Home    Hardluck Thoughts    Guest Editor    Submissions    Archives

Coma

John McCaffrey

Marty “Blue” Barbone had a spy, an orderly at the hospital where his landlord lay in a coma. He paid the kid fifty bucks a month for updates on the old man's condition.

“There’re signs it’s ebbing,” the orderly reported, “some twitching in both feet and an increase of electromagnetic waves in the right brain. One nurse said she heard a gurgle, but wasn’t sure if it came from the patient or the water dispenser.”

The news caused Blue to break into a cold sweat. “His right brain,” he said. “Are they sure?”

The orderly nodded. He was thin with myopic eyes buried behind black designer glasses. A wisp of blond hair hung under his receding chin and an egg-shaped raspberry mole dotted his left cheek. A childhood harelip had been surgically repaired, giving his smile a devilish quality.     

“Yeah, the right,” the orderly said. He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses on his lime green hospital smock. “I remember because I just read something about brains in the Reader’s Digest. The right is the creative side. Where art and stuff is supposed to come from.”  

Blue sighed. “You want a soda?” he asked.

The orderly nodded. He returned the glasses to his face and blinked a few times.   

Blue rose from the table and walked to the counter. He spoke to the cashier and returned with two Diet Cokes. Their regular meeting place was a Popeyes Chicken smack-dab in the middle of the newly gentrified Times Square. Blue used to work at the restaurant, a few years earlier, before luck hit him in the form of a robber's bullet in the left shoulder. The slug tore through muscle and bone and ended up stuck in the gray metal backing of a fryer.  It was a wayward shot, the bandit badly cross-eyed and his hands slippery from the greasy biscuits he had ordered before brandishing the pistol. Blue's injury netted him a monthly disability from the government, a one-time cash settlement of fifty thousand dollars from Popeyes, and a lifetime of free food from any of their establishments.  

Blue sat back down, pushed one of the Cokes to the orderly, and ran a hand across the growing bald spot atop his head. He had added quite a bit of weight to his five foot eight frame since the bullet wound garnered him enough income to retire full time. Not that he couldn’t exercise: his doctor said he would experience only slight mobility problems in the shoulder and maybe arthritis later in life, but he chose to spend most of his days reading newspapers and chatting up neighbors in local coffee shops. Most evenings he spent drinking beer in dive bars within walking distance of a Popeyes.

“The right side,” Blue said, taking a long drag of soda through his straw, “that’s funny. Let me tell you, that guy doesn’t have a creative bone in his body. His one and only desire is to make money. It kills him that my apartment is rent controlled. Kills him. Never mind he’s loaded and his family owns a bunch of buildings. He has to get more rent from me. I told you he offered me twenty thousand to leave. Said he would find me housing elsewhere. Right. Where else am I going to pay six fifty a month for a one bedroom in Manhattan?  I don’t care if he gives me a hundred thousand. I’m not going. I told him that.”

Blue pointed his right index finger over his right eye. “You see, I am a true artist. I paint all the time. Beautiful things. But I never show them to anyone. I just paint them and burn them. I don’t care about money. I could sell my pieces. I guarantee. For big money. There’s a guy I drink coffee with, an art dealer. Owns a gallery in the Village. A big-time dealer. He told me many times he’d show my stuff. But I’m not into it. I just paint and burn. That’s me. A true artist.”

The orderly stared down at his soda. This was a familiar rant.

“So,” Blue said, “did you overhear anything else?”

The orderly shook his head. “Just that it was good news. You know, the patient’s brain waves and the gurgle.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah, they asked me and the other orderlies to talk to him when we’re in the room. They think it might help him come out of it. Especially now, since he’s like, you know, nearly awake.”

Blue lowered his eyes. “Do you talk to him?”

The orderly blushed. “Well, you know, I say hi. To be polite.”

“OK,” Blue said. “I guess that’s OK.”

 ***

 Wade was Blue’s favorite bartender. He was black as night with shoulders wider than a doorframe. He wasn’t tall but gave off an illusion of height, and his protruding stomach hung well below the long, wooden bar he had patrolled for nearly a decade.

