Bad Doctor

15

I hear Bobby asking Gary to drive his motorcycle home. He says he’ll follow him there and drive him back to the club. Gary says he can’t because he’s got to meet someone named Marvin in a few minutes. The Mercedes trunk is well insulated, which makes it impossible to hear what they’re saying when they get more than a few feet away.

Five minutes pass and I’m still in the trunk. A car pulls up behind me. I hear a door slam shut. A man’s voice calls out. I strain to make out the words, but they’re garbled.

Now he approaches my car, saying, “We had a report of a fight that took place in this parking lot.”

“When?” Gary says.

“Ten minutes ago.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong place, officer. Or maybe it was a crank call.”

“It was an eye-witness report.”

“There was no fight here, sir. You’ve got my word on that.”

There’s a pause. Then, “What’s this?”

“What?”

“This look like blood to you? It does to me. And it’s wet. You’re Gary, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well Gary, I think it’s time you started telling me the truth. Or you can talk to us downtown. Your choice.”

There’s another short pause.

I kick the trunk, try to yell “Help!” but my voice comes out like a stage whisper.

“What’s that?”

“Sounds like crawfish,” Gary says.

“Crawfish?”

“Help! I’m in the trunk!” I yell. This time my voice works. Surely the cop can hear. “Help! Help!” I yell. I kick harder.

“Maybe you should open the trunk, Gary, show me your talking crawfish.”

“It’s not my car. I don’t have the keys.”

“Well maybe you better shit them up.”

“Is there a problem officer?” Bobby’s voice. From a distance.

“This your car?”

“Yes, sir. What about it?”

“Open the trunk.”

“No problem.”

I’m saved. Thank God!

I hear a muffled sound. Something heavy falls on the trunk. Then to the ground.

The trunk opens.

I yell, “Help! Officer?”

It’s Bobby, Gary, and some other guy.

Bobby says, “There’s no cop here, asshole. We were just fucking with you.”

The three of them laugh hysterically, and I wonder if they’re going to urinate on me, like Joe and his friends did all those years ago.

I’m more embarrassed than disappointed.

Humiliated, actually, and pissed.

The image of a beaten, but not defeated Daffy Duck floats through my mind, saying, “Of courth you know, thith means war!”

“You’re on my list!” I yell.

“Goodnight,” he says, then punches the side of my head.

Everything goes black.