Thursday 20 October 2011

THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY TWO

Brian Three and me got our rad scooters out of the garage.  There are eleven rad scooters in there.  And we raced away towards the hospital at faster hundred miles an hour.  Well fast, we love it!  Whole convoy’s of Barry’s and Gary’s, of Mary’s and Jill’s tearing down the huge roads with us weaving in and out, throttles well open, driving like Jehu, son of Nimshi. 
Brian Three had recurring head issues, always cracking his claret jug, dripping red muck down his chin-chin.  He was just in front because he got out of the garage first and when we got to the hospital he was still just in front.  Brian Three is a (c).
We parked up in the garage under the hospital and walked up to the main entrance, me leaning down to scratch at my ankles and shins, up my thighs and behind my prayer bones, all well itchy.  Brian Three was having a right good scratch at his scalp and his face.  He had a righteous marrow issue last month.  They grew him new shins, fitted them in an afternoon while he watched the screen.  Now it was his head. 
At reception we queued briefly with the itching hoards milling about then Brian Three moseyed off over to the Head Wing holding his pink medical card and scratching his head savagely.  The receptionist, Linda Seven, gave me back my pink card and, scratching her norks vigorously, said; ‘If you could take a seat Mr. Nine, the doctor will be with you shortly.’
‘Oh,’ I said, confused.  ‘Not the Leg Wing today?’  I was scratching my legs.
‘Not just yet, Mr. Nine, if you could just take a seat.  Help yourself to some tea.’
I didn’t want tea.  I like wine and Seigfried Shakes.  I looked for a seat over by the window.  It was well busy; it always is but everything is moving fast, well smoothly run in here.  I sat between eleven little kid’s and the tea machine.  The boy’s were scratching themselves all over. 
‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy why does it itch so bad Mummy?’  They all said, getting well frantic with their ickle arms.
‘Come on, Daniels, please sit still.  Everybody itches.’  She was gently scratching her elbow.  She turned to the woman next to her.
‘He’s an (h), you know.’
‘I know, I know,’ said the woman next to her who was scratching each palm with the fingers of the other hand and rubbing her sides with her elbows.   
‘My Bob was (k) before he was fifteen.  He’s a (q) now you know.’ 
I felt well smug; I was an (a) with only some leg trouble.  Well recurring leg trouble but what trouble doesn’t recur?   
Grandpa Tortelli in The Tortelli’s found out he had cancer and everyone went all weepy.  Fearsome of the happy dispatch.  He lasted a year with the same cancer.  The same cancer!  A year treating the same guff…and then he was gone to rest in Abraham’s bosom.  How we laughed; it was well harsh.  Things used to be so primitive. 
‘Mr. Nine?’
‘Yes,’ I said and got up, itching doctors and nurses and patients streaming around me.
‘Mr. Brian Nine?’ 
‘Yes.’  I gave him my pink card.
‘Brine Nine (a), eh?’  He said and smiled.
The two women on the seats shut up and looked up at me.  I smiled at them well smug.  I was an (a).  Nowadays that was just a little bit special at my age, twenty.  The kids were still scratching themselves ragged, little faces screwed up in frustration.
‘Please come with me, Brian.’  I followed him through the scratching throng to his office.  The glow of the sun was diffused as always by the dome; a soft yellow coming through the window looking out over the hospital gardens.
‘Now Brian, as an (a), a long serving (a) by today’s standard, you must have thought about this day, eh?’  He sat back a big smile on his face.  ‘We started growing a new Nine this morning.  I meant to tell you yesterday but it was my anniversary and I had a world of presents to get.’
‘That’s OK.  A new Nine?  Wicked.’
‘We will do your legs again today anyway, their isn’t much else wrong with you but we might as well replace you with a (b).  Not fair you Brian’s not getting your upgrades like everyone else, eh?  How’s the scratching?’  They always ask about the scratching.  And tell you not too.  ‘Try not to scratch too much.  Show me your legs.’
I hitch up my trousers legs and we can both see the red lines of too much scratching up my shins and across my prayer bones.  The doctor was scratching his neck and shaking his head.  He wrote briefly on my pink card and on his green one.  He filed the green one and gave me my pink one back along with a red one.  I looked at the red one.
‘Just official notice.’  The doctor said shaking his head noncommittally.  ‘OK?’
‘Yes.’  I said.  The red card said ‘ten days notice’ with the date and the doctor’s signature.  I got up.  ‘The Leg Wing?’
‘Yes off you go, might as well cut them out a couple more times, eh?  Then the old green needle.’
‘Thank you doctor.’
‘Goodbye Brian Nine.’
I went to the Leg Wing where I lay down and the doctor there turned the lasers on and let them get busy cutting the cancers out of my legs.  The Tortelli’s was on the screen, theme music fading out.  Mama Tortelli was well fretting about getting back from the factory in time to see her kids got a decent meal before she had to go and work again in some ickle cocktail bar at night.  It was way harder for her now Grandpa Tortelli was blown across the creek.  She was turning into a right crepe hanger all moans and angry pulling faces.  Pa Tortelli was well useless, just a fat trencherman and a right Jimmie Woodser.  How I laughed.
When I got back out and down in the parking garage I found Brian Three’s rad scooter gone.  I got on my rad scooter, the itching in my legs a new fire well bad and headed off down the road staying in the middle lanes, all sedate.  There was a convoy of eleven racing in the outside lane all fixed in formation, all similar faces squinting in the wind.  No one overtaking anyone and no one losing any ground at the back either.  I went home at two hundred miles an hour and got in in time to see The Tortelli’s theme music playing out. 
Tortelli Jr. had to go get a job after school to help Mama Tortelli pay all the poxy bills.  A job after school…everyday…shit…who can be doing with that?  The Tortelli’s have well little time for themselves, all rushing and moods.  Everyone loves The Tortelli’s, they hardly ever scratch and everyone is well hirsute.

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