Livin' la Vita Coco
I shamble towards the registers, slowly as if in a trance. Music plays from distant speakers, too quiet for me to hear, and I don’t bother pausing to make it out. The basket bashes into my leg in rhythm with my steps, cartons jostling.
I reach the register and unload the cartons onto the conveyor belt, slowly and methodically, one by one. My eyes meet the equally dead-looking countenance of the cashier, and I manage a weak hum of greeting. He smiles back unenthusiastically, then scans each carton of coconut water individually, with the kind of focus on the mundane that comes with boredom. I take the time to count out the exact change for the purchase.
We exchange cartons for cash and I’m on my way, off to what only sometimes passes as my apartment, bright yellow tote bag swinging at my side. The walk is long and cold, longer and certainly colder than it had been on the way to the store, and a light drizzle starts up halfway there, adding to the gloom. Of course I didn’t think to wear a jacket of any kind. No remarkable being such as I could be affected by mere raindrops––that would be ridiculous! And yet, here I am. I’m just cursing my luck, my life, and the existence of the water cycle, nearly falling asleep as I walk, when a man jumps out of an alley, blocking my path.
“Your wallet!” He pulls out a switchblade, pointing it at me with what I can only assume is his best attempt at an intimidating stare. “Now!”
I come to a halt and glance over at him. He is weak, that much I can tell. And he is also afraid. Not a good combination for a mugger.
“What if I told you I had just spent––”
He lunges closer, blade a little less than steady. “Shut up and give me the money! I’m warning you!”
I suppose I could give him my wallet; I mean, it’s not like it’s doing much for me. But it’s more the principle of the thing, and besides, I don’t want to go through all the trouble of forging another ID.
“You’re not going to stab me,” I guess.
His arm blurs, there’s a sickening crunch, and he lunges away, taking the knife with him, all before I can react. The feeling of warm liquid running down my chest catches my attention. I look down and, sure enough, there’s a sizable hole oozing blood all over my shirt. My hand presses reflexively over it, like I have to check if I’m really bleeding.
Well, I can’t always be right.
“This blood was supposed to last me all month,” I say, glaring at the man. This whole situation has just gone from a mild inconvenience to a real problem. He backs away with wide eyes.
“Why––you––how are you––” The man’s stammering is almost enough to make me snap. All that fresh blood swirling through his veins... Surely he wouldn’t miss a few cups? I shake my head, steadfastly ignoring the dizziness that follows. No, I won’t break my promise that easily. It would be way too much of a hassle to cover it up.
“Get out of here,” I hiss.
He hesitates. Is he seriously still thinking about my money? Humans are unbelievable.
Then it’s my turn to hesitate; maybe he needs the money for something important. For all I know, he could be drowning in debt like a bug caught in amber, struggling for a way out. And he could certainly use the money more than I could. Damn it.
I pull my wallet out of my back pocket, twisting my arm around with a groan. It’s not pain, per se, but it certainly doesn’t feel good to have a hole in my chest. At least it’s not all the way through. My hand gets a bit of blood on the wallet, but I don’t try to clean it off. If he wants all forty-something dollars, he can deal with the leather being bloodstained. The wallet skids along the pavement, landing a few feet behind the mugger.
“Get out of here!” It comes out more like a snarl than I wanted, but it’s taking all my strength not to rip his throat out right here in the street.
He gets the message, and turns and snatches up the wallet before running off into the dark. I lose sight of him quickly, and finally, I can let my shoulders slump.
I set my bag of coconut water cartons down on the pavement and ease myself down next to it. I can’t believe I just paid a man to stab me. That’s a new low, even for me. The rain continues to beat down on me, hammering out a jovial little march on my head that I’m not in the mood to appreciate.
At least when I look down at my chest I’m faced with some decent news. The wound is already starting to close up, skin knitting back together just fast enough to watch. In a few more minutes, all evidence of the stab is gone. Well, except for the hole in my shirt. And all the blood. And the fact that I still feel a bit lightheaded. Ugh.
I’m going to have to call Greg.
