Matt Greene

I’ll admit it. 

It was a mistake.

My job is simple.

Drive. 

Bring Carlo wherever he wants to go. 

Open the door, close the door, drive the car. Always put up the partition.

Keep my mouth shut.

That was the problem. That has honestly always been the problem.

It’s like a nervous tic. Stress makes it bad; tense situations are the worst.

In grade school, any trouble I got in was made invariably worse.

It’s not a stutter. Not a lisp. I don’t stammer or freeze or burst out in disjointed profanity or get twitchy.

I make jokes. Puns. You name it.

It feels like a switch in my head. I can coast for awhile in most situations.

Until it gets too tense or heated. After a certain point, I feel that switch. It’s not a ‘click.’ Not exactly. 

It’s more like the perfect and funniest possible thing to say in any given moment drops into my consciousness with a sudden sense of import and weight.

I don’t have to say the thing. I can not.

But it hurts. 

Ever had a migraine? It’s like that; but all the surface area of a migraine concentrated into the small and tender spot directly between my eyebrows.

I’ve seen people about it. Neurologists, therapists. Apparently, it’s some sort of trauma response. I had always thought I’m just pathologically funny; or that I derive joy from bringing laughter to others. I guess the truth is closer to the fact that I’ve got control issues. I guess that making people laugh in conversation allows me to manipulate and control the conversation, and thereby the environment. A bit more dark and sticky than simply wanting to be a source of joy.

Did some work on it, but it’s still there.

It seems to get worse if I ignore it, which is what I try to do when I’m working. Not always successful on that front; I’ve gotten what I suppose would be called “escalating disciplinary counseling sessions” in any other profession. In other professions, enough entries in a personnel file lead to termination. I guess it’s the same in my line of work. 

Context is slightly different, though.

The guy I suppose would be classified as my ‘direct report’ is a piece of work named Nico. Nico Valetti, if you’re taking notes. “Nico the Nutjob,” in certain circles. Those circles, needless to say, are never, ever, ever within earshot of Nico. I heard that a guy in Staten Island once called Nico “nutjob” to his face. That guy ended up losing both his hands and his feet. The rest of him was completely untouched, is the way I heard it. 

See, Nico has never killed anyone. That’s sort of his thing. He’s proud of it. He tells everyone. He tells people so often that it comes off as a threat. Like, you’d assume if someone you just met offers the information that they have “Never killed ANYONE,” that guy has probably one hundred percent killed a ton of people, right?

Not Nico. Nico is a bit off. I could honestly see him meeting his maker by accidentally locking himself in a chest freezer during an unfortunate ice cream retrieval accident. To say that he’s ‘not the brightest bulb’ would imply that there is any sort of wattage at work. I think the only reason I have a job at all is because Carlo recognizes that Rico shouldn’t drive. Ever.

When it comes to punishment, though? Nico is a savant. ‘A gift’ wouldn’t even begin to cover it. He’s like the Einstein of pain.

His last ‘mentoring session’ with me involved a lot of close talking, most of it in a murderous monotone. I somehow managed to keep my mouth shut for it, but I’d be lying if I told you that there hadn’t been nervous, suicidal laughter bubbling up from deep within me.

And comments. Lots of comments.

This had been a long shift. I had been driving all day. Lots of stops, lots of tense conversations. Not all of them behind the partition. A lot of standing, waiting to open the door to the Escalade for Him. Raised voices, insults, heated discussions. A lot of moments refraining from speaking. My head was pounding, but I did well.

Until I didn’t.

I couldn’t even tell you exactly what I said.

But, it was hilarious. And really poorly timed. 

Fucking funny as fuck, though.

I heard Nico striding toward me, his rage-filled steps were unmistakable.

I turned just in time to absorb two facts.

1. He had his gun out.
2. He was holding the wrong end.

Not enough time to move. Or raise an arm. Or do anything useful. Enough time, however, to manage to say, “If you fuck as well as it looks like you shoot, Nico, it would explain a lot about your mood.”

Then, there was a meaty crunch and everything went dark.

I can’t really move, so I can’t really figure out what he did to me. It must be bad, because I’ve definitely got a breathing tube down my throat. There is also a tube in my dick. I’ve never had a catheter before (and I can already tell you it’s not an experience I want to repeat), but I’m next to positive that’s what’s going on down there.

I can smell plaster, so I’m assuming I’m in a cast (cast away, cast in an off off off Broadway production). All of me. I broke my leg when I was seven, and I can say that the rash and itching that drove me nuts back then is pretty much everywhere on my body right now. Except my ears; they feel cold compared to the low level burning everywhere else (I guess absolutely NO ONE is talking about me).