Blue met Wade about a year after getting shot. It was during his settlement proceedings. The bar was a block from his lawyer’s office, near Madison Square Garden. It was one of a chain of dank Irish gin mills in the neighborhood that catered mainly to construction workers, cops, firemen, out-of-work actors, and homeless people who scrounged enough change for a beer and a plate of corned beef and cabbage or macaroni and cheese from the hot buffet.

Wade worked the day shift, 11:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., and knew every patron by name and what they drank and how much they could drink, too. He never cut anybody off, but he eased them to finish, setting water or a cup of coffee in front of them when he thought it was time to stop.

Blue liked Wade because he once worked on a train, manning the bar car on Amtrak’s New York City to Chicago line. “Man,” Wade once told him about the job, “you never seen a nastier drunk than one on a long train ride. Sheet, something about the motion, I guess.”

Blue was fascinated by Wade’s train stories. Like the time he told Blue about a passenger, a lawyer for the Mercantile Exchange, who was afraid to fly and rode Amtrak once a month for business. The lawyer always drank three vodka gimlets on the way to Chicago and three scotch and sodas returning to New York. One time, after a few years of this routine, the lawyer reversed the order.

“I never like to ask customers too many questions,” said Wade, “but I was curious, you see, considering the guy never changed before. So when he came back the next month, I said to him, ‘Hey, man, why you change your drinks, why the scotch first and the gimlets last?’ You know what he said? ‘Because my wife left me.’ That was it. I mean, he didn’t even blink, man. My wife left me. Sheet. Then a few months later, he goes back to the old pattern: gimlets and then scotch. So I gotta ask, right? When I see him the next time I say, ‘Hey, you must be back with your old lady.’ And he just looked at me and smiled and said, ‘No, I got a new girlfriend.’ Sheet, made no sense to me. But what you going to say?”

Blue didn’t know if it was the stories or Wade’s gravelly, secondhand smoke-charred voice that drew him in. But he could sit for hours downing beers and listening to him talk. It was almost meditative, like being on a train, the landscape passing by, and nothing to do but drift and be in your own head.

“Hey man,” Wade called out to Blue. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Blue maneuvered onto a stool. The lunch crowd was gone, and the two Puerto Rican servers were emptying trays of leftover of food into a plastic garbage can. A gray-and-white cat with one eye missing rubbed against one of the server’s legs. He flicked a dried strip of ham onto the floor. The cat pounced on it and took the meat to the back of the bar, under a pool table with a scarred, green felt surface.

“Yeah, haven’t been in the neighborhood lately,” Blue said. He laid a twenty on the bar’s wooden countertop.

Wade filled a mug with beer and slid it next to Blue’s money. “First one’s on me, man,” he said.

Blue nodded. He drained the beer in two swallows. Wade poured another one out and took the twenty to the cash register. He returned and placed a ten, a five, and three ones on the bar. Blue slid three singles toward Wade. “For your retirement,” he said.

“Hey, thanks.” Wade stared at Blue. “Man, you look like your name.” He laughed loud. “Either your best friend died, or your chick’s period is late.”

Blue sighed. “Landlord problems.”

Wade nodded. “I remember you saying something about him. He tried to kick you out of your pad, right?”

Blue drained half his beer. “I never told you this, but the guy went into a coma.  Listen to this. He got hit by a cab and fell onto the sidewalk and a bike messenger ran over his head. That’s what put him into the coma. The bike. Not the cab.”

“Sheet,” Wade said. “You kidding me?”

“No. That’s the way it went down. And get this: he had just spoken to me on the phone before he got hit. Told me he had the goods to get me out of my apartment.”

“What he have?” Wade asked.

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. Just said I was through living in the place, and he was going to come by to tell me why. On the way, he got chopped by the cab and crushed by the bike.”

Wade pointed to Blue’s glass. “Ready?” he asked. Blue tilted the mug to his mouth and finished it off. “One more,” he said, “then I gotta go.”

