Chain Gang
“Beep-beep, beep-beep!”
I jolt a bit. Not quite upright, but my eyes open and my hands twitch as I’m startled out of sleep. I was just in the middle of the best dream I’ve had in months: I had sat down to a big, greasy cheesesteak from Cadney’s. A side of fries and a giant lemonade with no ice. I haven’t had one in five months, two weeks and four days. But y’know…who’s counting that kinda time? That was my favorite food. I would always ask them to switch my provolone cheese for American, because I just preferred it that way. After a while, they named the sandwich after me. Yeah, it was that kinda place. I was just going to take a bite, and out of fucking nowhere, got ripped from my nap.
“Beep-beep, beep-beep!”
My IV machine is freaking out because it’s just about out of liquid.
Funny, it’s been going on for awhile now and I don’t see or hear a nurse anywhere. I pick up the remote and push the call button for the medical staff. The lovely broad at the front desk answers.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tein,” she chimes, as though she can’t hear the thing in the background.
“Yeah, hi. Uh…my IV is out and the noise is bugging the shit out of me,” I reply, trying to spearhead my way through the niceties.
“Yessir, Mr. Tein,” she says, “I’ll be right in.”
I put the remote back down and roll my eyes, looking out the window at this terrible snowy weather. See, the thing is, snow isn’t the problem. It’s not enough snow. Like, if it’s snowing, it should snow enough to shut the whole city down, am I right? Eh, whatever…just something I’ve always thought.
My cell starts to vibrate on the table next to me. It’s Brett. Of course it’s Brett, like, right now. I snatch it up and hit the answer button quickly, looking to the left to make sure that the nurse isn’t in the doorway.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, “I just got to the gas station. What kind you want, again?”
Just as I’m about to answer, Nurse Happy-All-The-Fucking-Time comes through the door with her little bag of nutrients and electrolyte fluid, smiling and mouthing “Hello”.
Shit.
“Uh…um…” I start to stutter, trying to figure out exactly how to answer. “Don’t you already know? I told you.”
“Man, look, I forgot. Now just tell me what the hell kind of cigarettes you want so I can grab these and get out of here.”
“Uh,” I murmur again, watching intently as she changes out the bag. Maybe I can stall for just a little bit until she leaves. That’ll be perfect.
I whisper, “Hold on real quick,” pulling the phone an inch or two away from my ear and keeping my eyes locked on the nurse. Only a second or two passes before we both hear Brett over the phone yelling, “MAN IF YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT KIND YOU WANT! IT’S COLD AS FUCK OUT HERE!”
The nurse stops her task and looks over her shoulder at my phone. Her eyes quickly raise to meet mine and she has a very awkward look on her face. I have one as well, not wanting to keep Brett waiting, but also trying to avoid a sensitive subject to sensitive ears. She motions to me with her hand as if to say, “Go on, it’s fine.”
No. It’s incredibly not fine. I pull the phone back to my ear and say, “Yeah, um…red. Soft.”
There’s a brief silence. Brett takes a breath, and I’m sure I can hear his hand on his forehead.
“The fuck does that mean, man?!” he questions incredulously.
I watch closely, waiting for the the nurse to finally be done switching the IV fluid. She’s already removed the nearly-empty one, but it seems that this next bag is really giving her some trouble to hook up. Ordinarily this process takes a few seconds. She looks over at me quickly, flashing a brief grin. She seems anxious or eager to leave. That makes two of us. I know Brett isn’t going to wait for me forever.
“Red. Soft,” I repeat, hoping he gets what I’m trying to communicate to him. He sighs exasperatedly and sounds almost as if he’s ready to throw the phone, but he catches himself.
“Are you talking about a soft pack…Marlboro?” he asks, ready for me to simply answer yes or no. I sigh in relief, confessing, “Yes! Yes, that.”
“Okay.”
He tucks the phone away and I can hear him ordering a soft pack of Marlboros, original. I don’t really need to worry about the nurse anymore, but I sure can’t wait for her to get out of here. She is finally able to attach the bag and quell that incessant beeping. She visibly exhales, letting her shoulders drop out of that tense position she was holding and proceeds to the door. As she moves further and further from me, I let my left hand slip slowly toward the underside of my mattress, going for the loose slug that I keep.
Oooh, sweet relief.
But the moment my fingers touch the paper on it, she spins back around and points at me. My chest freezes. My left hand stops moving.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” she asks.
