By Sol.: Fuckin’ Drunks….

It’s three in the morning and I’m exhausted. I’m on my third of four 12-hour night shifts.

The Emergency Room is empty except for a drunk, who’s writhing in pain from a self-inflicted wound.

“I’m fucking dying here, man,” he screams. “Somebody help me.”

He’s not really dying. He stabbed his chest with a fork.

I approach the cops who dropped him off.

“What’s this guy’s deal?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” one of the cops replies. “Found him wondering the streets. Fork was lodged in his chest….”

“You fucking with me, Tom? He was just walking the streets with a fork in his chest?”

“Straight truth. He smells like booze, too….”

“JESUS CHRIST, this is supposed to be an emergency room,” the drunk bellows. “Somebody treat me….”

“Bullshit, fucker,” I mumble. “You’re not dying.”

Tom laughs.

“Have a good night, asshole,” Tom tells me.

“Thanks, jack ass,” I reply as he walks out of the ED and returns to the night.

You’re not dying — you’re drunk….

I really don’t have the patience to deal with this guy tonight. I’m tired as hell. I’m afraid I might snap.

I walk into his room.

“What’s your name, buddy?” I ask.

“Mike,” he says weakly, lips quivering, tears in his eyes.

His eyes are blood shot. He has long black hair. He’s probably in his sixties.  He’s wearing blue jeans, a black shirt and boots with high heels. He has gold rings on every finger. His black Prada purse is sitting next to his bed. He has a French-tip manicure.

“What the fuck is this?” I think to myself.

“Mike, we have to do some things,” I tell him. “We’ll start with getting you undressed and into a gown,” I say.

“I’m fucking dying, man.”

“You’re not dying, Mike. You just stuck a fork in your chest. You’ll live.”

He moans and grabs at his chest, looking at me for sympathy.

He gets none.

“Tell us what’s going on tonight, Mike,” a nurse says.

“I was drinking at a friend’s house when we got in an argument and he kicked me out because I stepped on his cat…”

“No, Mike,” I snap. “Tell us why you stuck a fork in your chest — tell us why the cops found you on the street….”

He looks up at me, unsure of what I just asked. He is drunk out of his mind. He can’t focus on what we’re asking him. He doesn’t respond.

My patience is wearing thin. I always have problems dealing with drunks.

“Mike,” I scream, “Why did you do this to yourself?”

He looks up at me, unable to meet my gaze. His hair has fallen into his face and he looks helpless and frustrated. He takes a deep breath.

“I…I… I… I’m a fucking alcoholic, man. I just want to die, man. That’s why,” he says as he busts into tears and sobs.

Everyone in the room looks at each other, and then looks away….

Editor’s Note:  Sol.‘s last dispatch from the Emergency Room for The Third City was Freaks….

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