As I sit on the sidewalk trying to think of any other solution that doesn’t involve Greg, the sound of a group of people coming my way reminds me that I should probably get off the street. My head spins no matter how slowly I move and the cartons are absurdly heavy, but I manage to relocate to the alley and situate myself behind a trash bin just as the group passes. In the dark and the rain, they don’t stop to notice the bloodstains on the pavement, too busy laughing and joking with each other. At least they’re having a good night.
The burner in my pocket, a flip phone that’s practically an antique at this point, is hardy enough to work despite the blood and water soaking into it. I flip it open with my thumb and scroll through all three of the names in my contact list, stopping on “Greg.”
The line rings a few times, and I lean my head against the wall behind me as I wait. If it wasn’t so wet out, I might consider opening one of my coconut waters. Finally, he picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Greg,” I sigh.
“Bryson?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
He laughs nervously. “No, no, I’m not shocked! Um, what’s up, man?”
“Well, I’ve been stabbed.”
“What?”
“Stabbed. Like, with a knife. Don’t worry, it wasn’t silver. It was actually composed primarily of rust, but don’t worry about that, either. I don’t think I can get tetanus.”
He exhales, and I can tell that, wherever he is, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose like he always does when he needs to process something messy. “Okay,” he says. “What did you need from me?”
My heart, dead as it is, clenches in my chest. I’m going to chalk that up to the residual effects of blood loss. Somehow, I keep my voice steady as I answer. “I lost a bit of blood and I don’t think I can wait till next month to replace it.”
“Hmm.” I can hear Greg’s brain shifting into problem-solving mode, and I bet he’s moved his free hand to his chin. I give him his time to think. “Call 911.”
“What?” It comes out as an undignified squawk, and I clear my throat to try again. “What do you mean, call 911? You think that’s a good idea?”
“Yes!” There’s a muffled voice from his end of the line, someone talking to him from far enough away that I can’t hear. He replies with his hand covering the mouthpiece, then says to me, “Listen, I have to go, but please tell me you’ll call. And tell them you need an ambulance. Come on, trust me.”
The worst part is, I do. “Fine.”
I hang up before he can answer and stare down at my phone. I don’t think I’ve ever actually called 911 before, and the thought of doing it now is making my palms sweat. Or, it would, if my palms could sweat. I steel myself and punch in the numbers before I can psych myself out even more.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The woman’s voice is cool and professional.
I curse Greg mentally for talking me into this. What am I supposed to say? My best bet is probably to go with the truth, but stay vague. Here goes. “I’ve been stabbed.”
Unfazed, she leads me through a series of questions about the offender, my location, a verification of my phone number, and my condition. I keep my answers short, and only choke on my words once, when she asks me if I need an ambulance. Against my better judgment, I say yes, and she informs me that one is on its way to my location, which is really the last thing I want to hear.
“I’m going to put you on hold while I answer another call, but please stay on the line until assistance arrives.”
I keep the phone up against my ear, my whole body listing a bit to the side from the weight of my arm. The rain has stopped as abruptly as it started, I notice, leaving behind the scent of wet pavement. It’s not as soothing as petrichor, but I’ll take what I can get in this city. I can’t feel it, but my skin is probably cold to the touch and unpleasantly clammy.
Minutes pass like hours, the only sound that of distant cars weaving through the streets, the early risers and workers returning home from night shifts. The low hum of activity makes my eyelids droop, reminding me that I should be back home by now, getting ready to sleep off my last shift. Finally, a new sound cuts through the white noise. A siren, followed by red and white flashing lights as the ambulance turns onto the street. I scoot forward a bit so that I’ll be visible from the sidewalk, trying to act seriously injured, which isn’t exactly difficult.
The ambulance squeals to a stop and the EMT hop out. He notices the bloodstain right away, then turns to me, still slouched in the alleyway.
He steps closer and I swear, if I had a pulse it would have skyrocketed.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Greg says, grinning down at me.
“What––?” It’s all I can manage.
“Come on, let’s get you into the ambulance. I’m guessing you can walk?” He’s raising an eyebrow at me, that stupidly perfect arch that he knows I’ve never been able to manage.
By way of answer, I haul myself to my feet and grab the straps of my bag.
“Great,” Greg says. “Let’s get in before my coworker gets suspicious. I don’t know how long ten bucks will convince him to stay put.”
