Margarita Monday was first published in Pilgrimage Press in the Winter of 2021.
It's included in the short story collection Stumptown available for PURCHASE.
The beeping of the EKG machine is an annoyance. Each beat of the living corpse’s heart is like a finger poking Paul right behind the eyes. It isn’t a sharp and painful feeling, nor is it a constant dull ache. It’s more like pressing one’s hand against a recent bruise. Pressure, then no pressure, pressure, then no pressure. Paul blinks his eyes and tries to ignore the sensation. It could be a lot worse. Relatively speaking this is only a slight annoyance.
“Scalpel.”
The voice is harsh and filled with irritation. Paul looks up from the EKG into the fuming brown eyes of Dr. Stone across the table. Dr. Stone’s brown eyes radiate anger, but then again, they always seem to radiate anger. Even with the majority of his face covered by his surgical mask, his eyes are enough to express his displeasure with the world around him. This is the second time that Dr. Stone has asked for the scalpel. Paul failed to hear him the first time.
Paul looks at the others clustered around the table. Across from him Dr. Philip’s green eyes are filled with worry, concern that Paul will soon incur the wrath of Dr. Stone. Next to Dr. Stone, Lisa’s blue eyes give Paul a dirty look. A co-conspirator eyeing the probable weakest link in their shared secret. When she notices Paul noticing her back, her eyes shift to asking Paul what right he has to look at her. Dr. Cohen, the anesthesiologist, leans against the wall, his eyes half closed, looking bored.
Paul shakes his head to clear it. He needs to have a clear mind. He has to get his head into the game. He picks up the sharpened instrument and hands it to Dr. Stone, miming his incantation as he does.
“Scalpel.”
Paul doesn’t want to make Dr. Stone mad. Dr. Stone’s anger is legendary amongst the other staff members of the hospital. The staff pass around folk tales of Dr. Stone, most second hand, which seem larger than life and far to the implausible side of the reality scale. Dr. Stone destroyed the career of a young orderly that once accidentally took his parking space. Dr. Stone threw a phone across the lobby when a chatty receptionist failed to get the chart he wanted fast enough. Lisa had told him the other day that she had heard that Dr. Stone once threw his surgical instruments at a newly hired nurse in the middle of an appendectomy after the nurse had failed to meet his exacting standards. The nurse had been so traumatized that he quit the next day. Paul is in a condition where he needs to be more careful.
The first margarita had made Paul feel relaxed. It had been a long day at the hospital and he had felt like he needed to unwind. The second margarita had made him feel good. It had pushed away the problems to another day. The third margarita had changed him internally. His bones, once all stiff and rigid, had softened and become rubbery, pliable in unexpected directions. The fourth margarita had removed all of his bones, allowing him to bend in ways he was not supposed to bend. The fifth margarita had converted him from a solid into a liquid. They had poured him into the taxi which he and the other nurses had taken home.
The vomiting the night before had helped. Paul would’ve definitely been unable to be here today if he had not puked. When he had first woken up he had felt a little woozy, but some tomato juice and bread had soon solved that problem. Even with all the preventatives he hadn’t escaped unscathed. It is only slightly distracting, not debilitating. Lisa seems unaffected by the night before. She’s as alert and quick as ever. This is all well and good. Lisa is doing all the grunt work today, assisting the doctors with suction and the other messier ends of the surgery. Paul only has to watch the living corpse’s vitals, hand over tools when asked, and keep count of everything to make sure nothing gets left inside.
“Making the incision.”
Dr. Stone’s voice is monotone, a sharp cut across the cold air of the surgery center. Paul can feel the words slice across the distance between them, enter his ears, and flick his bruised brain. Again, not painful, just annoying. Paul watches Dr. Stone as he works. Dr. Stone is an asshole, all surgeons are assholes, but he is also a good surgeon. It is a simple laparotomy, a large single cut across the abdomen, a cut Dr. Stone has done a hundred times before.
Paul feels his nose itch and wishes he could scratch it. But of course he cannot. This is a clean room and his face is encased in his surgical mask and his hands are encased in rubber gloves. Paul feels sweat begin to form on his brow. Cool air blows from vents above, but it does not matter. His body feels hot. It is working hard to remove the last lingering toxins. A bead of liquid coldness moves from between his shoulder blades down his spine. He can imagine the stale smell of tequila wafting from his pores.
The scalpel lifts, pulls back, and drops again. The initial cut is deepened, revealing the white of the lineus alba underneath. Another lift, another shift, and another cut. They are through another layer of tissue. Paul looks at the vitals again. All seem to still be normal and stable. The chest of the living corpse rises and falls with every breath.
