I’ve never really considered myself a slacker in the classical sense.
The term itself is way too negative and instantly conjures the image of some jobless stoner in a dirty hoodie who asks to crash on your couch for “a couple of days”. A slacker is a leech on society; someone who mooches his way through life on the hard work of others and contributes nothing beyond his serving as a warning against sloth and apathy.
Me? I just don’t like to work.
I still get up at a reasonable hour every morning and even go for the occasional quick jog in order to stay in the barest semblance of shape. I don’t do drugs, rarely drink and despite my perpetual state of unemployment, I manage to provide for myself without relying on any form of outside assistance or charity…
…unless of course you count the rather substantial settlement that I’ve been living off since my late teens, which brings us back to why I’m not really your typical sort of slacker.
When I was 18 years old, my parents were killed in a house fire. The newly installed alarm and monitoring system that they had bought in order to ensure our protection short-circuited and burned our home to the ground in a blaze of tragic irony. I myself had been out of the house at the time of the accident, and was instead partying with a group of friends and their questionably obtained alcohol. So when the police knocked on the door and the music stopped, we followed youthful protocol and scattered like cockroaches.
I still remember the night air filling my chest and biting at my lungs in little nips of autumn as I nimbly scaled fences and darted through dimly lit back yards in my escape to the safety of home. Rounding the corner to our street I slowed to a much less conspicuous and far more innocent trot and with the sound of my heart still pounding in my ears, noticed the sky for the first time. It was overcast and hazy but the low set clouds were pulsing with flashes of red and blue playing on a backdrop of dangerous amber that mirrored the intensity of the fire that was still consuming our house.
As it turns out, the local police weren’t there to break up a relatively tame teenage party; they were sent to find the poor kid who had just lost his parents and save him from the agony of discovering something that devastating and horrific on his own.
Needless to say, they failed.
Two years of grief counselling and one extremely rewarding court settlement later, and I was living every young man’s dream. I had access to more money than I had ever imagined possible, and while it paled in comparison to what the lawyers had taken, I was still insanely rich. So I spent the next few years doing what any stupid kid who was given way too much money and no parental guidance would do at that age; I blew it all on alcohol, parties, and girls. I had more sex, drugs and rock’n’roll by 23 than most heavy metal bands have in their entire career and inevitable state-faire comeback tour. I was living life to its fullest without a care in the world and it was in every sense of the word, amazing. I was a frigging rock star.
When I was 23.
By 26, I began to notice that my world was slowly changing.
Friends who were once envious of my carefree lifestyle began to see me in a whole new light. Crashing on couches and puking up Taco Bell at 3am no longer brought gales of laughter and merciless teasing, especially when people started purchasing “nice” furniture. Suddenly Friday nights were rarely, if ever, free. Partying was replaced by parenting and dancing with babes at the clubs gave way to baby’s first steps.
At 32, those friends go from wanting your life, to quietly pitying it.
Gatherings become awkward as you slowly realize that you no longer have anything in common with the people who were once your peers. Somewhere along the way they lost the desire to stay up all night drinking energy drinks and playing video games and you can’t even begin to understand how they deal with the tedium of PTA meetings and school plays.
And that money that you once considered to be a vast and never-ending source of wealth through the eyes of your youth?
Once you start to factor in things like rent, electricity, and the ever present need to eat, it becomes just enough to squeak by on. Your days of partying and getting blindly drunk dwindle at the threat of having to get a real job if you overindulge. Then, on those increasingly rare occasions when you actually do go out and drink and party like you’re still a teenager, you come to understand one of the ugliest truths that adulthood holds:
Waking up with a hangover was no longer a badge of honor…
…it was a brutal and unrelenting pounding that echoed through your entire head with each agonizing pulse of your own heart beat holding the potential to bring ripples of spinning nausea to the foreground of your thoughts.
And man, did I ever have one now.
Well, it had to be one hell of a party, because I don’t even remember going out. Even though my words were nothing more than imagined internal monologue, they echoed as if shouted and brought waves of very real pain crashing into the battered shores of my mind.
Whimpering with the effort, I brought a hand to my face and tried to physically brush away the cobwebs clouding my thoughts. My arms felt like they were made out of lead and the exertion of lifting them brought the pounding back to my ears with renewed volume. Through the heavy blanket of half consciousness I found myself dimly aware that the painfully rhythmic pounding that I mistook as my own heartbeat was actually the distant sound of muffled music.
Shielding my eyes with my forearm, I cautiously opened them enough to instantly regret it as a pure white light burned through me in an inferno of agony.
