sk.everythingseventual-第7部分

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only　the　faint；　wretched　humming。
　　'Temp　in；'　Peter　says。　'I've　put　on　the　timer。'
　　'Good　idea；'　she　says；　moving　away。　Giving　him　room。　Letting　him　test…drive　this　baby。　Letting　him　test…drive　me。　The　music　is　turned　down　slightly。
　　'Subject　is　a　white　Caucasian；　age　forty…four；'　Pete　says；　speaking　for　the　mike　now；　speaking　for　posterity。　'His　name　is　Howard　Randolph　Cottrell；　residence　is　1566　Laurel　Crest　Lane；　here　in　Derry。'
　　Dr。　Arlen；　at　some　distance：　'Mary　Mead。'
　　A　pause；　then　Pete　again；　sounding　just　a　tiny　bit　flustered：　'Dr。　Arlen　informs　me　that　the　subject　actually　lives　in　Mary　Mead；　which　split　off　from　Derry　in…'
　　'Enough　with　the　history　lesson；　Pete。'
　　Dear　God；　what　have　they　stuck　up　my　ass？　Some　sort　of　cattle　thermometer？　If　it　was　a　little　longer；　I　think；　I　could　taste　the　bulb　at　the　end。　And　they　didn't　exactly　go　crazy　with　the　lubricant　。　。　。　but　then；　why　would　they？　I'm　dead；　after　all。
　　Dead。
　　'Sorry；　Doctor；'　Pete　says。　He　fumbles　mentally　for　his　place　and　eventually　finds　it。　'This　information　is　from　the　ambulance　form。　Originally　taken　from　a　Maine　state　driver's　license。　Pronouncing　doctor　was；　um　Frank　Jennings。　Subject　was　pronounced　at　the　scene。'
　　Now　it's　my　nose　that　I'm　hoping　will　bleed。　Please；　I　tell　it；　bleed。　Only　don't　just　bleed。　GUSH。
　　It　doesn't。
　　'Cause　of　death　may　be　a　heart　attack；'　Peter　says。　A　light　hand　brushes　down　my　naked　back　to　the　crack　of　my　ass。　I　pray　it　will　remove　the　thermometer；　but　it　doesn't。　'Spine　appears　to　be　intact；　no　attractable　phenomena。'
　　Attractable　phenomena？　Attractable　phenomena？　What　the　fuck　do　they　think　I　am；　a　buglight？
　　He　lifts　my　head；　the　pads　of　his　fingers　on　my　cheekbones；　and　I　hum　desperately…Nnnnnnnnn…knowing　that　he　can't　possibly　hear　me　over　Keith　Richards'　screaming　guitar　but　hoping　he　may　feel　the　sound　vibrating　in　my　nasal　passages。
　　He　doesn't。　Instead　he　turns　my　head　from　side　to　side。
　　'No　neck　injury　apparent；　no　rigor；'　he　says；　and　I　hope　he　will　just　let　my　head　go；　let　my　face　smack　down　onto　the　table…that'll　make　my　nose　bleed；　unless　I　really　am　dead…but　he　lowers　it　gently；　considerately；　mashing　the　tip　again　and　once　more　making　suffocation　seem　a　distinct　possibility。
　　'No　wounds　visible　on　the　back　or　buttocks；'　he　says；　'although　there's　an　old　scar　on　the　upper　right　thigh　that　looks　like　some　sort　of　wound；　shrapnel　perhaps。　It's　an　ugly　one。'
　　It　was　ugly；　and　it　was　shrapnel。　The　end　of　my　war。　A　mortar　shell　lobbed　into　a　supply　area；　two　men　killed；　one　man…me…lucky。　It's　a　lot　uglier　around　front；　and　in　a　more　sensitive　spot；　but　all　the　equipment　works　。　。　。　or　did；　up　until　today。　A　quarter　of　an　inch　to　the　left　and　they　could　have　fixed　me　up　with　a　hand　pump　and　a　CO2；　cartridge　for　those　intimate　moments。
　　He　finally　plucks　the　thermometer　out…oh　dear　God；　the　relief…and　on　the　wall　I　can　see　his　shadow　holding　it　up。
　　'94。2；'　he　says。　'Gee；　that　ain't　too　shabby。　This　guy　could　almost　be　alive；　Katie　。　。　。　Dr。　Arlen。'