The living corpse is not dead, but in a way it is easier to deal with surgeries if Paul imagines that it is. A living corpse has all the same vitals and automatic responses as a living person, but none of the thoughts, dreams, and history. Watching someone work on a living corpse is like watching someone working on a car. It is easier if it is just a machine going under the knife, not a living person. If one thinks too much about the living corpse they are working on, if they begin to feel empathy for the person encased in the organic vehicle, things could become overwhelming.
“Hemostats.”
Paul hands the hemostats to Dr. Philips and Dr. Stone.
“Hemostats.”
They look like giant tweezers. Lisa suctions blood away from the incision. The hemostats lift part of the revealed peritoneum, the lining of the abdominal cavity. Dr. Stone cuts a hole where the hemostats hold the tissue tight, exposing the bodily innards to the outside world. The smell of the living corpse’s body cavity enters the cool air of the room, like a raw steak at room temperature. Paul feels bubbles in his own gut shift, creating an uncomfortable pressure that wasn’t there before. This has nothing to do with the surgery. He has aided in many before and it has never bothered him. This is an internal problem.
The first margarita had made Paul content to sit and watch his fellow nurses try their hand at karaoke. The second margarita had convinced him to stand up and give it a go with his own rendition of Sweet Caroline. The third margarita had given him the courage to ask Lisa to dance. The fourth margarita had consoled him when she had said no. The fifth margarita had given him the fortitude to dance by himself, despite the fact that his dancing shared more aspects with a seizure then rhythmic movements.
“Scissors.”
Paul takes the scalpel from Dr. Stone and hands him the scissors.
“Scissors.”
Dr. Stone inserts his fingers into the freshly cut hole in the peritoneum and lifts it away from the intestines inside. The scissors work along the tissue, enlarging the initial hole and revealing the guts underneath. Paul can never look at a person's digestive system without thinking of his old college girlfriend. Her grandmother had been off the boat Chinese and had still made many traditional Chinese dishes with pig offal, which she got at the local butcher. Paul would sometimes go over to her house, and see the old woman cleaning them in the sink. Stretching the intestines and kneading them with her fingers.
Paul’s gut gurgles once again. A bubble shifts higher in his own intestines, displaced as heavier gases work their way down his internal tubes. The beeping of the EKG and the whir of the fans covers the noises of his digestive issues. Nobody else notices. Nobody else hears. Paul tries to ignore the bubbling. He concentrates on the living corpse’s gastrointestinal issues, ignoring his own.
The movements of Dr. Stone and Dr. Philips are not much different than the work of the old Chinese woman. Their hands run along the pink tube of the small intestine, looking and searching for the obstruction. The living corpse had come in a week ago, complaining of abdominal pain and swelling. The corpse had been in for a minor surgery, to correct a perforated peptic ulcer, a few months before. An x-ray had shown an obstruction in the small intestine. Initial attempts to clear the obstruction, enemas and nasogastric tubes, had failed to make things better. Surgery had become the best option.
The first margarita had been accompanied just by peanuts from a bowl on the bar. Peanuts undoubtedly infected by germs of every other patron who had touched them. The second margarita had been accompanied by his share of a helping of nachos, heavy on the jalapenos and queso. The third margarita had been accompanied by a spicy burrito, the specialty of the house. The fourth margarita had been accompanied by more than his share of a second helping of nachos, even heavier on the queso and jalapenos. The fifth margarita had been accompanied by nothing except an extra lime which he had stolen from the tray on the bar when the bartender wasn’t looking.
The pressure is growing. The surgery is going fine, everything looks good. The pressure in Paul’s gut however is growing by the minute. There is a slight burning sensation with every breath he takes. The dull ache in Paul’s gut is slowly building to a sharp pain. Paul feels the sweat bead more heavily on his brow. His abdomen feels swollen and taut, like an overfilled water balloon just waiting to burst. Paul tries to distract himself by checking the living corpse’s vitals once again. It does little to help. Everyone else is watching the surgery. Nobody is watching Paul. Nobody can see the distress and discomfort slowly spreading across his face.
“Here it is.”
Dr. Philips’ tone of triumph is a momentary distraction from Paul’s mounting problem. In his hand Dr. Philips holds a section of small intestine, bent over double like a kink in a garden hose. Following the living corpse’s previous surgery scar tissue had formed, attaching things in a way they were not meant to be attached. Over time the scar tissue had pulled the two parts of the intestine closer together, creating the obstruction, the kink.
“Scalpel.”
Dr. Philips made the find, but as usual Dr. Stone would get the glory. Paul lifts the asked for instrument from the tray. Dr. Stone looks up at Paul for a moment, taking in the broad shouldered, obviously uncomfortable, nurse beside him. Dr. Stone gives a loathing grunt behind his mask. Paul can see the judgement in Dr. Stone’s eyes. Another weak willed nurse who can’t even handle the sight of another person’s innards. What’s the medical profession coming to? Paul has no problem with surgeries, an overindulgence in spicy Tex-Mex is another matter. Paul hands Dr. Stone the scalpel, cursing him under his breath.
