King Acid

2- SECOND AID

His gray coat was strewn with blood and frayed with coppery burns. The blast had produced in him a limp he couldn't disguise as he staggered down the street, taking off his Ray-Bans from time to time and glancing at its reflection to make sure no one was following him. The passers-by turned away from him, believing he was an alcoholic bum. All the better. That helped him go unnoticed.

A coughing fit forced him to his knees and, when he looked down, the small puddle of blood he had spewed out on the wet sidewalk already dotted with tobacco filters and a foam cup plastic lid surprised him. He rubbed the back of his sleeve against his beard to scrub the blood from his bottom lip and staggered on. The hemorrhage was more severe than he thought, but he didn't care about his health; he focused his attention on reaching a phone booth since the burst had broken his beeper and Motorolla Dynatac, rendering him isolated from the events of the outside world.

                                              *****

At last, he found a phone booth on the corner of a side street. He pulled out his leather wallet and discovered that he had only fifty and hundred-dollar notes. He then realized how long it had been since the last time he bought something with actual money; he ordered, and it was given to him, as simple as that. He closed his wallet and returned it to his pocket, feeling a bit older without knowing why. But there was no time to waste wondering about it. He looked up in search of any establishment where he could exchange paper for copper and nickel.

"Excuse me, sir," said a kind old woman as she approached him. "Are you OK?"

He looked at her sideways with his head low, like a wild animal.

"What makes you say that?"

"Your nose is bleeding."

He scrubbed his nose with the back of his other sleeve, finding blood indeed. At this rate, he would end up bleeding to death before he could cross the street. He felt a sudden dizziness he couldn't suppress, even knowing his own edginess was the cause.

"My son went through the same thing," she rambled on. "There was not a week he didn't escape rehab, only to be found passed out in some godforsaken washbasin."

"I'm not a cokehead, ma'am."

"And I told him to beware of his friends and look for a good woman, but he always had to go against me. Children listen to anyone other than their mother."

He noticed a tingling sensation in the tips of his feet.

"I've told you..."

The old woman took his hand.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. Many people feel the same way. You remind me so much of him, and I'm not gonna let you go down that path, too. I've already had enough of burying children. God has placed you in my path to help you out."

The tingling extended little by little up his legs to his knees like gangrene.

"Listen to me, you geezer." He yanked his hand away from the lady with the insulting authority he used to profess. "You wanna help me out? Give me a few cents to use the booth."

The old woman gave a quick shake of her head in a snub.

"You men got no respect. For fifteen years, my husband convinced me he went out fishing on Saturdays. Well, he died of syphilis, that wretch! Let him rot in hell, and you'll end up there, too."

The lady was about to turn and leave, but he clung to her arm, his posture hunching increasingly as he pulled a fifty-dollar note out and held it between his quivering fingers.

"Here. I'll give you fifty bucks for all the pennies you have."

The old woman stole a glance at his wallet.