Stage 5, Exit Left

“What’d he say?” my bud Carl asked, visiting me in the charity ward of the downtown hospital, a back room for those of us with “uncompensated care,” the insurance company’s PC term for “they ain’t got shit.”

“Stage 4,” I spit.  “Then the doc patted my hand, his voice mewling, him bent over like a wilted
willow, techniques he'd learned, I guess, in his second-year medical school class ‘Death Notice 101,’” and I laughed, like razor blades scratching on glass.

“Don't need his sympathy, Carl.  Don't want it.”  In fact, I wondered what the palliative value was of simpering. Maybe I'll look that up on Amazon Rx. If I have the time.

“When I see him again, I’ll tell that dude to grow some bark.  If he’s gonna deal with those of us who’ve lived a bit rough, he’s gonna need more skill and a riding crop, like my Marine drill sergeant used in basics to keep us green recruits in line.  Save his damned whimpering for the bridge club ladies.

I've got more concrete in my spine than he's got in his deluxe 4-car garage fit for a Lamborghini,
Maybach, Porsche, and Range Rover. And my spine is all stenosis and baling wire.

Yep, the hell with kindness and well-meaning bedside manner. Give me my morphine, some booze, and a toke of medicinal weed. I'm ready for stage 5, exit left,” I said to Carl, as he used his sleeve to wipe the bottle’s mouth, handing me the flask of Jack Daniel’s Black.

About the author

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

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