“Scalpel.”
Guts are supposed to slide against each other easily, not stick together. Few people realize how much their insides move around. The kink in the long hose of the intestine is an easy fix. A few quick slices with the scalpel by Dr. Stone’s expert hands and the the scar tissue is gone. The hose unkinked. The flow of its contents are again unabated. Paul watches with rapt desperate attention as the the two surgeons continue running their hands along the intestines, looking for any other possible problems.
The pain increases to truly uncomfortable levels now. Paul feels twinges that try to bend him over double. A silent burp crawls its way up his esophagus, bringing acid and bile with it. Paul quickly swallows it back down. He feels like his insides are a collection of over-inflated balloon animals, twisted into new and painful shapes by a sadistic clown. His body screams for the pressure to be relieved, demands that the foulness be expelled. Paul’s mind refuses to give in. This is not the time. This is not the place. He just has to hold on a little bit longer.
Dr. Stone and Dr. Philips finish examining the living corpse’s interior. They confer and concur. The one kink was the only problem. It is time to close up the incision and call it a day. Paul has a kernel of hope in his mind. Something to hold onto. Something to keep him going, to keep him fighting his own body for just a little while more. Soon it will all be over. Soon he can make his escape to the privacy of the lavatory where all can be put right with the world. Only a little bit more to go.
“Dr. Philips, would you like to close the patient?”
Dr. Stone’s offer to the assisting surgeon is like a death knell in Paul’s mind. Dr. Philips is a nice man, probably one of the nicest people in the hospital. Paul has always liked Dr. Philips, but now he is the greatest enemy that Paul has ever had. Dr. Philips works slowly and exactly as he closes up the wound. Every stitch is a work of art, perfectly and evenly placed. Dr. Philips takes pride in his work. He loves nothing more than to see a patient with a barely visible scar. Paul wishes he would hurry, even if it leaves a Frankenstein scar across the living corpse’s abdomen.
One by one. Each stroke of the surgical needle pushing through skin and pulling the suture tight seems to take an hour. Paul’s hands are clamped in ineffectual fists of rage against forces he knows he cannot beat. Every beep of the EKG is the tick of a count down until his defenses break and the stenches of his bowels can no longer be held back. Paul can feel himself pucker, he can feel the last bits of resistance start to crumble. His face glows red with effort and future shame.
Dr. Philips is on the last suture. There may still be hope. It is the last thought in Paul’s mind, the momentary distraction of hope, when the dam bursts. A silent wave of stink forces its way outward into the world, filling the surgery center with its pungent odor. All work stops. Dr. Cohen stands up straight in his corner.
“Good god. What the hell is that stink?”
Dr. Philips looks at Dr. Stone. Dr. Stone looks back at Dr. Philips. Lisa holds her hand near her face, not sure what to do. Wanting to cover her nose, but unable. The EKG machine beeps steadily in the background. Dr. Stone’s voice, thick with anger, breaks the silence.
“Shit. We must have pierced the intestine. We’ll have to open him back up.”
Dr. Stone doesn’t bother to ask Paul for the scissors. He reaches over and grabs them himself. The perfect sutures of Dr. Philips are cut away, reopening the body cavity to the world. Paul starts to open his mouth, an admittance of guilt starts to pass through his lips, but is stopped short. The back of Dr. Stone quivers in rage at the unexpected setback. The hospital’s best surgeon has been brought low by a mistake normally done by an intern. In his mind’s eye all Paul can see is Dr. Stone throwing surgical tools at him, cursing him with terms he never knew existed. Nobody likes Dr. Stone, but he is a man of power and standing, a man who can destroy a career on a whim.
Dr. Stone and Dr. Philips begin to comb their way through the intestines once again. Inch by inch. Looking for a perforation they will never find. The smell in the room is overwhelming. Sulfurous fecal particles climb like a conquering horde into the innocent nasal passages of everyone in the room. Nobody is watching Paul. All eyes are on the pink tubes in the surgeon’s hands. All eyes are desperately looking for the hole, that when fixed, will allow them to escape from this horrendous gas chamber.
The escape of the first brings some respite, but it is not enough. A second follows, and then a third. Each just as silent and just as deadly. For Paul the feeling is a mix of shame and ecstasy, relief and horror. Paul opens his mouth behind his mask again, and again closes it, saying nothing. The lack of an initial response has already destroyed any chance of a confession now.
The stench in the room increases and the surgeons double their efforts to locate their mistake. Dr. Cohen walks over and looks over their shoulders, hoping another pair of eyes can end their suffering. Lisa gags dramatically behind her mask, her eyes watering. The living corpse lays on the table, breathing easy, vitals normal, oblivious to the world around it.
Photo courtesy of Pixabay user Vithas.