— Where the trees.
— Silly there aren’t any trees… only the flurry of hands and sheets, the rattle of carts and trays and finally of a shade coming down on the glow at a wall socket indifferently exchanging day for night, night for day.
— I’m telling you this place is a dream after where I was at, did I ever tell you what was…
— Wait, hello…? He’s in three nineteen yes wait here’s Miss Waddams she can…
— Hello…? Oh hi… last night yeah but I just went on days this morning, he’s coming along fine he didn’t even wake up since you… now? with him? No we got him in a tent he’s not even… no an oxygen tent Mister Coen he’s got enough trouble breathing already without trying to talk on the tele… I know yeah he really hit the jackpot double pneumonia nervous exhaus… what? Malnutrition yeah I don’t know a couple of days maybe, they always worry about complications with this you know? So how’s your other patient… No I mean your friend they got here in the intensive care… You really got your hands full haven’t you Mister Coen… I sure will Mis… you bet Mister Coen goodbye, anyway this place is a dream after where I was at…
— No lunch for three nineteen either?
— No he’s on iv maybe I better go check him now, don’t go away wait till I tell you what they found stopping up the junior high plumbing… and she came hedged by that despair of color down the corridor to weigh in green’s arrest OXYGEN NO SMOKING with a shoulder and search a pulse among whites left sallow with her steps away in the wall socket glow’s indifference day to night, night to day.
— Anyway like what I was telling you yesterday can you imagine that back when you were in junior high? I’m telling you this place is wait, hello…? Oh hi Mister Coen? It’s me yeah he’s coming along fine he still didn’t really wake up since you… no I mean just for tests and all but he’s still on the… no but even if you have these important matters to discuss with him he couldn’t even… I sure will Mister Coen so how’s your other patients you really got your hands full haven’t you you must be… you bet Mister Coen goodbye. I better go check him don’t go away I didn’t even tell you where we had this kid that was always sticking people up with a cap pistol… and she was down the corridor shouldering in OXYGEN NO SMOKING, — how we feeling today Mister Bast…? flashing a light, searching a pulse — just take one day at a time… and leaving that one behind, undistinguished by the steady glow from the one that followed.
— I’m telling you after where I was at only don’t you get bored here? Hello…? for Mister who…? No it can’t be three twelve three twelve’s a hysterectomy… seven till eight yes goodbye, anyway did I tell you where we had these junior high girls leaving their samples for wait, hello…? Oh hi there Mis… much better yeah he’s out of the tent I bet he’d like to see you Mister Coen, he seems sort of lone… no he’s talking sure but… sure but he’s saying things like a dollar is e, fifty cents is d, a quarter is… yeah then he tells me if corn is this god we don’t even have electricity and he’s only fit for public life then he tells me some poetry about some ancient founts, what he said about this place where he said he’s been what they do there I wouldn’t even… I sure will Mister Coen so how’s your other pa… you really got your hands full I’ll… you bet Mister Coen, goodbye. What’s this…
— A postoperative for three nineteen.
— Good he’ll be glad for some company in there.
— Yeah…? they swung the bed down the corridor, — wait till he sees it.
— Mister Bast? you awake? We brought you a roommate see…? but all that emerged from the heap on the rolling bed once in place was a rude sound which set its pattern of response for the night.
The shade clattered up on a gray that seemed to draw light from the room itself. — And how are my boys this morning? Mister Bast? are you awake?
— He went back to sleep, what’s your name.
— I’m Miss Waddams, did you boys both wash?
— Get me some newspapers I haven’t seen one for a week, what are you doing there.
— I have to take your pulse, would you get your arm out of the covers?
— You try to find it.
— Now now let’s act our age, did you and Mister Bast get acquainted last night?
— Thinks I’m his father, he says let’s improve this orange place by chopping everything down like the olden times.
— He doesn’t mean anything by it, he tells me somebody broke in his house and I say who and he says you did! Then he tells me some creepy poetry about the dreary moorland and wants to see the scar around my neck he said he heard I’m a witch, he heard I screw my head off at night.
— I’ll bet you do too Waddles, come around tonight and we’ll…
— Now now let’s act our age…
— Just want to get fixed up and…
— We’ll fix you up don’t worry, I’ll get your newspapers…
— Bast? you awake…? and he subsided till the rustle of sheets gave way to the ruffle of newspaper, the clatter of trays — don’t think he even wants to wake up for lunch. What’s this, fisheye?
— It’s tapioca.
— It’s fisheye… a clatter that gave way finally to a variety of solitary expressions of relief, and a silence broken eventually by the ruffle of newspapers. — Bast? you awake? Read you the paper and cheer you up, so full of other people’s misery it’s enough to cheer anybody up listen to this one. She told investigators she had not seen her husband since one evening last week, when she hid herself in a closet and watched him carefully make up his face and dress in an elaborate array of woman’s clothing before slipping out. Answering a knock minutes later, she said he confronted her at the door insisting he was his own sister on a trip through town and just wanted to say hello. Unmoved by her demand that he come in and stop the nonsense, she said he suddenly turned and left and she has heard nothing from him since. In recounting her discovery, Mrs Teets appeared most annoyed by the variety of silk underthings she found hidden in his shirt drawer, since she had been restricted to cotton and synthetics throughout their marriage to save money. Mister Teets is being sought in connection with a subpoena for…
— Have we used the bedpan today?
— Think it’ll hold us both? Let’s wait, don’t go away Waddles I’ve got a stiff proposition here for you…
— Now now…
— Real spoilsport isn’t she, listen to this one. For a fifth straight day, the brave little fourth grader trapped in the soaring steel sculpture Cyclone Seven patiently awaits court settlement in a case that promises to set precedents in art and insurance circles alike. As tightlipped members of the local fire department stand their lonely vigil with acetylene torches ready, prepared to free the boy from what has been called one of the most outstanding contemporary sculptural comments on mass space, insurance company attorneys continue to work around the clock assembling briefs covering interpretations of the health, accident, life and property provisions contained in the numerous subclauses of the policies directly and indirectly involved in the controversy. Prospects for the out of court settlement rumored yesterday were suddenly dimmed by the intervention of a group calling itself the Modern Allies of Mandible Art. Through its attorneys, MAMA is seeking an injunction against what it terms willful destruction of a unique metaphor of man’s relation to the universe, stating its contention that altering the massive work in the smallest detail would permanently destroy the arbitrary arrangement of force and line that pushes Cyclone Seven beyond conventional limits of beauty to celebrate in the virile and aggressive terms of raw freedom the triumphant dignity of man. Braving the sleet and freezing rain that continue to sweep the bare expanse of the Cultural Plaza where Cyclone Seven stands, protesters picketing within a stone’s throw of the makeshift tent hastily suspended by friends and neighbors of the boy’s parents to give him some protection from Bast? Look at that picture looks like he’s being eaten alive, what’s this Waddles. Fish?