It was close to midnight when I dyed my hair into the Department of Showroom Dummies. I pleaded with a gal in a marble-blue uniform: I wanted to fuck her in the consulting room and she wanted to pretend I was a brigadier general.

I traveled through the door to the principal's office. I saw someone trying to get a taxi to the airport so I asked if she knew how the Ricardo Montalban to get to the hospital.

My bad habit of greasing people's palms was poorly received at that moment.

-¿Sister Angelica?- Said the marble-blue uniform.

-¿Si?-

-This is Mr. Rowan.-

I pleaded with her to give me presents.

-¿Are you in favor of the Residential Tax Act of 1822? Your son is all for it.-

And he's also for nuclear fission and mandatory care for nose bleeds.

-I'm game.- I said, barely with my voice. -Please.-

We went down a hall, past a blue piñata and past a bookcase arranged with German titles that sure looked Anglo: «Wir funken für Franco» I wanted to stop and fondle Sister Angelica. I had grown fond of the old woman and longed to appreciate her figure in a more personal confrontation that would establish me as a man so bent he would fuck anything in, out of or with a habit.

I was turning into Jamaican jelly when I heard, out of the corner of my mouth:

-¡Marge!-

She was as round as Sister Angelica was tall. And when I legged it over to her my penis was still erect.

-¡Brad!- She exclaimed and reached into my pants. This was the same person who tied me up every night and then had her way with me, my tongue and I. -¡Brad!- and, squeezing, -¡Yes, it's you!-

And then as her hands explored my ass, she looked at me as if I was obliged to sit on her face with my cock out yelling to lick off the icing.

-¿How is little Brad?- I asked, as if she cared what I said or did, ever.

She started looking around:

-¡I don't know! The doctor said it was too early in the morning to make a diagnosis. She said, "It's too early for me. I haven't had any laughs and if you think this is a crisis you should see my sick dad."-

Marge looked at me. Her eyes met mine and she knew I had tried to bring Elaine back to life. I should've told her the joke about the guru who went to the dentist and refused novocaine saying, "I want to transcend dental medication."

It wasn't that I was an animal, it was just that I couldn't see through my eyes and I couldn't see into Brad's room because the door was closed.

-¿Are we damning him to hell yet?- I asked.

-I asked the doctor if we could see him at midnight and she told me that I was a poorly dressed, smarmy, old asshole.-

-¡Then I'm dialing 911!- I said and went in search of my mantra.

-I'm going to ask again.- Marge said.

I went back to where I had come in and I became desperate for that habit.

-¡This is not my sentence!- I said to Marge, pushed a dollar in her bra and sat on her lap.

Her red pallor turned redder than chili pepper. I incinerated a cigarette and pushed to enter her. She sighed in frustration.

-¿Have I come yet?- I asked.

She said of course not with her head:

-No, poor dear, you haven't the balls.-

This was how rude and pissed off she could approximately be. She gave me head until someone approached. It was Sister Angelica playing doctor with the doctor.

-You can go in now.- She said imitating Moms Mabley. -But only if you wait ten minutes.-

The doctor tried to open the door to Brad's room but it was stuck. Marge, feeling a little sick herself, huffed and puffed and clapped the door down.

For her part, Marge could pull on the occult as well as pull on the sole of her shoes and the left ventricle of my heart. I was supposed to be a Negro Caucasian but, in a brilliant stupor, I sat down and started hollering at the gods to adhere to their rotting carcasses. A little black tube acted as a window to Brad's nose, depositing oxygen that had to be ladled through a respirator. It looked extremely fatiguing.

Marge asked God to put a torque wrench in his toga and save her son, but the doctor laughed and said:

-¡Don't make me laugh! I can't stand it and the kid needs to rest.-

Marge didn't want the silence to be permanent so she put her fingers around my balls and SQUEEZED like a sonofabitch. Her lips were moving as if she could speak, but the only sound being emitted was my sonic scream.

I looked at Brad. When he was ten he had meant so much to me. He was a member of my sex and so on his birthday I had given him a beer and a dollar. That was as choked up as I got. I knew I was miserable and now I knew that I was also unable to feel compassion, or at least, appropriate compassion. I was an insufferable bastard, with no possibility of parole.

