Water Can't Hurt You
By Jake Kinzie
Dale was a real piece of work. The dude thought he had AIDS even though he didn’t. He’d come to the clinic, both hands bandaged like a mummy, all for a splinter in one hand. Then he’d demand we wear double gloves to take it out.
Dale wanted to know if others existed. Or is it just me hung up on AIDS? he asked. I didn’t know what to say. My head shot to the front desk. I told him the plants never get watered. And look at that, I said, sizing up the magazine area, the magazines hang off the rack like dead animals. This place is a mess, I said.
But the AIDS thing, are there others like me? He asked, tapping his foot. I turned and watched a nurse rush urine samples across the room. She spun around another nurse, then pushed through the door. Then a doctor came out rushing Jeremy Givens to surgery. Givens is the wheelchair kid who blew a gasket when the hospital brought in clowns for his birthday. The staff sent him sympathy chocolate for the ordeal.
Dale wouldn’t stop tapping. Then he touched my shoulder. I’m so terrified of infecting other people that I avoid public bathrooms, he said. I whipped around, raised my hands. You know what I hate? I said. Dale’s mouth stood still. His hands went inside his pockets. He looked like an abused child. The handicapped get ramps and lifts, I said, but people like you get nothing.
He stepped back, squeezed his eyebrows. So, there are others, Dale said. What about support groups? Do you have any phone numbers?
Dale, can’t you see patients flooding in left and right? I said. That poor kid just hobbled in with a broken leg. I could get fired talking to you, I said.
The next time I saw Dale, I told him about the psych ward. I talked about the people plagued by numbers, constantly running figures in their mind, certain of world disaster if they don’t count every number they see. Dale didn’t seem impressed. So I brought up the agoraphobics. Now they have it bad, I said. They basically live in a box.
Once again, Dale’s hands went into his pockets. But this time, he dropped his head and stared at his shoes. I could see a tear hanging off his face. My heart sped up. I flagged down a nurse. Hurry up, I said, Dale’s blood sugar is tanking. He needs donuts. The nurse swung toward the break room. Wait, I said, throwing my hands up. No powdered donuts. Powdered donuts make a mess.
Damn if Dale didn’t touch the donuts. I even offered tongs from the instrument sanitizer. Dale just stared at me like a broken robot. Then he looked down and sighed. Buddy, I thought you liked donuts, I said.
I’m wearing shoe covers, he said. I’m not getting any better.
My girlfriend ordered champagne and a plate of fruit. She hung up, rolled over, then pointed at the bubbles rising from the hot tub. She wanted to get in. There’s jets all over that thing, I said. They probably never get cleaned.
This is not some shady roadside motel, my girlfriend said. Then she jumped off the bed, stripped down, and hopped into the bubbling water.
I sat against the headboard, tucked a pillow behind me. I pictured Dale in those shoe covers. But how often is the water changed? I asked. Can you tell me that?
Please stop going down that road, my girlfriend said.
I glanced at the nightstand. There were condoms, spermicide, and dental dams. The condoms would last the weekend, even if I doubled up. So I told my girlfriend we should do it on the bed. I’ve got some new moves, I said.
Just come here, she said. The water can’t hurt you.
I went into the bathroom, not touching anything. I stood in front of the sink. But what about the people who use it after me? I thought.
I took Dale to an all-night bowling alley. It was time Dale lived a little. I made the manager crank the lights until the place looked like a televised event. Then I kicked back and watched Dale do his thing. Every time Dale lifted the ball, he wrestled his fingers into the holes. You know you’d roll strikes without the bandages, I said.
He came over swinging the ball. I’d like to see you do better, Dale said.
All I could do was laugh. I’m not touching that thing, I said. The last time I bowled was in the eighth grade.
I get it, he said, running his hand over the ball. You’re scared. Then he returned to the lane and bowled a strike. He said, I may be crazy, but I can out bowl anyone. I smiled, and on the drive home, I told him he was not alone.
Don’t worry about me, he said, I know no one’s like me. I must accept that fact and move on.
I pulled to the curb and flipped the hazards on. Look at me, I said, thinking of the water in the hot tub. You’re wrong. You are not alone.
It’s fine, he said. I just need to be more like you.
THE END