This girl was crazy – right. Like fucking batshit party-girl. But after too much Moby and not enough acid or probably too much acid and not enough Moby she was convinced we needed to go to the hospital. She was dying. We had just enough money for a taxi there. It was pouring with rain. We got there and were given a clipboard. Half way through filling in the page she threw the pen in the air and leaped over the chair, cowering behind it, yelling “make it stop!” I picked up the pen and decided I would be the straight man, the guy that could fill this all in and work this all out. I carried on with the admission-sheet, noticing right away that all that had been filled in was a circle-swirl of scribble across any and all of the questions and instructions.
I asked for a fresh sheet.
A second toss of the pen when she was asked to try again. And this time I remember seeing her eyes flash as I stumbled to keep it all together and be on top of things. She really was nuts. This was a game. But we were there. At the hospital. And it raged in my mind that the cops would come if we admitted to being not unwell and to not requiring the hospital’s brand of help. The hours seemed interminable, but she faked her way through several tests and moaned with pain when prodded – then winked at me when the doctor would turn his back. Or did she? I had no fucking idea. She switched beds and rooms and complained about this and that. Treatment, lack of treatment. And I could still hear Moby going, “here we are now going to the east side/I pick up friends and we start to ride/right all night, we ride all day/some may come and some may stay” even though the hospital wasn’t playing Moby. Only my head was.
She told me she needed cigarettes. And I was sure that I did too. So I ran from the hospital out into the rain at 5am or 6am or something like that. It was bucketing. And I ran, soaked, to the basin, to a service station. I bought a pack of Strikes. Tried to light one in the rain. It turned to mulch. And I threw it in the bin. And scratched together the last of my coins to get a taxi back to the hospital – all of 500 yards I suppose – because Moby had been switched off temporarily. And all that was transmitting now was, she’s dying! She’s dying! So I convinced the cab driver to take me to the hospital entrance – gave him $3 – and then stumble-ambled to find her. She had bludged a smoke from anyone else and I was panting and soaked. And stupid. But my tears were just laughter.