..."Go, park yourself!" -- a new, if so-so neologism...

Dec 1, 2012

Green Eyes --- Chapter 12: Badfuck

Previously, we had a rough day, meeting new friends in familiar places. We're now off to a midnight party at the house of Godehard Wagner (family), dragged along by one of our new friends. Charles is back from the bathroom, where he had a difficult time (he was defecating a lot of blood, as he tells John).

As Maurice is saying this he's grabbing my shoulder. His knees fold, his body folds. He's falling to the ground, now he's just lying there, eyes shut. I touch his shoulder,
"Maurice, Maurice," I say. No reaction. I slap his cheeks. No reaction. He's unconscious.

"He's unconscious," Neill observes, "a bad fuck probably." This will be the last time that anybody uses those words at the party.
"Gohard," I shout, "we need an ambulance."
"We need an ambulance," Godehart answers.
"Somebody must call an ambulance," he continues.
"What's the number?" the rent waiter asks. Godehart doesn't know, of course.
"Nine-one-one," somebody suggests helpfully.
"No, no," I plead, “that's the police, we need an ambulance. Call them directly, that's faster."

The party that isn't going to happen

The police would take Maurice directly to the landfill, better still, they would take his unconscious body to the hospital, with RapeDick in the back blocking Maurice’s neck artery expertly with his thumb, leaving no marks. We’ve seen this in the movies. Maurice will arrive dead on arrival at the hospital, having died of badfuck, a contagious disease, and the night shift directs the body to the morgue where it can chill forever.

I am thinking this very quickly. "Please call an ambulance," I plead in Neill's direction while squatting next to Maurice; I'm trying to feel his pulse. Neill must have been through this before as a restaurant owner, not to mention bad fucks in the upstairs department, he must know how to avoid the police.

The news spreads quickly across the proto-orgy. This is not a bad crowd. This is a well-brought up crowd that knows how to share sorrow and concern, chapeau, Gohard, you know how to invite people. The foursomes and fivesomes dissolve and each person, more or less by himself, joins the evolving circle around Maurice and myself. We are silent at first. Another person kneels down to explore Maurice’s vital signs, without result. Everybody is half bent forward, the whispering starts (they could do the choir of a contemporary opera production). “Blood,” “anus,” “internal.” The unmentionable words "bad fuck" are suspended in the air. No more fucking. Everybody is really concerned about Maurice and about everybody else, it could happen to all of us. They have no idea how badly Maurice was raped this afternoon.

The host shows initiative. "Can somebody bring a cold towel," he bellows. A willing escort hastens to the kitchen, and returns with a wet towel that is applied pointlessly to Maurice’s forehead. "We need a thermometer," the host bellows again. A thermometer is duly found and handed to me. I insert it into Maurice’s mouth. It's an old-fashioned one with an analog, quicksilver readout. The red bar rises quickly, stops finally at 103°. "One-oh-three," I say. "One-oh-three, what does that mean," Gohard wants to know. We're panicking, nobody is able to think German Celsius. High, I say, very high. "He's still warm," a heartless wit remarks in the background, he will never be invited again.

Eight minutes is a long time. Sirens approach, then stop. The concerned circle of party guests regroups to get a view of the door in expectation of the paramedics. Gohard opens the door. We hear the noise of the ambulance's rear door, the rolling sound of an emergency stretcher, steps. The first paramedic appears in the door, followed by the stretcher, followed by the second paramedic. The second paramedic sports shiny black hair cut short on the side, a well-defined body under a tight, white T-shirt, and a well-proportioned butt in white, narrow sweatpants. He surveys the scene. His green eyes recognize me immediately.

He furrows his brows. I explain.
“Did he have any bowel movement during the last couple of hours?”
“No, he couldn’t, but he got sick on the john and threw up in a bad way.”
“Bowel could be torn, bowel content spilled into the peritoneal space, sepsis, septic shock,” Green Eyes replies.
The first medic feels Maurice XE "Maurice" ’s pulse, nods. "Fast, weak," he says to Green Eyes.
"Oxygen, the works," Green Eyes replies. They ease Maurice XE "Maurice" ’s body onto the stretcher and fasten the straps.

"You come with us," Green Eyes says to me. I follow. We're in the ambulance, sirens wail, we're off. While we are speeding across Georgia Beach XE "Georgia Beach, GA" \i , an oxygen mask is applied to Maurice XE "Maurice" ’s face, an IV pouch is fixed to the ceiling and connected to his inner elbow. “Volume,” Green Eyes says, then continues: “A truly bad fuck is like an appendicitis, only more so.”
“What's your name,” I ask him for the second time (the first time was this morning, in very different circumstances).
"Alexander, Alex."
"Ruptured bowel?" I ask. "That could be serious." Alex fails to reply, adjusts the oxygen mask instead and checks the IV tube. He takes the pulse again.
"Normalizing a bit," he says. Somebody’s talking on an intercom radio. “And you name?” he asks. Why am I surprised he wants to know my name?
“John,” I say.