Wade poured out a draft, laid it in front of Blue, then took care of a customer at the other end of the bar. He returned to Blue and laid his elbows on the counter. “So no one else ever come after you about the apartment. I mean, since your landlord’s been laid up?”

“No. I just got a letter telling me to send my rent to some real estate broker. That’s it. But I tell you, I’ve been sweating the guy’s coma. I found out today he’s doing better. They think he might snap out of it.”

“Sheet,” Wade said. “How long he been out?”

“About two years.”

“Aw man,” Wade rose and slapped his hand on the bar. “He won’t be sheet. He’ll be a goddamn vegetable. I had an auntie who got stung by a bee and went into some sort of coma thing. Man, I think it lasted like a month tops. She still can’t talk and eat at the same time. That guy won’t remember nothing about you or whatever he had on you.”

Blue finished the beer and rose. There was nine dollars left on the bar, and he took away four singles and put them into his wallet.

“Hey,” Wade said, as Blue put on his coat. “What you pay for rent, anyhow?”

“Six fifty a month.” Blue paused. “Including utilities.”

Wade licked at his lips. “How big is it?” he asked.

“Eight hundred fifty square feet with a balcony, good-sized kitchen, lots of closets, and a Jacuzzi.”

“Sheet,” Wade exhaled, “you can’t mess with that.”

 ***

 The light on Blue’s answering machine blinked red in the dark apartment. Blue opened the door and strode to the machine without flipping on a light. It was a clear night with a full moon shining through the constant film of New York City dust. The glow was eerie, a phosphorescent gold that mixed with the streetlamps to create a Hollywood horror movie feel. Blue hit the button and stood over the machine. The tape whirred as it rewound. “Hey,” his voice called out. “This is Blue. I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Remember, life beats down and crushes the soul, and art reminds you that you have one.”

“Blue,” the orderly’s voice squeaked, “uh, it’s me. I need to talk to you. I’m, uh, at the hospital now. I have a break in an hour. It’s like real important I talk with you tonight. So, our usual spot, OK? I hope you get the message. OK. I’ll see you soon, I hope. Bye.”

A wave of nausea hit Blue. He held his right palm to his mouth and swallowed. He closed his eyes and breathed out of his nostrils and tapped his foot ten times. “OK,” he whispered, “you’re all right. No problem. Don’t panic. You’re an artist. Remember that. Paint and burn. Paint and burn. A true artist.  That’s who you are.”

Twenty minutes later he was at Popeyes, alone at a back table. An uneaten cup of rice and beans sat in front of him. He thought food might calm him, but his stomach was somersaulting, and he could barely get down a spoonful. He was staring at his wristwatch when the orderly’s voice startled him.

“Blue. Hey, good, you got the message.” He sat down and removed his glasses. His eyes seemed smaller and set deeper in his head than usual. “I, uh, well, I have a favor. I mean, it’s something I hope you don’t get mad at. But you probably will.”

“He’s awake,” Blue blurted out. He banged the table, and a red bean flew out of the cup and stuck to the orderly’s smock. “Right? He’s conscious.”

The orderly picked the bean off his shirt and laid it on the table. “Uh, no, not exactly. He’s like. Sort of in and out.”

“What do you mean, ‘in and out’?”

“Well, after our meeting today, I went to work and I was assigned to his room. And, like, while I was cleaning, and listen, I didn’t even say hello this time, but while I was there he started to talk in his sleep.” The orderly paused and looked down at the table. “Blue,” he mumbled. He paused again and swallowed. “I mean, he was saying your name over and over: ‘Blue, Blue, Blue, Blue,’ like a hundred times. Then he shut up. It freaked me out.”

Blue fell back into his chair and closed his eyes. He cupped his hands together over his heart.

The orderly swallowed. “So, you know, I told the doctors what he said and they got real excited. The head guy, Doctor Whitling, said it made sense, given the increased electromagnetic wave action in the right brain. You know, like I said about the Reader’s Digest and brains. The right side is where art comes from.”