Jesus Christ, I almost had a heart attack.
I shake my head and wave her off. She merrily trots out and I am alone again. I raise the phone to my ear, listening for any sign of where Brett might be.
“Where are you, man?” I ask. He’s definitely in his car, but I have no clue how close.
“Chill!” he yells before mumbling under his breath, “Smokestack wop mothafucka…”
I hate when he calls me that, but the kid is doing me a favor. I force my top half over the side of bed rail and snatch the curtain closed around my bed. I finally get the chance to scoop the loose cig from under my mattress and the lighter in my sock. I lean back, light up, and hold the smoke for as long as I can. Helps to minimize the cloud when I exhale; something I learned a long time ago. I’ve been smoking since I was nine.
My cousin told me about them, long time ago. His name is Jared. He was fourteen at the time and I caught him lighting up behind my house when his family came over to visit one Christmas. I asked him what he was doing, and while most people would go about attempting to hide their habit at this point, he did the exact opposite. He looked down at me wide-eyed with curiosity, took the cig from his lips and handed it straight to me.
I was a bit confused, but I tried what I thought I saw him doing. I closed my mouth on it and sucked the air in, choking myself immediately with the toxins. I coughed so violently that I dropped the cigarette in the snow and fell backward, hacking and drooling. Jared kind of laughed as he reached down to help me up. I stood, dusted the snow off my jacket and hair, and asked him, “Why would you do that? That hurts!” He looked so damn cool as he looked upward, pulled another slug from the box and lit it. He took a drag and explained it all.
“You know how many people smoke? Like seriously, look at my mom. Look at Uncle Bradon. Grandad. They all know about it.”
“Know about what?” I questioned.
“You ever wonder how all these celebs and artists that aren’t talented or important get so damn famous? They’re rich as hell, they are loved by people that don’t even know them, and they have everything they could ever want. They found it. They found the cigarette.”
“They found a cigarette?” I wondered, not seeing the importance of happening upon a pack of slugs. That’s not important at all.
“No, you ‘tard. Not a cigarette. The cigarette. The cigarette brings them all that fame and fortune. Not only that, but it also gives them an endless nicotine high. They never need to smoke another cig again, and they have their lives just kinda handed to them, you get it?”
I nodded meekly, understanding that he just told me that all my dreams could come true if I just smoke these nasty things. Heck, I could smoke just the next one and that could be it! I asked him for one of my own, and to teach me how to smoke it. We went through two or three before I got the hang of holding the smoke in my mouth. And when I finally inhaled, I felt it. That nicotine high. It made me dizzy, but I felt it kind of…relaxing. I felt less stressed over the idea of hiding the fact that I was smoking from my mom. It was very short-lived, but it was enjoyable. We stayed back there smoking for twenty minutes before someone came looking for us.
He was right, though. When I got older, still smoking, I hung out with kids at school who were also smokers. I asked them if I was crazy for thinking that there was some kind of magical cig that made dreams come true or whatever. They said I wasn’t; they said it was actual fact. And they all knew about it. That’s how I met Brett. He and the others I hung out with were looking for the cigarette from that year, the year before, the one before that, whenever and however many there were left. Cigarette companies are required by law to create at least one cigarette per year that would create a whole new reality for its smoker.
Celebrity tracking became a sport of mathematics, timekeeping, and statistics. It was fun, but it was also a way of life. Many on the outside looked at us hovering over biographies and magazines, taking notes in notepads and stuff, and thought we were playing some kind of fantasy game. Football or something. And I didn’t mind, I was just looking for the one. We all were. Cig pools formed, buying small packs and dividing them up. Ten of us would put in, get two cigarettes each. Nobody found it. At least not while I was with them. Nobody I know ever found one of the cigs.
When I was diagnosed last year with stage 3 lung cancer at age 29, I stopped searching very briefly. It was only a week, but it was a week that I hated. It was slow, it was droll, it was difficult to endure. But I didn’t feel the drive to do it. I had been brought face-to-face with my mortality. I no longer felt the need to risk my life for this pipe dream. But then…I found that spark.
