"feeling okay tonight?"
no. in fact, i hate life right now. but what business is that of his?
"feeling fine, officer." i force myself to smile.
his question isn't friendly, and he has not picked me at random. wave people have to carry visible identification. it's the law. most of us wear a laminated badge hanging from a neck cord. i also wear an old school med alert bracelet, just in case.
it's the law because approximately thirty percent of wave people become randomly violent. so many of the screamers got shot that the badges were mandated as a way of persuading the cops to use non lethal force.
the cop has a microtaser on the back of his right hand. his fingers are drumming on the handlebars, excited at the possibility of suddenly extending his right arm in my direction and scrambling my neural impulses even worse than they already are. i wonder if i should explain to him that i was diagnosed with the blank effect, not the mayhem effect. that won't matter, though, if he really wants to hurt me.
"yeah, had some problems today. just wanted to see how you were doing. what happened to your head?
what happened to your head, dude, i mean, to make you want to be a cop? i don't dare say that though.
"oh, man. i walked in to a door... shit....!"
act goofy 'cause that's what he expects. he nods and pulls away from the curb, his electric bike humming quietly, leaving nothing behind but the smell of ozone.
the real reason i have a one inch gash on my forehead is that i had what you might call an "episode" at work today.
one second, and i am about to get in to a fight with an asshole waiter (i'm a superior life form because i work in the kitchen).
the next second, and the dumpster next to us begins asking me questions. i had a split second to ponder this phenomena, and it's implications regarding my overall stability. i mean, it's never a good thing when inanimate objects start talking, right?
then the viewmaster changes scenes again and i am on my side, gravel sticking to my cheek, staring at the waiters shoes. i think he must have sucker punched me.
but when i look up he is shaking and talking rapidly.
"dude, dude, it's gonna be okay. they're calling an ambulance right now. just stay still man. they're calling an ambulance." he repeats himself.
i try to say something like: could you please explain to me what happened, and how i came to be in this position?
but all that comes out of my mouth is "whaaaa?"
"dude, you had a seizure or something, they're calling an ambulance" he says for the third time.
that gets my attention. please god, not an ambulance. if i go to a county emergency room, they will call my counselor. my counselor would probably review my case. she might decide that i shouldn't be working, or worse, living in my own apartment. at the very least, she would probably put me on some meds. the kind that will leave me less of a person than i already am.
you have to think about these things when you're a ward of the state.
i sit up. "uhuhuhuh. no fucking ambulance"
"dude, you're bleeding!" and i am. blood is running in to my eyes.
the nameless girl, i think she used to be a waitress but now she's a manager, appears suddenly at my side, hugging me while toweling blood off of my forehead.
"ohhh bobby." she says, exasperated, but with a catch in her throat like she might cry.
i like it when people say my name out loud. it jogs my memory without me having to look at my i.d. card- (fulton, robert daniel, a.k.a. "bobby". d.o.b. 3-8-1988 FWB (federal wave benefits) number... same as my social security number, which i never could remember anyway)-
the ambulance hums to a stop a few feet away. at least they didn't come down the alley with lights and sirens.
the paramedics are all grins and beer guts as they swagger up to me. "what's happening there player?"
i don't know what i'm supposed to say to that. i really just want them to go away.
"he a wave? did he fall out, all of a sudden like?"
my coworkers both nod.
"got a lot of this going around town. some moron put in the wrong feed on the lakeway tower. caused a big ol' surge."
the girl is still hugging my shoulders. "so... what's that have to do with bobby here?"
"look honey, they make anything that uses electricity with a buffer coil these days. folks like your friend here? they don't got one of those."
they seem just then to notice i'm bleeding. they ask if i have hemmo fever.
"are you serious, since when do we have that in austin? he's a wave. he doesn't have the plague."-the girl again. they ask if i can walk to the ambulance. i don't move.
"i'm not going with you. " i finally yelp.
they both look disgusted. one of them mutters something about fucking shockheads.
"you know, he is a person, and you fine people are treating him like a broke down car. what's wrong with you?"
now they're mad at both of us. the waiter steps forward.
"have you guys had dinner? just fix him up and forget to document. i can get you anything you want, on the house."
the thought of free enchiladas seems to work for the paramedics. they spray the blood away, sanitize the gash, and staple my head. all in less than five minutes.
at least the dumpster kept quiet through all of this.
......
i finally remembered that the manager girls name was haley. haley wanted to pay for a cab to get me home, but i felt like i had caused her enough problems for one day. she asked me three times if i was sure i was okay to take the bus. i finally got away from her.
the bus is approaching. i see that it's not smart, it still has a living, breathing driver. the few remaining capital metro drivers are almost all near retirement age and practice surliness as an art form. they speak only when spoken to, and never look at your face.
the bus pulls up. the door slides open. the driver turns to me, grins and says;
"well how's my favorite chalkboard doing this evening?"
to be continued
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