Blue’s eyes snapped wide. He lowered his hands and rested them on the table. “You mean, they think he’s talking about the color blue?”

Two young black kids, the tops of their heads barely grazing the tabletop, approached carrying yellow cartons of M&M’S. “Candy, mister?” they asked. “For summer camp.”

Blue shook his head. “No thanks.”

“What about you?”

The orderly reached for his wallet and pulled out four quarters. “All I got,” he said. “Give me one.”

The kids left, and Blue leaned forward. “So, the doctors don’t know about me?” he asked.

The orderly fingered the candy. “Well, Blue, I mean, I’m sorry, but, you know, I couldn’t have it on my conscience. It was like he was telling me something, yelling your name out like that. About going behind his back. It was scary.”

Blue narrowed his eyes. “You told them about me?”

“I had to, Blue.” The orderly rocked in his chair. “I couldn’t have it on my conscience, you know. I told them that I had been keeping you up to date about the coma. That you and the guy had a feud about your apartment. I told them everything.”

Blue wiped at his face with his right hand. “OK,” he said. “This makes sense. Betrayal is always the plight of the true artist. No one can stand their creative light. They have to turn on him. Crush his soul. OK, what did the doctors say?”

“Well, the doctor in charge, Dr. Whitling, wants to talk to you. Like tonight.”

“And if I don’t.”

“I get fired.”

Blue wrinkled his nose. “Not my concern,” he said.

“Well,” the orderly said, his eyes blinking. “Dr. Whitling said he was thinking of calling the cops, you know. Considering you wanted the guy to stay in the coma. He wondered if you maybe had something do with him getting run over. So I think you should go talk to him, you know, clear it up before they go to the police.”   

Blue frowned. He reached over and picked up the pack of M&M’S and tore it open. He shook a few candies into his palm. He selected a blue one and popped it into his mouth. “My favorite color,” he said, chewing.

***

 Dr. Whitling was head of neurology at the hospital and one of the premier lecturers on coma treatment in the nation. He was tall and thin with wide, gray eyes and a slight stoop from bending over patients’ bodies during his thirty years of practicing medicine. He was chain-smoking in his office with his feet on the desk when Blue knocked.

“Come in,” Dr. Whitling said. He had a sharp, piercing voice that commanded attention and induced hysteria in interns.

Blue entered the room and looked for a chair. His legs were weak, and he had just thrown up outside the hospital, in a Dumpster filled with used hypodermic needles and refuse from the staff commissary. There was one metal folding chair in a far corner, but it was stacked high with papers and pamphlets. Dr. Whitling smiled and waited until Blue’s eyes settled on him. He didn’t remove his feet from the desk.

“Marty Barbone, I assume.” He took a long drag of his cigarette, let the smoke sink into his lungs, then let it out his nostrils in a smooth stream that rose and disappeared into the low, white plaster ceiling. “Or, as I heard you are called, ‘Blue’.”

Blue’s mouth hung open. His tongue felt thick and choking in his throat. He tried to swallow, but he had no spit. “Yeah,” he croaked. “That’s me.”

Dr. Whitling swung his legs off the desk and held his hands out in prayer position, the tips of his fingers brushing his chin. “Why Blue?” he asked.

Blue scanned the office again. “Anywhere to sit?” he said.

“We won’t be long,” Dr. Whitling answered. “You can stand a few moments, surely.” He smiled without showing teeth. “Blue, why the name?” he asked again.

“You know, I’m an artist. I paint. And Blue’s my favorite color. So I just picked the name.”

“You gave yourself the nickname?”

Blue hesitated. “Yeah, I guess, but people know I’m an artist. No one calls me Marty.”

Dr. Whitling laughed. “OK, Blue,” he said, accentuating his name. He picked up a manila folder from his desk and opened it. “Your medical file,” he said. He clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth while he flipped through the folder’s contents. “Good work, patching you up. Gunshot wounds can be tricky. I knew the surgeon. He was a nice guy. Died last year. A suicide.”

