It said “Federico’s”, of course.
I grab my phone and type the name into Google Maps. Bing. I’ve found it. It’s just around the corner, and three blocks down. I’ll go, I’ll find out her name, her phone number.
What if they don’t give it to you? Then I’ll camp out there until the next time she’s working.
I run down to the end of the alley, filled with energy. For the first time in forever, I have a new purpose.
Welcome to this new phase in your life, Jez. It’s the new age.
I check the direction on my phone and step off the sidewalk onto the empty street, a smile on my face.
And I hear a car horn.
There’s a bright light.
I hear tires screeching
Then everything fades to black.
JEZ
3 months later
I open my eyes. I’m greeted by the same damn sight that’s been greeting me for the last three months. White. Sterile white. Pops of random color from wilting flower bouquets and shit my bandmates leave every time they come and visit. But the rest, is white.
Like germs can’t stick to white fucking paint.
Just paint it white. Microscopic bacteria and viruses are only attracted to dark colors.
Apparently, that’s a thing.
White.
White walls, white shades on the windows, white bed linens, white floor.
White and white and more fucking white.
“I need to get out of here,” I say to the white room. And the white doesn’t respond.
Three months. I’ve been here for three whole months, ever since that car wiped me out on the night of the Grammys.
A broken arm, a shattered wrist, a fractured elbow, three splintered fingers, two broken ribs, a punctured lung, some random blood floating where it shouldn’t inside me and a concussion that went on for what felt like a decade.
I was in bad shape.
I was a comatose list of your body is broken as all out fuck.
Not that I remember much of the first month of it. That part is still kind of hazy. There was a lot of machines beeping and worried faces and people in blue and pink scrubs talking like I wasn’t in the room.
But then the fog lifted, and for the last two months, it’s been me, holed up in this room, while my bones weld back together and my mind is so bored it feels like it’s fracturing.
This room, in this supposedly exclusive hospital, which just means the chairs are padded, the TVs have cable and the nurse don’t give a fuck that you’re a celebrity. And I get seconds of the dessert jello if I ask nicely.
The only thing I can say is, thank god for my boys.
My rowdy, vulgar, bull shitting, annoying as hell, there for me every second of the way bandmates.
So, thank you, God. If you’re listening. Thank you.
Great. Now I’m talking to God. This is not a good sign.
Get me out of here, God. It’s time for me to go home.
There’s a commotion out in the hallway, and then a roar of laughter. I look at the clock, noon, on the dot. It’s time. They’re here.
“Oi, Twatmuffin! What do you call a woman who is paralyzed from the waist down?” Brad shouts at me even before he enters my room.
“What?”
“Married!” Brad cackles, holding his own stomach as he bends over in laughter.
“Why are you laughing? Don’t you have your own wedding coming up soon?” I ask him, and he freezes, mid laughter.
“Eh,” he shrugs, “Emily won’t be like that. She’s got something other women don’t,” he preens, flexing his chest.
“Her very own Pillsbury doughboy?” Sebastian asks, digging his fingers into Brad’s stomach, making him yelp.
“Shut up. She likes my little pouch,” Brad pouts, rubbing his flat stomach. Truth is, none of us have bodies any woman would have much to complain about. God gifted us looks and talent in place of brains and maturity, it seems.
Marius follows them into my room, his arms full of food and magazines and flowers. Just as they have been every single day since I’ve been here. Not a single day missed. Like I said, thank you, God.
“Thanks for helping, wrinkled ballbags!” Marius pants, dropping everything onto the couch while the other two wrestle on the floor by the foot of the bed.
“Uh, what’s for lunch, I’m starving,” I tell him, the room already filling with delicious smells.
“Crispy pork belly roast with creamed spinach and caramelized carrots.”
“Ugh, yes. Thank Emily for me, Brad,” I say, prodding his leg with my foot as Sebastian straddles over him, digging his fingers into his sides.
“Oi, gerroffmeassole,” he yells to Seb, who finally lets him up. “How’d you know it wasn’t me who cooked it?”
“‘Cos it’s not frozen fries heated up in the bag in the microwave. With bonus still frozen crunchy bits,” I say, shuddering remembering some of his gourmet endeavors.
“Ah, yes. My signature dish,” he beams proudly, and picks off a carrot from the container and pops it into his mouth.
“The girls would be here but they’re doing some promo for us at the WKZ station,” Sebastian says, laying down on my bed, shoes propping up on the blankets and all, making himself at home.
“Oh? What kind of promo?”
He pauses and then continues, like he regrets having even brought it up. “Um, just for the… you know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, because we had to cancel the tour, they’re just doing some of the interviews we had lined up. We pre-recorded some stuff, so they’re just going to do the intro and answer some questions.”
Ah. That’s why he hadn’t wanted to go into detail. They’ve done a lot to shield me from the PR shit storm of me first getting hurt, and then having to cancel concerts and public appearances. Right after winning the Grammy no less.
“You guys should’ve gone,” I tell them, not for the first time.
Marius waves my words away, “Nah, we had better things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like have lunch with you, mushroomdick.” Brad grabs the remote and turns the TV on, flipping the channel to sports.
“Well, technically, they’re all kinda mushroomy,” I defend my own dick.