I follow him to the back doors and climb in after him, putting the tote down next to the stretcher. “So, do I lie down, or...?”
Greg pulls the doors shut and hits the dividing wall between the back of the ambulance and the front seat, which the driver apparently takes as his signal to start driving, and I stumble as we lurch into motion. The siren starts up again as well, deafeningly loud. “You can just sit on it,” Greg says, nodding at the stretcher.
I sit down with my legs hanging over the side, facing Greg, the absurdity of the situation starting to set in. “Now what?”
“Now, I give you an emergency blood transfusion.” Greg pulls out a few different plastic bags, holding them in a messy stack. “Alright, we’ve got plasma, RBCs, and platelets. I’m going to have to give you each of them separately, if that’s okay.”
I grimace. Technically, they’ll do the same job, but they taste a lot better when they’re all consolidated as just plain blood. Nevertheless, I can’t afford to be picky, so I accept them and sink my teeth into the one holding the plasma, fangs popping through the plastic. Greg watches me with an amused expression that I would find endearing if it wasn’t directed at me. The ambulance runs over some kind of bumps in the road, jostling me. A bit of plasma leaks out over my hands, a light, yellowish liquid that reminds me somewhat unpleasantly of melted butter.
I finish the plasma and move on to the red blood cells, looking around while I drink to avoid making eye contact with Greg. The ambulance is full of beeping, flashing equipment that I can’t identify. The last time I was in one of these things, most of this stuff hadn’t even been invented yet. An oxygen mask hanging on the wall catches my eye, and I suck out the last of the red blood cells like the bag is some kind of demonic capri-sun and turn to Greg.
“Shouldn’t you guys be helping someone who actually needs it?”
He has the nerve to look bemused. “Are you saying you didn’t need my help?”
Grudgingly, I shake my head. “No, I did need the blood. But it’s not like I was going to die. Or, you know. I wasn’t in as much trouble as someone else might be right now.”
Greg frowns at me and furrows his brow, a look I didn’t think I’d have to see from him again. “I thought you’d moved past this, Bryson.”
I just shrug at him and start in on the platelets. Judging by how fast my blood came pouring out of that stab wound, I could definitely use some.
“You deserve my help as much as anybody else.” Greg isn’t prepared to let it go, apparently. I shrug again and keep drinking. “I’m serious, Bryson.”
That’s twice in one conversation that he’s used my name. I can’t deal with this. I ignore him and drain the rest of the platelets, adding the flattened plastic to my little pile on the stretcher.
“Thank you for the blood. You can drop me off before we get to the hospital, if you don’t mind.”
I can tell he’s disappointed in me, again, but there’s not much I can about that.
“Here, hand that to me,” he says, gesturing to my bag of coconut water. I drag it along the floor, around the stretcher, and drop the straps in his waiting hand, careful not to make contact. He looks into it and laughs. “You know, that theory was only ever a myth on the internet.” He’s raising that eyebrow again.
“Maybe I just like the taste.” I don’t want to tell him how desperately I’d hoped for it to work the first time, even as the sensible part of my brain steadfastly insisted that it was all nonsense and that there wasn’t going to be some miracle substitute for blood, especially not from a carton from aisle four of some grocery store.
“Sure,” he says, but there’s a softness in his voice like he knows what I’m thinking. He puts a few bags of blood components into the cheery yellow tote, then hands the straps back to me. I grab them wordlessly and pretend not to see his smile. The siren cuts out, leaving my ears ringing from the sudden silence, and the ambulance jolts to a stop.
“Alright, now you should lie down,” Greg says, sweeping the emptied plastic off the stretcher to clear a space for my head. I bring my legs up onto the stretcher and swivel so I can lay flat on my back, letting the tote handles fall from my hand just in time for the other EMT to open the doors. I close my eyes and try to look like I’m in bad shape.
“Jesus,” the guy says, his voice flat. “We takin’ this one upstairs or down?”
“Up––he’s still alive, just lost a lot of blood. Here, help me with this.”
For a moment, I’m sure the other EMT will notice that something’s not right, or that Greg hasn’t followed any of the proper procedures or even so much as touched any of the equipment back here. But there’s no such protest from the guy. Instead, he and Greg each take a side of the stretcher and roll me out of the ambulance. The air is colder here than it was on my side of town, and there’s no hint of rain in the air. I can’t suppress a shiver.