He smiled again, this time revealing a string of yellowing teeth. “This is a tough profession, Blue. Pressure, lots of pressure. Sometimes it gets to be too much. Sad, how so many physicians take their own lives. Maybe it’s because we’re used to death. It doesn’t frighten us. Or maybe we know what pain can do,” he closed the folder and tossed it back on the desk, “and we can’t bear it.”

Blue’s right eyelid began to twitch. He crossed his hands near his crotch and bit at his lower lip with his eyeteeth.

“Anyway, Blue,” Dr. Whitling said, “I understand you had a bit of a problem with your landlord who, as you know, is under my care. I’m told that before his descent into a coma, he was working to remove you from your place of residence, wanting to maximize the real estate value of a vastly underperforming property.”

“You sound like a broker,” Blue said flatly.

“I own a few homes,” he returned. “Investments. Nothing fancy.”

Blue grunted. His shoulder started to throb. He rotated it clockwise and winced.

“Ah,” Dr. Whitling said, “probably arthritis setting in. Common with gunshot wounds. You’ll most likely lose all mobility in a few years.”

“The surgeon said I’d only have slight mobility problems,” Blue answered.

“He lied,” Dr. Whitling snapped. “Doctors lie too, Blue.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Dr. Whitling reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Parliament Lights. His hands were fast and delicate as he selected a cigarette and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. His lighter was gold plated.

“Blue, I want you to go talk with your landlord. I’ve reason to believe that he is right now in the best possible state to emerge from the coma. I won’t bore you with the medical science of it all. But there is always just a small window in these cases. The chance comes usually only once. Like a capsule in orbit. Miss the reentry point, and you float forever in space.  But with enough rocket thrust and the correct positioning, you come back to earth. You, Blue, are my rocket.”

“No way,” Blue said. “He’s an asshole. He’s got so much money and still tried to kick me out of the apartment. I need the space. I’ll never get anything as good.”  

Dr. Whitling smoked in silence. “Are you through?” he asked. “I hope so. It’s not that I am an uncompassionate man, but I guess my bedside manner has evaporated somewhat over the years, considering the majority of my patients are unconscious. As such, I’ll get right to the point. I believe your voice will help trigger his release from the coma. He obviously hated you, and the apartment was one of the last things on his mind before the accident. Yes, I heard he was on his way to confront you with some information.  You see, Blue, you talk too much. Tell too many people your personal business. I’ve found that in artists. You people have to share everything about yourselves with everyone.”

Blue’s face reddened. “I don’t share anything, you hear?” He balled a fist. “I paint things and then burn them. I never show anyone anything. I’m a true artist.”

“You’re a phony, Blue. I can tell one right away. I bet you’ve never painted a thing. Maybe just in your mind. Delusional, I would guess. This obsession with burning things, I suppose, relates to your unmet sexual desires. Perhaps you’re impotent. Are you impotent, Blue?”

“You’re an asshole, too,” Blue hissed.  

Dr. Whitling smiled and dragged on the cigarette.

“I won’t do it,” Blue spat. “I won’t talk to him. Let him drift forever in space.”

“Blue,” Dr. Whitling’s voice took a harder edge, “you will talk to him.” He slapped his right palm down atop the desk. “If you don’t do as I say,” he said, “I will go to the police and tell them that you have been rooting for your landlord to remain in a coma. I will tell them that the landlord threatened you with information that would remove you from your beloved rent-controlled apartment. That shortly after this threat, he was hit by a cab and a bike and fell into a coma. You know, Blue, they never found who the cyclist was. He fled the scene.”

“I don’t own a bike,” Blue said, wiping at this forehead. “The police asked.”

“Regardless,” Dr. Whitling continued, “I bet your obsessive interest in the coma and your clandestine meetings with the orderly would be enough for the police to reopen an investigation. I’m sure the press would love it – considering the landlord’s family is very wealthy and you with your wonderful past. Good thing I happen to have a few friends in the business. They would appreciate a tip on such a sensational story, don’t you think?”

“I still won’t talk to him,” Blue mumbled.