Sunglasses. Nightstand. My brain commanded and I fought to obey.
With a lumbering, clumsy motion I reached out towards my nightstand in the desperate hope of finding my emergency pair of hangover sunglasses. Like I said, I was a rock star and I had been through this more times that I’d like to admit. It might have been a while since my last drunken blackout, but damn it, I was still prepared.
What I was not prepared for was the raw thud of a cold metal bar against my forearm when I lashed out towards the spot where I expected my nightstand to be. Bracing myself against the onslaught of looming pain, I bravely opened my eyes to the barest of slits and let them adjust to the blinding, burning light around me. Calling upon some hidden reserve of strength, I managed to pull myself mostly onto my side and tried to focus on the metal bar that had impeded my groping search.
I was in a hospital bed.
Well. That can’t be good. I observed wryly, my firm grasp of the obvious apparently unaffected by my migraine.
Rolling back with a groan, I closed my eyes tightly and stared for a long while into the swirling blobs of green and red that danced in my vision. As they slowly faded and blurred into the soft pink and gray of my inner eyelids, I took another breath. Wincing, I steeled my will and opened my eyes once again.
As hospital rooms go, it was pretty standard. The walls were painted in a non-descript beige that matched the long curtains that hung on metal tracks allowing them to fully encompass a bed in order to give the illusion of privacy. Mine were open and provided me with a bleary eyed view of the entire room. The faint smell of disinfectant covering up something more horrific if dwelled upon assaulted my nose and my stomach gave a reminding twinge.
Despite how I felt, I seemed to be in one piece, which I took as both a blessing and step in the right direction. There were no obvious wounds or bandages that I could see and I looked to be physically intact. Emboldened by the fact that I hadn’t been horribly mangled, I slowly took in the room.
There were two other beds, both empty, and several worn looking chairs darted the room. I soon discovered that the sound of music that I had awoken to was not the distant echo of a still raging party, but a stream of audio leakage from the headphones of an orderly changing the sheets on the bed directly across from my own. His head bobbed in time with the harsh orchestra of sound that proved too thunderous for his headphones to contain.
Taking another reluctant breath, I sat up as well as I could and called out to him.
“...hey…” The effort damn near killed me.
The room spun like a pinwheel and I brought my hand back to my face in an effort to keep it from exploding. The orderly never noticed. Gritting my teeth and trying again, I put more force behind my half mumbled shout of “Hey.” Once again, there was no response from the hospital worker, but the sound of my own voice ricocheted through my head like a gunshot and cranked my pain-o-meter way up to eleven.
With a moan of defeat, I forced myself to sit up a bit more and was rewarded by the site of the orderly happily bopping along with his music as he folded the sheet into tight corners. Still engrossed with the task of making the bed, he was blissfully unaware of the daggers that I was squinting towards him.
Annoyed and admittedly more than a bit cranky given the intense throbbing in my head, I grabbed the first thing that I could find that looked like it held any discernable weight. With as much effort and strength as I could muster, I tossed a small kidney shaped plastic tray from the side table at the orderly with one last shout of "Hey!"
I was hoping it would either get his attention or kill him outright for his taste in music.
Unfortunately what I had in murderous intent, I lacked in physical strength and the lightweight plastic tray fell short, skidding to a bumpy halt at his feet. Blinking in confusion at the tray before following its path back to me, the orderly looked up from his neatly folded corners with a surprised “whoa.”
We stared at each other for a ridiculously long moment before he pulled a cushioned earphone from one ear with a brush of his hand, the foam piece disappearing into a tangle of curly black hair. Before he could question my assassination attempt, I took a deep breath and asked as steadily as I could, "Where am I?"
My voice sounded like I had spent the night gargling glass and rocks.
“The hospital.” He answered in a questioning voice. His hands still held the sheet in mid-fold as his big brown cow eyes remained locked on mine.
If I had the energy I would have killed him. Instead I ran my hands over my face in exasperation, the strength returning to my limbs in a slow tingling burn. Sitting fully upright, I let out a sigh and tried again.
“Why am I in the hospital? What happened?” I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger in an effort to physically hold onto my patience.
“Oh. Um. I don’t know.” The orderly said dumbly as he stood, his eyes flickering dutifully to the partially made bed before reluctantly giving me his full attention “Do you want me to go and get a nurse?” He asked, pointing to the room’s exit with a hopeful expression.
“Yes.” I said, my voice dripping with the exhaustion that my body felt.
