiting for your transport, and I have to go with you,” the intern seethed. “I have to check you in.”
“Tell you what,” Gerold posed. “Go on home for your much-needed beauty sleep, and I’ll check myself in.”
“Right. You’d just go somewhere and pretend you’re trying to kill yourself again, to get more attention.”
Gerold would’ve paid any price just to be able to stand up for one second and clean this guy’s clock.
“Aw, shit!” the guy spat, and looked at his watch.
“What? That time of the month again?”
“Fuck off. I forgot your out-pross papers.” He pointed right in Gerold’s face. “Listen, dick, I have to go back inside and get your papers. I’ll only be five minutes, and when I’m back you better still be here. Don’t even think about eloping.”
“Eloping?” Gerold stretched the word. “That’s what they call it?”
“Yeah, you’re an elopement risk. Says so right in your records. Elopement is when a pseudo–mental patient tries to escape from the people trying to help his sorry ass.”
“Where am I gonna go in five minutes, man!” Gerold yelled.
The finger kept pointing. “Just know this. If you do try to flee, I’ll find you, and you’ll be real sorry.”
“What, you’re threatening me?”
The stubbled face grinned. “Yeah. So what’re you gonna do about