Chapter 1: You look like trouble
Eliza was flying high. Her body vibrating.
Shit, no, that was her phone.
She groaned as she tried to find her cell phone. Not in her tight jeans with the too-small-pockets. Not under her ass as she had a habit of sitting on things, the fatty cushion preventing her from often being aware of the remote she often found underneath her. She padded her boobs, the hard rectangle poking out.
Jackpot
.
She mistyped her pass code twice, nailing it on the third try. Felix, her weed man, was right. This strain would numb the piss out of her emotions. She had no idea what he meant by that until the text message jarred her from the stoned heights she had soared to.
Rutger: Miss Eliza, there's a man here. Bad shape. Won't let me call an ambulance.
Eliza was glad this conversation was in text. She was certain that her mouth wouldn't work right. She tried to mouth the word ambulance and tripped over the ulance before the giggles took hold. This is proper shitly she inner monologed in her best English accent. Fuck. She might be too stoned for this. What the fuck was shitly? The ridiculous word now embedded into her mind's vocabulary promising to fall out at inappropriate times.
Eliza: Were u atty?
She shrugged at the text. Close enough. Auto correct can eat her ass tonight.
Rutger: Looking for cans in the alley behind ur building
Eliza and Rutger have a simple friendship that blossomed over their mutual hatred of olives and bullshit. He was a homeless day worker who lived out of his van and had found his way to the clinic below her apartment several times.
He was in his 60s with salt and pepper unkempt hair he often covered with an old ball blue ball cap. His 6'4" frame was intimidating but he was a gentle giant.
He stuck around in case Eliza needed the muscle. Sometimes she found herself in a tight spot, treating patients whose trouble followed them into her small office.
For those in the area, her clinic was a neutral zone. She treated everyone. No questions asked. She took care of the community and, in return, the community tried to keep her clinic out of their conflicts.
But occasionally, she would find herself crouched in her office texting Rutger for help.
Eliza stood before the body mirror that Rutger mounted by her front door. Her eyes glassy and red. Eyeliner and mascara smeared from the sweat of sewing up multiple stab wounds. The window unit unable to keep up with demands of summer heat. Her copper hair in a messy top bun.
She had to change out of her bloody scrubs to grab groceries earlier but today had been such a shit show that she got immediately and deeply stoned as soon as she got home with the rotisserie chicken. She hadn't shed her street clothes for her lounge shorts and her oversized college tee.
Standing in front of the mirror, she time traveled, forgetting the mission Rutger summoned her to, as she stood before the full length mirror. I should have been a stripper, she thought. Or a high end prostitute. She faked every orgasm her partners had given her for free. She could definitely up her performance for a grand.
Her cell phone buzzed again and her tit jiggled. Her phone had found its way into her "high pocket" again (thank you Nan for the phrase). She didn't remember stowing it away but she was glad it reliably found its way into her bra as opposed to somewhere it would be lost.
She suddenly realized that she was a doctor and there was a man who might be dying a few hundred feet from her. She sighed and dug deep trying to bring forth some sobriety before squaring her shoulders and leaving the sanctum of her undersized apartment.
The stairs down did nothing to clear the fog of weed from her mind as her mind wandered through the trauma of her day. A kid, couldn't have been older than 16, showed up with multiple stab wounds and an eye that nervously watched the front door of the clinic.
He was new to the clinic and spoke Spanish almost exclusively. He cursed in perfect English when she touched some tender bruising on his rib cage. He scrambled out as soon as she snipped the black suture thread from the last stitch. She knew that he was avoiding questions and so she didn't reveal that she was conversationally fluent in Spanish.
She didn't mean to take work home with her but his chestnut eyes would haunt her. She opened up the clinic 18 months ago and could almost write the ending to his story. He would die young. Either the streets would eat him up or prison would. There were few exceptions for kids like him. In a different life, in a different world, perhaps he could have lived long and happy. But in this world, in this life, she could only keep him temporarily safe. The hungry and violent world would claim him soon enough.
The night air was mildly less steamy than the broiling southern heat of an August summer in the south but any relief was welcome as she spilled out of the heavy back door that led to the dumpsters behind her building.
She saw Rutger kneeling beside a bloodied and half naked man ranting about an evil brown bunny. His tongue heavy from alcohol. "Baaaad bunny," he chastised to the nothingness surrounding him.
She kneeled beside him, opposite of Rutger, and began her assessment. A nasty head wound. An eye that was rapidly swelling shut. A busted lip. Bruising on his ribs. He'd live. The head wound didn't imply a spinal injury which was her first concern.
"I think he's safe to move. Can you bring him into the clinic? I want to take a better look at his head, clean him up a little, and get him some clothes from the donation closet," Eliza explained to Rutger.
Mr. Trouble has ruined her high for the moment but she could treat him in her sleep. She could definitely handle this coming down from a high.