“ ‘Kay.” Came the response, and in an instant he was moving towards the door before disappearing into the busy hospital that clamored outside my room.
I shook my head in quiet disbelief, careful as not to bring on another rush of pain and looked around the room. It was still, almost quiet in the din of the noisy hospital that lurked just beyond the doorway. Gripping the bar at the bed's side to adjust my position, my gaze trailed from the I.V. needle that disappeared under a bit of medical tape at my wrist to the identification bracelet that adorned it. My eyes widened in surprise as I read the name: John Doe.
"How wild was that party?" I asked out loud, my voice crackling with a scratchy dryness as I tried to clear my throat. The question was more for my own musing than anything else. Any notion of this being something as simple as a rowdy get-together began to dissolve as my focus slowly returned.
Every inch of my body ached and complained, but nothing actually felt broken. Swinging my legs from underneath the sterile linen sheet and over the side of the bed, I could see no signs of swelling or bruising. Aside from a few neatly swabbed abrasions on the palm of my hands that matched a burning patch at my cheek, and this relentless headache, I could find nothing physically wrong.
So why was I here?
"You're awake!" A too loud and too cheerful voice from the doorway sent fresh shockwaves stabbing through my head. “How are you feeling Champ?”
I turned wincingly towards the door. A man dressed in a white physician’s coat, and presumably a doctor of some sort met my confused grimace with a full smile as he approached, an assisting nurse trailing quickly behind.
"You gave us quite the scare." The man in the white coat laughed a bit too happily as he came to an uncomfortably close rest at my bedside.
"Doctor Dave" emblazed a cheap plastic nametag on the too full pocket of his lab coat which he tapped rhythmically with the edge of a manila folder. He was a good looking man in his early thirties, like me, but unlike me he was naturally handsome in that kind of way that makes you instantly hate someone.
A fun loving nametag bearing his first name instead of his last showed his quirky, playful side and his practiced smile parted to perfect teeth that gleamed in contrast to his well-tanned skin. A strong chin and firm jaw line disappeared into lustrous black hair so thick, it probably snuck off at night and made side money doing shampoo commercials.
He was at least 6'2, fit and toned, and even though he was dressed in scrubs covered by a technician's coat, you could just tell that he had those perfect abs that you only see in television ads for underwear or expensive cologne.
Not that I normally check out dudes or anything, mind you - he was just the kind of guy that you'd hate to stand next to at a party or in a club. Where I was no male model in the looks department, I wasn't exactly a leprous burn victim either. I'm in reasonably decent shape, of average build and while I'd never win a dunking contest and had to stand on my tip toes to reach the top shelf, I more than made up for my 5'8 frame in charm and an often described "larger-than-life" personality.
My dark brown hair, now matted with an epic case of "bed head" was full and regularly spiked into a short crop. I usually sported a few days’ worth of ruggedly handsome scruff over a generally hairless face and had received more compliments on my bright blue eyes than I could readily count.
But next to Doctor Ab Crunch here, I might as well hole up in a church bell tower and start screaming for sanctuary.
The assisting nurse obviously shared my opinion of the Doctor's good looks, because her fawning gaze rarely left him and when they made even passing eye contact she blushed and tittered like a school girl.
So yeah, I totally hated him. A whole bunch.
"How are we feeling?" Doctor Dreamboat M.D. asked. His tone was jovial and professional, but it held a false kindness and was laced with the weariness of a man on a tight schedule.
Without permission, warning, or even waiting for a response to his question, Doctor Dave abandoned his folder to the care of his doting assistant and reached out, putting a gloved hand to my forehead. Gently but compellingly he shoved, forcing my head upwards as he peered into my eyes.
Light flared from the end of an unnecessarily bright penlight with a pain inducing click as he proceeded with his rough-yet-professional examination. Too tired to resist and too weak to combat the attack, I met his assault with nothing more than a small whimper of protest. As suddenly as he had lashed out, the doctor released his grasp and stepped back to the barest edge of my personal space.
"Hmmm. Pupils are a bit slow on the response, but you're sitting up and calling for the nurse, so that's a good sign eh?" He asked rhetorically in that forced conversational tone that screamed of his need to be elsewhere.
"Where am I?" I found myself weakly asking, once again overly aware of the gravel driveway paving the back of my throat.
"A hospital." He responded with a clever smile.
If I could have mustered the strength I swear to God that I would have punched him right in the mouth. Obviously sensing the uselessness of his oh-so-witty answer, Doctor Dave quickly provided me with more information before I could draw upon just enough strength to beat him senseless.
