John was passed out on the park bench, and woke up with a jerk. He looked around himself, seeing the bright green concrete that surrounded him. The pigeons were gone. Turning his head forward, he looked up.
“Hey buddy, mind explaining your condition?” A stocky, blue-suited policeman was holding his nightstick in one hand and thumping it into the palm of the other. A girl, about fourteen, stood behind him, frightened.
“Uh, my condition?” John was gaining consciousness slowly.
“Yeah, you looked like you were dead there for a few minutes, and the little girl here –”
“I’m not a ‘little girl’ –” the girl interrupted.
“OK, miss.” The cop turned to face her briefly, then stared back at John. “The young woman here says you tried to molest her, and it looks like you’ve been pissin’ blood in your jockeys while you slept.”
“Uh,” John managed. The sun was bright and it burned his eyes. He couldn’t ascertain where he was or what he was doing, least of all what he had been doing. “I’m not sure.”
“Not sure, huh? That could be a problem. What’s your name?” The cop remained in a militant stance, peering at John with more and more curiosity. The meaty sound of the nightstick smacking his palm continued.
“John Sperling – er, Springer. John Springer.”
“Can I see some identification, Mr. Springer?”
John fumbled for his jacket pocket and didn’t find his jacket, let alone his pocket. “My jacket’s at home. My wallet’s in it.”
“And where is home, Mr. Springer?” The cop was losing his patience, thumping the nightstick with increasing speed and force.
“Uh, I live over on Third Street. By the theater.” John’s mind was racing as it slowly started working again. What had he done?
“Well, Mr. Springer, I’d like to come with you while you get it.”
“Uh, sure, sure.”
“Now miss, if you tell me your name I’ll...”
As the cop counseled the girl, John looked down at his pants. Sure enough, he had pissed himself, and it wasn’t that pinkish color he had seen this morning, either. It was blood, thick and coppery. He could smell it. It was hardening on his pants and making them stiff.
The cop walked with John to his apartment. They went up the steps together and the cop waited outside the door that John left ajar. As John looked for his jacket, the cop said, “Nice place you got here, Mr. Springer.”
John answered him with, “Thanks.”
Hannibal saw John and hissed, arching his back and raising the fur along his spine. John ignored him, walked back to the open door, and gave his ID to the cop. The cop looked at it inquisitively. Behind the ID, folded in thirds, were two greenish pieces of paper with pictures of dead presidents on them.
Confirming his hunches that the guy was not only employed, but rich, and most important of all, smart and knowledgeable about the way things worked in the world, the cop continued to give him extra special treatment. “Well, Mr. John Springer of Third Street,” he said, handing the ID back to John and slipping the bills into his pants pocket in one practiced motion, “I suggest you keep out of the park for a while. You scared that little girl and it looks to me like you need some medical attention.” He motioned with his nightstick to John’s crotch.
“Yeah, thanks, officer. I think I’ll take your advice.” John slowly closed the door as the cop descended the stairs.
“What the hell’s going on with me?” John asked no one, not even Hannibal, who had scurried timidly under the bed.
John slipped off his loafers and took his pants and underpants off in one swift motion. He threw them in the trash on top of the moldy bread and coffee grinds. His crotch was caked with blood that matted his pubic hair in a bloody bird’s nest. Every time he moved, some of it painfully pulled out. Taking off his shirt, he now regretted tucking it in because it was soaked as well. He threw it in the trash with his other clothes and got into the shower. “Jesus,” he said, looking at his body. It was the color of talcum powder.
“I just need something to eat, that’s all.” Scrubbing himself down, and paying particular attention to his groin, he added, “That, and maybe a doctor.” Yeah, and maybe a shrink too, his mind volunteered. The water running off his body was pink as small cakes of coagulated blood dissolved in it while others lodged in the drain.
He toweled off and found some clean clothes. Leaving his hair wet but stylishly slick, he left his apartment for the nearest restaurant.
As he walked he convinced himself he didn’t need a doctor. He just needed to start taking better care of himself, starting with some food. He’d had nothing to do with doctors for years now, forever paranoid from the news reports of diseases that found their way into hospitals and made the patients that went to them sicker than when they came in. The last thing he needed, he reasoned, was to catch something worse than whatever it was he had.
John sat down at the restaurant and looked at the menu he found on the table. The characters on it swam around the page and he couldn’t decipher what appeared to him as cryptic hieroglyphics. He found this gravely disturbing but didn’t have time to contemplate it. A waiter had come to his table.
“I’ll have the filet mignon. Extra rare, please,” John said, looking up at the waiter, folding the menu, and handing it to the man. John hadn’t been to this cheap a restaurant in so long, he didn’t know what to expect. That’s what you get for living in a rundown neighborhood, he thought to himself, his father’s exhortation echoing in his head.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we are out of meat today. It is Saturday, you know. After Friday night...” The waiter gesticulated with his hands and rolled his eyes as if to signify something John should understand. “Perhaps a salad?” The waiter was apologetic, but showed a hint of disgust at John.
“No, I don’t want a salad. Don’t you have any meat? Ham? Chicken? Fish? Anything?” John was desperate, and angry, craving meat and deeming he would have it regardless of what damn day of the week it was.
The waiter was no longer sorry, and was now just disgusted. “No, sir, you know how it is these days.”
John got up and left. He knew how it was all right.
He headed for the supermarket. He didn’t eat meat much anymore, nobody did. But when the craving hit, like it did now, it needed to be sated. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it, he told himself.
The supermarket was a wise choice, he thought as he perused their selection, if it could be called that. In a small refrigerated area in the back of the store they had three steaks for him to choose from. At least they have meat, he thought. One of the smaller steaks looked like it was getting gray, the marbled fat that ran through it like veins becoming moldy. Picking the largest one, he headed for the register. Paying with his diamond card and ignoring the look of disgust he got from the freckle-faced checkout boy, he stuffed the meat in a bag and sauntered home.
Back in his apartment, he took the meat out of the bag and placed it on the counter. Pulling a frying pan from the cabinet and putting it on the stove, he turned the burner to LOW. Now for some spices, he thought.
He reached up to the spice rack and his arm went dead. The feeling was like pins and needles, only it came on so fast, and so furiously, that it was more like chisels and daggers.
The dead feeling quickly extended down his arm and to his shoulder, then radiated out to his chest and stomach, doubling him over. John felt like he had been struck by lightning. “Jesus, I must be hungrier than I thought,” he whispered. He sat on the floor holding his stomach, which was throbbing. The dead feeling continued its merciless course and expanded to his groin and legs. He tried to stand up but failed, falling clumsily and heavily back on his tailbone. “My God, what’s happening to me?” he said aloud. Determined, he reached up to the counter and, despite the numbing pain, grabbed the package.
Using his teeth to rip off the plastic that held the meat, he stuffed the slab in his mouth. He bit off a mouthful and swallowed it without chewing. It was wet with blood, and slid down his throat in a lump. He was salivating down his chin. The saliva mixed with the blood from the meat, creating pink lines that dripped down onto his shirt.
He sat there until the meat was gone.