We've already arrived at the emergency room of  the Baptist Memorial Hospital, the local institution. A woman, obviously the doctor in command, is expecting us. Her hair's cut short, her hips are too wide, her glasses are manly. She’s a dyke. Maurice XE "Maurice"  is hauled onto a rolling bed.

"I know this guy," Dr. Dyke exclaims, "I've seen him before. Atlanta airport. I saw him in the waiting room for the commute, with Godehart Wagner. I'm unsurprised."
"Anal penetration, ruptured bowel, peritonitis," Alex comments. 
"Tell me something new," she says, muttering over the unconscious Maurice.

She raises her head, points her glasses at me. "Your work?" Informality reigns at this hour. 
"No," I reply. 
"You were around?"
"You know nothing," she says.
"It has to stay secret."
"We can keep a secret."
"He was raped today, in a bad way."
"By whom?"
"That's the secret," I say.
"It won't stay a secret for long, this is a serious crime…It wasn't Godehart Wagner?" Like the first time, she pronounces his first name as if she's a textbook, 'Gooh-duuh-heart' rolls effortlessly from her tongue.
"How do you know about Godehart Wagner?"
"That not important," she replies. "Not Godehart?"
"Not Godehart, no," I confirm, imitating her pronunciation.
"Just a mischievous hunch," she says.

I'm getting upset. "Listen," I say, "listen..." 

"We have to deal with a ruptured bowel," she interrupts. "We don’t have much time. When was he raped?"
"Around noon, I would guess." 
"That's more than 12 hours."
"Not good."
"Is it bad?" I ask. 
"He's still alive," she says, raising her shoulders.

Maurice, body and soul, is rushed away by a nurse. Dr. Dyke follows.
"What should I do?" I ask Alex.
"You'll have to wait here," Alex replies, "you're not allowed in the trauma room."

He points to a row of bluish waiting room seats, and disappears. The seats are shaped like in airports, tasked to preclude horizontal relaxation. I plop down vertically.

First I think nothing. Then I think that I don't know Maurice that well. Then I wonder how Dr. Dyke would know about Godehart Wagner, since, after all, despite the official rainbow ideology, gays and lesbians rarely connect. Then I think about the party. What's going to happen? Would they be able to reset, resume their gay ways? Flirting, anticipating, singin' and dancin,' touchin' and feelin,' until the proto-orgy morphs into the real thing, when they embrace on the ground, and suck cock, and fuck, and lick cum, and relax, until they are ready for a second round of the same? No, I think, it won't happen, it's impossible. Everybody has to fear for Maurice’s death now. There will be no orgy revival. Some elder statesman will suggest that this should stop, that we should go home, although I don't know how he would word it since I'm not an elder statesman. Godehart will concur, and the rent boys will start clearing the tables, moving trays, and making other noises that we know from venues about to unload their patrons.

People will start to leave, everybody apologizing to everybody else, sad, sad expressions will predominate, except among the escorts, whose faces are not sad enough because they are all too happy to go home early and have no fun with Neill. Good night, people will say and promise to be in touch as Godehart's network withers away into the night. Neill will cast a longing, hopeless glance at oriental Jason. Jason will escape to the kitchen and change clothes. Yes, that's the final signal. The escorts will change back into their normal clothes, and reappear among the crowd in their customary blue jeans and white, tattoo-free T-shirts, the way Giorgio Armani dresses, they're working for an A-list outfit, after all—that's the final signal. Everybody will leave immediately. Some non-wit will shake Godehart's hand and say, "We'll have to do this again," then realize the contre-sens, blush, unable to retract, because he's not only stupid, he's stupid enough not to admit a mistake. Good night.

While it may have taken you two minutes to read the last two paragraphs, it took me two hours to think them up. It's early morning now, not particularly late by gay standards, but I'm no longer gay, I'm sad. And very tired. And I have to wait until Maurice dies.

I cast a glance at the emergency receptionist. She's seen me before in all the people who spent a desperate night in her presence. I don't know how many sobs she's witnessed, cries, hurls, how many desperate men and women ended up in her arms. I don't dare to ask whether I should wait. She dares to tell me that I can go home, I should leave my number, and they will call in the morning. I can’t, of course.

We're back to square one when Alex appears out of the blue (I’ve possibly dozed off in the meantime, fuck the seats). "You should go home," he says, "leave your number, they'll keep you posted." My resistance is for show now, I keep it short.
"I give you a ride," he says. 

A meaningful good-bye from the receptionist follows us into the early morning outside.  

For the entire story published so far, go here.

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