"You're at Elmore Community Hospital. They brought you in about twelve hours ago. You were unconscious and suffering from what appeared to be moderate head trauma." He explained. "You had...or rather, didn’t have…any identification on you, so the police officers who found you believed that you may have been the victim of some sort of mugging or attack."
Snapping the pen light back on and covering the gap between us with astonishing speed, Doctor Dave once again forced my head back with a quick jerk and re-examined my eyes, as if searching for something that he suddenly remembered.
Victim of a mugging?
Well, that explains the drum solo in my brain. I thought drolly, the riddle of my condition unraveling in perfect time to the pounding in my head. I tried to remember anything that I could about being attacked, but nothing came to me. Luckily, I rarely ever have enough cash to carry all that much on me, so aside from a debit card and a few bucks, my muggers hadn't exactly hit the mother lode for their effort.
"That’s quite the nasty bump on your head." The doctor continued as he alternated the light between my eyes, careful to torture each orb equally. "You have a mild concussion, but beyond a few aches and pains, I don’t think that there is anything to really worry about."
Clicking off his penlight, Doctor Dave smiled patiently and nodded to the nurse beside him. His forced cheerfulness never waned and his eyes never left mine for an instant.
"So. What should we call you...Mister..." Doctor Dave asked in that patiently strained voice, gently prodding for a response.
"Talik..." I groggily supplied, actually having to pause for a moment in order to recall my own name. He nodded, tilting his head slightly in an indication for me to continue as the nurse recorded my information onto her clipboard.
"John Talik. Johnathan Andrew Talik." I amended, offering my full name as I watched her write. The nurse's hand danced sharply, filling in a row of neatly arranged boxes with precise motion.
The doctor seemed genuinely pleased at my recall, likely because he felt that he was infinitely closer to the moment of release that he appeared to be seeking from the minute he flexed his way into my room. Nodding in approval of the offered name, he poured renewed effort into his over-the-top friendly smile and retrieved the manila folder from his assistant.
Flipping through the material quickly, his dark eyes darted over bits of information and he nodded in agreement with what he read. Snapping the file closed he returned it to the already outstretched and awaiting hand of the nurse.
"You've suffered some head trauma," Doctor Dave began. "But we've found no serious damage. Just the bump and a few scratches consistent with falling from a standing height." He reassured. Even though I could sense the man's impatience and his "thousand times a day" robotic diagnosis, I still felt a bit better hearing the news.
"However..." He trailed warningly. I lifted my eyes from the ruffled blanket of my hospital bed and focused on the physician as my heart began to race. "These things aren't always cut and dry, and you were unconscious for a considerable length of time. Observation of your condition has been met, but we’ll need to schedule some tests. I've already had some x-rays taken while you were unconscious, but there are a number of things that I'd like to rule out before we release you. You can never be too careful with head injuries." He explained in the practiced seriousness of a seasoned professional.
Nodding once again to the nurse, the doctor stepped a bit closer to the bed and laid one hand gently on my shoulder.
"As traumatic as all of this has been, the very first thing that you need to do is rest." Doctor Dave smiled and applied pressure to my shoulder, guiding me to lay back in the hospital bed.
I did and suddenly found myself struggling not to collapse from exhaustion.
"Just so we can get the paperwork started and leave you alone..." The good doctor smiled, flickering his gaze towards the nurse. "Do you know who your insurance carrier is?" He asked. It might have been my imagination, but that perpetual smile suddenly seemed a bit more hawkish.
"No." I replied weakly, closing my eyes at the promise of rest welcoming me with warm, gentle arms.
"Ahh..well that's fine." He assured me, his voice fading into the darkness as I felt the softness of the blanket envelop me. "Now that we have your name, we can have one of the clerks pull your records and-"
I could still see that false smile, even with my eyes closed. Regretting the effort that it took, but not wanting to make unnecessary work for the nurse, I interrupted the doctor as I waved my hand wearily.
"No. No insurance. I don't have insurance." I admitted with a yawn.
"I see."
Had I been more awake, I suspect that I would have seen the near instant change in the doctor's demeanor. I would have watched the pretense of a smile fall away to reveal an exaggerated exchange of eye rolls being traded with the assisting nurse. I would have probably even noted the impressive speed in which the physician moved out of the room and the sharp nodding of affirmation to an unseen order accepted and carried out by whatever staff it was issued to.
I would have seen all of this, but I was already unconscious. And as the pain and the throbbing fell away from me into the abyss of slumber, I felt as if I'd sleep forever.