I realized that it was at this point that I wanted what that cig had to offer more than ever. By the end of that week, I was ready to resume Celeb tracking and timekeeping full-time. It was already too late. I might as well have resumed the game, right? If I was going to die, I didn’t want to fritter away my time, fading away in some hospital. I realized that if I had come this far, I should definitely finish my search, no matter what kind of pain it put into my chest. No matter how much blood I coughed up, and no matter how much I passed out. My search became obsessive. I didn’t exactly become a recluse, but it became very difficult to maintain relationships. Even my family and I don’t talk anymore. It’s tough to reconcile the way I spend my time with how they’d prefer I do it. And giving up the search? Not going to happen. I’ve worked so hard…
It landed me here, in New York Presbyterian Hospital, on a daily watch for my EKG and liver functions. My brain is also starting to take a serious hit, giving me near constant headaches. I’ve heard the doctors murmuring outside my door sometimes—they say I’m likely not going to make it much longer and they can’t figure out what’s going on. They’ve said it’s like I’m still smoking or something. One more cig could be the death of me.
Heh… I’m finished this one and I don’t feel any deader.
“Hey, Nico,” I hear outside the curtain. I struggle upward and yank the curtain to the side to find Brett standing in the doorway, bag in hand from the gas station.
“One more cig could end him, doctor.”
…But he might have brought me the one I’m looking for.
-G "Carmen" A.D. and Dakota James Priest.
The Baby in Apartment 2A
“Wahhhhh!”
“Wahhhhh!”
“Wahhhhh!”
It was like razors cutting into my skin. I’d tossed and turned all night, for at least four hours at that point. But that’s not counting the other three days I’d been kept up with this shrieking all night.
“Wahhhhhh!”
2A had a baby. And the entire floor was paying for it. I watched its mother wobble around pregnant for months, cheerful and grateful but exhausted.
Kinda like we all were now.
It was a newlywed couple. They had been married for a year, I’d witness them come home happily from the wedding and then from the honeymoon. I knew a baby would be the next celebration, but I was hoping we had more time.
“Wahhhhh!”
“What are they doing to that baby?” I grieved out loud. Did it have colic? Was there an injury of some kind? My head filled with thoughts of how we could fix this problem. I went through my memories of my years as a labor and delivery nurse practitioner, desperately trying to place a problem on our situation so we could solve it. I had not put on scrubs in a decade, but I wouldn’t be rusty if placed in a position. My entire job required me to care for a mother and her baby and my mind would not turn off to that fact.
“Wahhhh!”
It was just getting louder. I didn’t understand what they could be missing. Was it wet? Was it hungry? What could they possibly not be giving the baby?
They were new parents, so I gave them the benefit of the doubt, but I was 76 years old. I had to wake up at 5:30 a.m. for my greeter shift at Walmart in 2 hours. I was retired, my wife had passed on, and my daughter had just moved out. I was also retired from baby crying but this brought me right back.
“I’m going to say something as soon as I see them, this is ridiculous.” I feel like on their first night home I was being generous. The baby cried all night then too. But that was days ago. I remember when they left two weeks ago to have the baby. I wasn’t sure if her water broke but they were running down the steps, very loud, in a panic. I opened the door,
“Is it time?” I called to them.
“Yes!” They yelled back, ecstatic.
“Congratulations!” I replied. Their blonde heads bobbed down the steps with backpacks and water bottles. I remember thinking that the baby’s hair doesn’t stand a chance.
I sat up in bed, no longer able to pretend I could sleep. Turning on the lamp, I grabbed the water from the nightstand and took a long sip. I put on my Peter Christian burgundy slippers and dragged myself to the kitchen, perhaps a chamomile tea would help me relax back into my dream world.
I often took note of my condo these days when I passed through its halls. Emptiness. Three bedrooms, only one occupied. A large kitchen, I didn’t know how to cook, and a balcony but I hated the outdoors. I planned to sell it soon to live closer to my daughter who stayed 30 miles away. Not sure she wanted me to though; our relationship was of few words now.
I’d been here in this condo for 40 long years, and it had done its job. Well except for the frail, thin, walls that couldn’t keep the wails of a baby out.
I pulled out my floral ceramic cup and glass container full of my favorite tea.
“At least I know how to make tea.” I chuckled to myself. I turned the kettle on at the stove to boil the water and sat down on one of the stools that circled my kitchen island. Waiting for the water, I looked down at a magazine that I’d placed on the island yesterday. “Welcome Home, Baby,” the magazine stated. It was the first time I’d looked at it and I was utterly confused. There was no baby in this apartment and no plans to. That only meant it wasn’t mine.
