Slim's Broken Leg, Part 5

Slim Interviews A Covid Patient

The nurse, double-masked, wearing a face-shield, looked up. “What are y'all doing in here?”

“We're from the CDC, ma'am. Doin' a study on comorbidities in old biddies.”

“Don't be a smart-ass. Is that you, Darwin?”

“Yeah, it's me, gorgeous. Slim, this is Lila. Slim writes for the New Yorker.”

“Bullshit,” Lila replied.

“Okay, he writes for the Post-Dispatch in Wichita Falls.”

“All right, what's he want?”

“He wants to interview this lady, here. Is she conscious?”

“She was a minute ago.” Lila touched the woman's arm. “Maybell?”

“Huh?”

“You awake, hon?”

The woman didn't open her eyes. Her breath came in ragged gulps, voice raspy and cracked. “Erg. . .I. . .uh. . .huh?”

“This man wants to interview you. You hear me, hon? Maybell?” Lila turned to me. “You'll have to hurry. Dub's on his way.”

“Who is Dub?”

“The anesthesiologist.”

“Ci. . .ciglette.”

“What'd she say?” I asked.

“She wants a cigarette,” Lila patted her hand. “I'm sorry, hon, you can't have one right now.” The nurse turned to us, leaned close and whispered “I don't blame her, I guess. If I were on my death-bed, I'd be asking for one, too.”

Lila told us the lady was sixty-years-old, a life-long smoker with diabetes, high blood pressure and COPD. Now, on top of that, she had Covid. Through her visor, I could see Lila roll her eyes. “She didn't take the vaccine.”

I asked Lila if they planned to flip her on her stomach once they inserted the tube. I read that it helped them breathe easier. Lila bit her lip. “Well, uh. . .”

Darwin spoke up. “I heard her talking earlier to Suarez. She told him she didn't want to be on her stomach.”

“Why not?”

“She thinks she'll die,” Lila said. She started to explain, then hesitated. She and Darwin cut eyes at each other.

“She thinks once we flip her, then we'll kill her,” Darwin said.

“Where'd she get that idea?”

He shrugged. “Q-Anon, Tucker Carlson, who knows? They think the pandemic’s just a big Ponzi scheme. For every Covid diagnosis, we get money from the government. Still more if we put 'em on a ventilator. Well, fuck yeah, we get money. Without some kind of subsidy, we couldn't treat all these clowns. They couldn't afford it. We'd have to cut 'em loose. On top of that, they think we get an even bigger pay-off if they die.”

“So she thinks you're just knockin' 'em off? For the money?”

“Yep. We're all in on it. Doctors, nurses. We're all getting a percentage.” He looked at Lila. “I wish.”

“Are there others in here who believe that?”

“Most of them believe some variation of it,” Lila said.

Darwin looked at his watch. “Where the hell is Dub, anyway?” He sounded a little peeved. “He sure is taking his merry time gettin’ here.”

“I guess he’s busy, Darwin. We got patients lined up for the ventilators. You know that as well as I do.”

“I don’t know why we have to wait for him anyway.”

“What do you mean? Of course we have to wait for him. You can’t intubate somebody without the anesthesia. You can’t get the tube down their throat.”

“Shoot, I could do it, myself. I’ve watched Dub do it a hundred times. Nothin’ to it.”

“He’s had training, Darwin. He’s been to medical school.”

“Training? In what? Puttin’ people to sleep? How hard can that be? The guy’s a big lummox. He has a 30-ought-six in his pickup and a Jesus Saves sign on the rear bumper. Walks around here like he owns the place. You know what he does in his spare time?”

“No, what?”

“He hunts feral hogs. Gets five-bucks a tail for every one he kills. But that ain’t half of it. He thinks Covid could be cured with infusions of feral hog blood."

“No shit?” I said.

Darwin shrugged. “That’s what he told me.”

“He was pulling your leg, Darwin,” Lila said.

“Nah, he was dead serious, Lila. You know Dub. He’s not all that sophisticated. Dub’s idea of pulling someone’s leg is removing the meat from somebody’s sandwich when they’re not looking and replacing it with a human liver. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sneakin’ vials of hog blood into the hospital and pumpin’ it into patients as he puts them under. Hell, I could put this old girl to sleep in five minutes, and I don’t need the anesthesia. Be a lot safer than handin’ her over to Dub.”

“I don’t think Suarez would approve,” Lila replied.

“You mind if I—?” I approached the bed.

“Oh, go ahead, Slim.” Lila set a stool alongside, touched Maybell's arm again. “This man wants to talk to you a minute, Maybell. Can you talk?”

Her eyes stayed closed. “Uh. . .uh. . .'bout what?”

I took the stool. She was a wreck, all right. Hair stringy and greasy from days of neglect. “Hi, Maybell.”

One eye cracked open a razor blade width, peeped at me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Call me Slim.”

(Next—Slim’s Broken Leg, Part 6: To Vac Or Not To Vac)