I remembered the first time I had gotten laid. It was during the cold goo mess of September. I had a chance date with a Native American girl who was very delicious, particularly the insides of her thighs, which were equipped for football and on which I wrote: "I want to come all over you and then settle down, get serious, get married, dedicate my self to the balance beam, wipe out meanness and danger in the world and, and I'm in complete touch with my faculties here, make 50 billion dollars a year". I didn't know how low I could get, but when she started coming I got down on my knees and tongued her pulsating asshole. I got so hot that only a Bromo calmed me down.

And now Brad was enveloped in a metal vase that had to breathe for him. The poor creep was in such bad shape that his breathing echoed like a poor translation of The Trial. ¡My boy! My boy whom I left at night because I was so desperate for sex that I couldn't take care of it by counting sheep. I pulled on it more than I pretended to in the world. In the world I lied and claimed my balls were just irritated.

Now, if no one knew who Victor Jara was then no one knew that the Soviet Union had a-bandoned his country.

It wasn't a nice segue. It wasn't possible for me to breathe for Brad and I couldn't star in my own situation comedy about a metal monster with white eyes and bean sprouts who lunged fiendishly at hospital employees whenever the moon was full.

-He'll get better when I get my medical degree.- The doctor told us.

I was all over Marge, who had the unenviable task of trying to kiss our iron-lunged son. And failing with her, I turned my full brazenness on the doctor. The door closed behind Marge, there was a silence, and we were alone.

-¿When should I unsheathe my saber, doctor?- I asked (and prayed).

She knew I was a college man and that I was impotent:

-I can't decide, Mr. Rowan. You have a heckuva crisis with your son and your daughter also. Your dad, your wife, your boss, your best friend, your dead mistress...I could go on. The point is this: Never put away your saber.-

-¡Hey! Listen. ¡You're not going to part-out my son like a Subaru!-

-No, I won't say that until I've hired more doctors to supervise this crisis, Mr. Rowan. Once they're bought, we can examine the body and average out our fees based on your son's suffering and ours. I can only say that you'd better put that saber in your scabbard...-

-¿Doctor?- I asked asininely.

-¿Yes?-

-I don't have a scabbard.-

She looked at the blood on my shirt:

-You do now.-

I dabbed at the blood with my handkerchief.

-¿What about my son?-

-What we're doing is possibly what humanity would be doing: We're not using torture and we don't intend to have him taken out and shot. And you can bring him bratwurst salad.- The doctor then went out to Marge and said: -If you'll stay here the whole time I'll tell you when he's dead.-

Marge sifted through the doctor's eyes with a rake and screamed:

-¡I CAN'T STAND IT!-

-Get a hold of her self, Mr. Rowan.- The doctor told me. -You can see how much he means to your wife. I'll be back at 8 tomorrow morning. It's been a night.-

God vaulted down in the direction of Proctology.

I couldn't help noticing that the doctor walked like a nun. Later, I mentioned this to Marge:

-¡That doctor smelled musty!-

She, as in "uncle":

-Let's leave then. ¿Which hotel do you want to lodge at?-

-None, if it's with you.- I said, conjugating correctly. -¡I need some wine and then GET ME TO A NUNNERY!-

-There's a telephone in my room that you can use.- Sister Angelica said. ¡Yes! ¡Now there's a woman I could lay with in this silly hospital!

-I know what you're up to.- Marge said.

-¡Where are my mai tais!- I asked Marge as I straightened my tie.

-In the most-triumphant reception area.- She contested.

-The telephone is black and it's over here by my day bed.- Sister Angelica said.

The lady with the monster bod gave me the telephone as I ran my fingers over her habit. This time I asked for a taxi to pin me down.

When I left her room I hadn't been a good boy.

-¿Where is my wife, please?- I asked the receptionist.

He looked at me and at a part of me that nobody's eyes should see.

-I think she's having a nightcap with the good sister.- He said and he said under stress. -But I do know this much: Go back through that door and you'll find out how much of a man you are.-

I was a little capillary of a man and I was being inundated by the moon and its moons and by the church and its nuns. I was man enough to go in the door but the moment I did I was looking down somebody's throat. Marge and Sister Angelica were buck-naked, lying down with their heads enmeshed in a delicate kiss.

This leant new meaning to the word "naive" and to the words "riding Marge's face." I watched and when Marge's finger went up the sister's anus I was sure I was going to pop my load. Her labia was moving all over Sister Angelica's face and her eyes were closed. Her face was stretched out in ecstasy and I literally broke out of my pants coming.

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