Dr. Whitling folded his hands and rested them atop the desk. “I have to say, Blue, that I have a personal motive for enlisting your assistance. The press and acclaim I’ll get for helping this scion of a famous family regain consciousness should give my private practice quite a boost. I might even consider writing my memoirs. I’m sure a publisher would give a nice advance for a book from such a high-profile physician. But all that is wishful thinking, Blue. What is real is an understanding I have with my patient’s family. They have promised a reward if I can revive their loved one: your building, Blue. It’s mine if he comes out of the coma. I will be your landlord.”

“Shit,” Blue breathed.

“No, Blue,” Dr. Whitling smiled. “Don’t panic. If you help me, I promise I will not try to remove you from the premises. You can keep your petty rent-controlled place.” He leaned back in his chair and softened his voice, “Die in there if you want.”

“Will you put it in writing?” Blue said, pushed forward on the balls of his feet.

“I already have,” he said. “Let me get the contract.”

 ***

 Blue fidgeted next to the hospital bed. It was a private room and lit by a small desk lamp. Several video cameras were bolted to the walls. A microphone was clipped to the bedpost. Dr. Whitling was monitoring the exchange on a television in his office down the hall.

Blue was shocked by how good his landlord looked. The last time he saw him his face was bloated and his skin blotchy. He had deep crisscrossing wrinkles on his forehead and shocks of gray hair near his temples. The man in the bed seemed at least ten years younger than the person he remembered.  His hair was thick and blonde without a trace of gray. His face was lean and smooth and clear as marble.

Blue found himself instinctively liking this new person, attracted to his serene and gentle demeanor.  “Hey,” he said, “it’s Blue Barbone. Marty Barbone. Your tenant.”

A heart monitor clicked like a clock next to the bed. A clear hose from an IV machine dripped thick, yellow liquid into his landlord’s arm. Blue cleared his throat. “Well, you know, I, uh, have to say that I didn’t really want to see you. I mean, we have some problems, right? You know what I’m talking about. I think you’ve been unfair with me. I won’t lie. You know I’m an artist. A true artist. And that the apartment is where I paint and burn my art. You have enough money. Why do you need more?”

Blue lowered his eyes and exhaled. “You seem different, though. Like the coma’s been good for you.” Blue laughed, “I mean you look better than before. They say something is going on in your right brain. The creative side. So maybe you’ve changed in the past two years.”

Blue noticed his landlord’s lips quiver. The top one curled, and then the lower one seemed to spread. Blue tensed and leaned forward. He heard a low hiss then the words: “Blue, Blue.” He jumped back, knocking a chair over. His landlord’s eyelids flickered and then opened.  “Blue,” his landlord said, louder and more clearly. “Blue, Blue, Blue.”

Blue heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

“Blue,” his landlord was shouting. His stare was glazed and focused forward, his torso rose up, his arms stretched ahead, like a mummy leaving his tomb. “Blue, Blue, Blue.” 

       The door of the room flew open, and Dr. Whitling spilled in. His hair was messed, and he vaulted for the bed. Trailing behind him was the orderly, his face drawn, his glasses skewed, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Back,” said Dr. Whitling. “Move aside.”

Blue retreated and pressed against the wall. The orderly crumpled next to him, crouched to his knees, and bit on his knuckles.

Dr. Whitling stopped inches from the bed. “Blue,” the landlord’s voice began to weaken. His eyelids fluttered then closed shut. He fell back onto the bed, and his arms lowered. The gentleness, peacefulness, serenity again spread across his face. “Blue,” his lips shook. “Blue…is…my…favorite…color.”

The heart monitor sang out a dull hum; the white line across the black screen spread flat.  Dr. Whitling gently placed two fingers against the carotid artery and lowered his right ear over the man’s mouth.  After a few seconds, Dr. Whitling turned and looked at Blue. Blue looked back. He thought the whole scene would make a good painting. He couldn’t wait to burn it.

Copyright(c) 2005 by John McCaffrey

Home    Hardluck Thoughts    Guest Editor    Submissions    Archives