“Welcome home,” I repeated, wiping my grey hair back. Those words unlocked something, but I wasn’t sure what. The name on the label stated it was for Darla Tierno. That was the crying baby’s mother. I knew because this wasn’t the first time I‘d gotten mail for them.
“Welcome home?” It was a question now. It stuck with me until my eyes widened with the memory.
I didn’t see them come home, I realized at that moment they had come back a little later than usual. About two weeks ago they’d left, and two days ago I heard the crying. That doesn’t add up since a childbirth stay is two days at the most. I had been so busy with my own life that I didn’t think of it.
“Something may be wrong with the baby,” I whispered to myself.
The annoying wailing turned into cries for help after my brain had a realization. I grabbed my robe and closed it tightly. I had my pajamas on, but the hallways were freezing in the winter, so my cotton robe was helpful. I turned off the stove, grabbed my keys, and phone, and walked down to 2A to see if I could be of assistance.
Knock, Knock!
I made sure I was loud enough for my neighbors to hear over their baby’s cries. I waited patiently until I heard the unlocking of padlocks and chains. The door crept open slowly and I was hit with an unpleasant smell immediately.
“James?” I said.
My neighbor came out to the hallway. I took a good look at him. It was noticeable why the baby was crying. Its father was unkempt, smelly, with bags under his eyes, and stains on his clothes.
“Hey,” James said weakly.
“Driving you crazy, isn’t it?”
James sighed and hung his head down low.
“Mind if I come in?” I asked.
James didn’t even hesitate to fight; he was too exhausted. He stepped aside and I walked into the messy apartment. The trash smell hit me like a race car crashing into a NASCAR fence, but I kept my composure. I didn’t want him feeling any worse than he already looked.
“That first week home is pretty tough,” I assured him, looking around at the dirty bottles and piles of dishes in the tiny sink. There were clothes all over their nice blue sofa and plastic cups littered the counter. Evidence of someone who ran out of dishes and couldn’t bear to wash them. I looked at James. His normal clean-cut appearance had altered into something of a caveman and if I looked carefully, I could see flies swarming above his head.
Something moved in his arms. The culprit of this entire affair I realized was cradled sweetly against its father’s chest.
“Girl or boy?” I asked.
“Girl,” James grunted.
“What’s her name?”
“Melanie.”
“Ah.” I said, “Wonderful name, may I?”
I held out my arms for the baby and he placed her gently and quickly into my arms. I don’t know what I expected. A missing limb or breathing tube but in my arms was a perfectly healthy baby. A baby that didn’t need to be in the hospital for weeks. But if the baby was ok…that meant…
“Where’s your wife?”
James bit his lip and swayed back in forth, thinking of the answer. He looked like he was ready to pass out at any minute and that question was too hard for him now. But he responded.
“She had an infection,” he replied, “Still in critical care, unfortunately.”
His response deflated me, “Oh man.” I had a million questions as my brain flashed back to the many women I’d tended to with complications after birth. We lost some; I wasn’t going to mention that.
I took another look around the disheveled apartment realizing this wasn’t just the discord of a new baby, it was also depression.
I looked down at this perfect baby with blonde curly hair and bright eyes, who had no idea the drama surrounding her arrival. I could hear her starting to sniffle; the cries were about to start back up.
I put the baby on my shoulder and started to pat firmly. In a minute, she let out a loud belch that vibrated through my chest.
“There we go.” I cheered. She cooed happily then settled down back into my arms as if that’s what was keeping her from resting.
I looked at her dad and he gave me a slight smile.
“Every time she eats, you must pat her back a little or rub her stomach. Sometimes gas gets trapped in babies, especially when they are bottle fed, and they need help getting it out.
James took in the new information and then plopped down on a bunch of clothes which was what I assumed was a love seat.
“That makes a lot of sense,” he told me.
I looked down at the infant, finally asleep, and snuggled against my robe.
“Say, why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll watch the baby for a second.
You would’ve thought I told him he could borrow my car for a week.
“You’re serious?” He sort of whispered.
“Yeah, It’s no problem.”
He thanked me, then disappeared quickly into the bedroom.
