Halfway to Hell

Halfway to Hell Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

I’ve woken up in some strange places in my time, but never in a graveyard.

            I knew it was a boneyard because of the smell. The smell of wilting flowers and freshly dug earth. I could feel the dirt beneath my palms, the smell of wet grass in my nostrils. I pushed myself up, screaming. Nothing coherent. Just noise. I needed to remind myself, and anyone else who might be interested, that I wasn’t ready for this place. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I sat on my rump and rested my head on my raised knees. I could feel the wet clay soaking through the seat of my pants but I didn’t care. My head was throbbing, spinning. I took deep breaths until I didn’t feel like throwing up any more. I risked raising my head very slowly. I looked around.

            It was a neat, well-tended graveyard. Rows of headstones like crooked teeth. It was early. The sun was barely up. I was sitting on the grass border in front of a plain granite marker. It took a while for my eyes to focus enough to make out the inscription.

Stanley Rosenbaum

Passed away aged 84

Gone but not forgotten

Stanley Rosenbaum? Not my Stan. Not Dr Stan. Couldn’t be. He’s older than me, but not that old and he was as chipper as a hound dog this morning when he gave me the script for my magic pills. What are the odds of there being two Stanley Rosenbaums? Stan is gonna get one heckuva laugh when I tell him about this. And I need to tell him about this. Boy, do I ever. Tell him those pills of his didn’t do diddly. I pushed my hands against the ground and tried to stand. Bad move. My head swam, bright lights danced in front of my eyes, coming together. One light now. Red. I saw the truck, heard the screech of brakes, the screaming of metal. Something hit me hard enough to knock the wind out of my like a punctured balloon. And then it was all blackness again.

            I woke up for a second time. This time it was all white walls and the smell of disinfectant and puke. I knew it was a hospital straight off, before I even opened my eyes. I must have groaned, I sure felt like groaning, because a familiar voice said: ‘Welcome back, Sport.’

            Stanley Rosenbaum. Good old Dr Stan. Old but not 84 years old. I opened my eyes, blinking at the light, but at least the pain in my head was gone. He was standing by my bedside and if I didn’t know better I would swear there was a look of concern on his face.

            ‘Stan,’ I said. ‘So, you aint dead after all.’

            He snorted. ‘That was gonna be my line.’

            ‘Beat you to the punch.’

            ‘Just like you tried to beat the red light?’

            ‘Yea. I remember that. Sort of.’ I tried to sit up. I think I had some cockeyed idea of discharging myself. The pain in my ribs objected. So did Stan. He took hold of my shoulders and pushed me back down.

            ‘Not so fast, hotshot. You’re not going anywhere until they do some tests.’

            ‘I always flunk tests. And I got work to do.’

            ‘It’ll have to wait. Until tomorrow at least. You walk out now I’d give odds you wouldn’t get as far as the parking lot before you keeled over. And this time you might not be as lucky.’

            We locked eyes for a second. I could see from his face he was serious and I didn’t have the will to argue. I lay back against the pillows and nodded. ‘Just until tomorrow,’ I said.