“Come on, we’d better get him inside,” the other EMT says. I can feel the gears in Greg’s head turning, but he’s not quick enough. The other guy is already pushing me away, probably towards the entrance to the hospital. No, not happening. Never again––that’s what I said.
In one motion, as fluid as I can make it, I sit up, roll off the stretcher, and start sprinting away all before the guy can react. I pass Greg, muttering a quick “sorry.”
I’m a sizable distance away before the EMT’s bewildered voice trails after me, and by then I’m too far for him to bother chasing after me.
As I get further away, my sprint slows into a run, then a jog, and finally a walk, when I can no longer feel the threat of the hospital looming over me, bringing back buried memories of Red Cross nurses and a body left in the mud.
I’m not out of breath, but I stop anyway, bent over with my hands braced on my knees. Only then do I realize I forgot my bag, and the realization nearly breaks me. I straighten up, resume my walk––now more of a trudge––and head home.
It’s getting to be a more reasonable hour of the morning, which means there are now people on the streets, albeit not very many. I try to stick to the shadows of tall buildings as I walk, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I don’t want to deal with anybody right now, not while I’m covered in blood and halfway to seeing ghosts.
The hospital is on the other side of town from my apartment and I quicken my pace again, trying to beat the sun. Not that it’s going to smite me or anything, I just have a feeling that increased illumination would not help my bid for anonymity.
By some miracle, I make it back to my apartment without incident just as the sun is starting to come up. The apartment building is old, and has been for a long time. The paint is peeling, the wood rotting. I can’t really complain, though, because it’s cheap enough for me to pay rent without having a full-time job. I trudge up the stairs, cursing the lack of a working elevator. My apartment is on the top floor, four rickety flights up. When I finally reach it, a sigh of relief escapes my lips.
I unlock the door, surprised the key was even in my pocket after everything, and push it open with my shoulder. Water damage has warped the wooden doorframe, making the door stick like it’s reluctant to let me in. Once inside, I kick the door closed and slide the chain lock into place. Immediately, a weight lifts from my shoulders.
First course of action: get out of my blood-soaked shirt. I peel it off as I walk to the bathroom, slamming it into the trash can with a disgusting slap. My jeans are probably salvageable, so I step out of them and throw them into the tub. Cold water will have the blood out in no time, and I make a mental note to wash them later tonight, when I wake up.
Of course, by then they might be permanently stained. It would probably be better to wash them now, or at least soak them. I stare down at the jeans until my eyes start to blur. No, I’ll wait till later, let fate decide if I’ll be able to clean them or not.
I clean the rest of the blood off my skin with an old washcloth and turn to the mirror to check the damage. It’s actually not as bad as I thought it’d be; I look only slightly more ghastly than usual.
Reassured that I won’t be turning up at work later tonight looking enough like a corpse for my manager to finally object, I make my way into the bedroom. There’s one last clean uniform hanging in my closet, a dark blue, study jumpsuit with the university’s logo emblazoned on the left shoulder. It doesn’t fit right; no matter what size I get, it never fits right. Must be some sort of flaw with the pattern, but I’m not about to take a janitor’s uniform in to be tailored, even if it means suffering through half a decade of baggy legs and too-short sleeves.
I’ve just buttoned the last of the cheap plastic buttons when faint footsteps appear, heading towards my door. I’m back out to the living room in a flash. If anyone followed me home––
A knock, three short raps of someone’s knuckles against the metal door like nails being hammered into my coffin. I hate houseguests.
The door is across the room––I cross. Someone is breathing on the other side. I pause with my fingers on the chain lock, count to three, pull it back, and wrench open the door.
Greg stands there in front of me, face flushed, dark hair slightly wet, holding my bright yellow bag casually at his side. He grins at me, and for the life of me I can’t help but smile back.
“May I come in?”
BRIDGET MEDO is a sophomore pursuing a Baccalaureate in English. Bridget has always enjoyed writing and has wanted to be an author since at least third grade. She mostly writes short stories but has a few ideas she would love to turn into full length novels someday.