I looked around for a place to lay Melanie. There were not many safe places I could place her. I noticed a box propped on the wall. Reading the labels, I’d found the bassinet. I cleared off a spot on the sofa for the sleeping infant and placed her on her back. She didn’t stir. She was exhausted too, and the gas had been in her way. After she was safe, I slowly moved the bassinet’s box towards what I assumed was the middle of the floor. It was heavy and my back was already warning me it was preparing to dramatically give out. I needed reinforcements.
“James?” I called, “Have you any family we can call up?”
Silence
“James?” I called again. I pulled some clothes into a pile in front of the baby so that if she rolled, she’d be safer. Then I went down the hallway to find James completely knocked out on his bed, legs hanging off the side.
I chuckled and decided to call Walmart, I would not make it.
It was 7 a.m. and the apartment was spotless. I cleaned every nook and cranny you could think of, washed the dishes, took out the trash, and even put together the bassinet, which wasn’t as bad as I thought. My back was on fire but there was something in me that couldn’t let this young man and his child suffer. I didn’t have to do much when our daughter came home, I just went to work. My wife took care of everything else. I suppose if I helped more my daughter wouldn’t be so distant.
The clothes were put in bags for washing and I was just mopping the kitchen floor for the final task.
“Oh my god…” James said stunned, standing at the entrance to the living room. He was finally awake and clean, “Thank you, Mr. Meri.”
“Eh, call me Don.”
“Oh...Mr. Don. This is amazing,” he looked over at his daughter who was safely in her bassinet, “so she does sleep.”
“Yeah, she’s been out for hours now.”
“I’m sure she was just as tired, no thanks to her idiot father,” James shook his head as if he was disappointed.
“No one gets it right on the first try,” I reassured him, patting his back, “I made many mistakes with my daughter, all fathers do.”
He gave me a half smile, “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I would’ve made breakfast, but I can’t cook.”
He laughed, “Luckily I’m a chef.”
“Well, aren’t we a pair?” I chuckled.
An hour later we sat at the clean dining room table and had eggs, cheese, and pork sausage, on a baked croissant, with French toast and blueberries accompanied by fresh squeezed orange juice. James and I chatted the entire time. We talked about my job and retirement and his culinary career, his daughter and mine, my wife and his. I could tell he looked at me like an old wise chief in the village the way he asked me questions and listened carefully to my answers. He was talented and intelligent already, but I suppose this is how he got this way. If I had a son, I would’ve wanted him like James. We talked until 3 p.m. and I realized I’d officially been awake for 12 hours.
“I know you have to go,” he started, “But I was wondering if you could stay with Melanie while I go see my wife?”
The weight of the question weighed on me just as hard as the sleep weighed on my eyelids. But I couldn’t say no.
“Alright, but we will be at my apartment.”
“Oh, thank you Mr. Meri, I- I mean Don,” he corrected himself. He stood up and handed me Melanie, who was now wide awake and fed.
He grabbed his keys and ran out the door, not before yelling to me he would be back as quickly as he could.
As he ran out of the apartment, I packed a few diapers and bottles and took her back down the hall to my home.
“No bassinets here.” I told the infant, carefully holding her to my chest as I sat on my luxury black sofa, “Maybe I’ll order one, but first...”
I got out my phone and called a number I hadn’t dialed in years.
“Don?” an elderly voice asked.
“Yes Teresa, It’s me.”
“Oh, I’d know that voice from anywhere.”
“Good to see you’re still there,” I told her.
“5 more months, then I’ll be retired just like you. What a dream.”
“We’ll take a trip as soon as the chains are off,” I promised, “Now, Teresa, the reason I called is I have a neighbor who I believe is down there at the hospital. A Mrs. Darla Tierno?”
Even over the phone, I could feel her happy demeanor shift, “Yes, she’s here.”
“I know you can’t tell me exactly what happened or what’s going on but, can you at least hint to me, friend to friend, what is her chance of making it?”
Teresa sighed, “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I know but, her baby is in my arms right now, and I just need to know the situation.”
Teresa went silent then said in a low voice, “Well…she’s lucky to have you around. She and her father are going to need it.”
We hung up and I looked at the little baby whose soft eyes found mine. She was trying to stuff her fist in her mouth now, but she smiled up at me completely content with her life that was slowly falling apart, and she wouldn’t even know it. We walked together to the kitchen island so I could start the tea again and I glanced at the magazine once more.
“Well, well,” I started still staring down at her sweet face,
“Welcome home, little Melanie. Welcome home.”