I can for sure wiggle my toes, and my arms and legs are itching like a motherfucker, so at least I’m not paralyzed. Thank god. I don’t think I could handle that. I’ve seen shows where people end up paralyzed and find some deep hidden well of patience and perseverance and somehow end up carving an inspirational life for themselves; but, I gotta tell you, I don’t think I have that in me.

I’ve started making noises to get the attention of the nurses. Or, doctor; that would work.

Hell, anybody.

No one is coming.

Maybe some of that is the quality of noises I’m able to make around this tube. Or, lack thereof.

I have no idea how long it’s been. I can’t exactly reach my watch (though I can feel it, itchy there too…everyfuckingwhere, honestly)(Time flies).

The smell of the plaster is making my head hurt (not to mention the lovely background scent of my own body). I can’t believe no one has been in to check on me. There’s got to be some sort of sensor or monitor that tells them when I’m awake; some change in heart rate or breathing, or something.

Right?

There’s a hole (hole, whole, holy) in my sock. Left sock, just below the heel. It’s driving me nuts, and I can’t seem to move enough to not have that part of my foot rub against the plaster. It’s taking up my whole reality right now. I can’t seem to stop worrying my left foot against the plaster; feels raw already. Fuck. 

I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been (feels like years, but it’s probably somewhere between forty-five seconds and a couple of hours) before I hear something. Footsteps. Echoing (take your time, I’ll wait).

After another and completely different eternity (I’m gonna need to come up with more terms. Eskimos and snow. Me and long waits), the steps stop. Nearby but not. Sort of next to and above me. Am I on the ground, in some sort of traction device? (Everything is looking up).

Then

“You just can’t fucking shut up, can you?” Nico says.

(Fuck. Just fuck. Nothing funny drops into my awareness).

“I guess now you fucking can.”

He’s pausing, as if we’re having a conversation. Fuck. That’s infuriating. It’s got to be intentional.

“You actually couldn’t shut up if your life depended on it. Ha.” I hear the metallic click of his zippo and the inrush of breath as he lights a cigarette. It’s as if I can see it. “Like, really and truly.”

Another pause. Fuck this fuck. I’m just listening to him smoking, at this point. And fucking monologuing. 

“So, I wrapped you up like a mummy. Head to toe. Took awhile. Part of that was figuring out how to use the cast shit. Easy once you get the hang of it, but I started at your feet and let me tell you…they don’t look great from up here. Not that it matters.”

I scream at this point. Not that it comes out as a scream, or really any sort of noise at all, really. My only hope is that Nico can at least feel my unfiltered rage on some level.

He must, actually. He’s making fucking noises like he’s responding to a fucking counter argument. ‘Mmhmm’ and all that. Fucking prick. FUCKING PRICK.

“Yeah, you did start to wake up a bit during the ‘arts and crafts’ portion of all this, but I had Angie lend a hand. You know she’s a medic? Probably fucking not. She’s the one that tubed you. All the tubes. Said it wasn’t a particularly impressive experience. Guess you crack wise a lot better than you fuck. Anyway, she gave you something to keep you sleepin and something else to paralyze you. Said the sleepin drug would last longer than the paralyze one.”

Angie is probably familiar with feeling numb and paralyzed, probably uses the same shit to get through date night with you.

“Well, we did it extra thick. Took awhile,” Nico smokes and awaits my impossible reply; “so, we kept the IV in place so we could keep giving you the meds while we worked. Stopped them awhile ago; you’re just getting water now. At least you won’t get dehydrated.”

I ‘scream’ again.

He must feel it; or at least hear it. 

Because he answers.

“Right, because if there’s one thing you do know, it’s that I never killed anybody. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that once or twice.”

“And, I’m not gonna kill you, neither.” I can hear the final drag of the cigarette. It’s never occurred to me before that such a thing would sound different than a regular drag, but there you have it (such a drag/drag show/dragging bottom).

The squeak of a cheap heel (Nico is the cheapest heel I know) turning on a concrete floor (suddenly, gym class) and retreating footsteps.

“The concrete won’t kill you either. We braced you enough, made you a little cage in there to protect you from the weight and the heat of it curing.”

I can barely hear him now, but I know that he knows that I still can.

“I’m guessing starvation is what kills you.”

“Not me.”

“Guess you’re the only one who gets that fucking punchline, funny man.”

Then, a backup alarm. 

Big truck. I’m speculating on the type. 

Then, it gets really quiet, and my ears stop being cold. They’re burning for sure.

(I guess someone is talking about me, after all)