　　'Remember　where　they　found　him；'　she　says　from　across　the　room。　The　record　they　are　listening　to　is　between　selections；　and　for　a　moment　I　can　hear　her　lecturely　tones　clearly。　'Golf　course？　Summer　afternoon？　If　you'd　gotten　a　reading　of　98。6；　I　would　not　be　surprised。'
　　'Right；　right；'　he　says；　sounding　chastened。　Then：　'Is　all　this　going　to　sound　funny　on　the　tape？'　Translation：　Will　I　sound　stupid　on　the　tape？
　　'It'll　sound　like　a　teaching　situation；'　she　says；　'which　is　what　it　is'。
　　'Okay；　good。　Great。'
　　His　rubber…tipped　fingers　spread　my　buttocks；　then　let　them　go　and　trail　down　the　backs　of　my　thighs。　I　would　tense　now；　if　I　were　capable　of　tensing。
　　Left　leg；　I　send　to　him。　Left　leg；　Petie…boy；　left　calf　see　it？
　　He　must　see　it；　he　must；　because　I　can　feel　it；　throbbing　like　a　bee　sting　or　maybe　a　shot　given　by　a　clumsy　nurse；　one　who　infuses　the　injection　into　a　muscle　instead　of　hitting　the　vein。
　　'Subject　is　a　really　good　example　of　what　a　really　bad　is　idea　it　is　to　play　golf　in　shorts；'　he　says；　and　I　find　myself　wishing　he　had　been　born　blind。　Hell；　maybe　he　was　born　blind；　he's　sure　acting　it。　'I'm　seeing　all　kinds　of　bug　bites；　chigger　bites；　scratches　。　。　。　'
　　'Mike　said　they　found　him　in　the　rough；'　Arlen　calls　over。　She's　making　one　hell　of　a　clatter；　it　sounds　like　she's　doing　dishes　in　a　cafeteria　kitchen　instead　of　filing　stuff。　'At　a　guess；　he　had　a　heart　attack　while　he　was　looking　for　his　ball。'
　　'Uh…huh　。　。　。　'
　　'Keep　going；　Peter；　you're　doing　fine。'
　　I　find　that　an　extremely　debatable　proposition。
　　'Okay。'
　　More　pokes　and　proddings。　Gentle。　Too　gentle；　maybe。
　　'There　are　mosquito　bites　on　the　left　calf　that　look　infected；'　he　says；　and　although　his　touch　remains　gentle；　this　time　the　pain　is　an　enormous　throb　that　would　make　me　scream　if　I　were　capable　of　making　any　sound　above　the　low…pitched　hum。　It　occurs　to　me　suddenly　that　my　life　may　hang　upon　the　length　of　the　Rolling　Stones　tape　they're　listening　to　。　。　。　always　assuming　it　is　a　tape　and　not　a　CD　that　plays　straight　through。　If　it　finishes　before　they　cut　into　me　。　。　。　if　I　can　hum　loudly　enough　for　them　to　hear　before　one　of　them　turns　it　over　to　the　other　side　。　。　。
　　'I　may　want　to　look　at　the　bug　bites　after　the　gross　autopsy；'　she　says；　'although　if　we're　right　about　his　heart；　there'll　be　no　need。　Or　。　。　。　do　you　want　me　to　look　now？　They　worrying　you？'
　　'Nope；　they're　pretty　clearly　mosquito　bites；'　Gimpel　the　Fool　says。　'They　grow　'em　big　over　on　the　west　side。　He's　got　five　。　。　。　seven　。　。　。　eight　。　。　。　jeez；　almost　a　dozen　on　his　left　leg　alone。'
　　'He　forgot　his　Deep　Woods　Off。'
　　'Never　mind　the　Off；　he　forgot　his　digitalin；'　he　says；　and　they　have　a　nice　little　yock　together；　autopsy　room　humor。
　　This　time　he　flips　me　by　himself；　probably　happy　to　use　those　gym…grown　Mr。　Strongboy　muscles　of　his；　hiding　the　snakebites　and　the　mosquito　bites　all　around　them；　camouflaging　them。　I'm　staring　up　into　the　bank　of　fluorescents　again。　Pete　steps　backward；　out　of　my　view。　There's　a　humming　noise。　The　table　begins　to　slant；　and　I　know　why。　When　they　cut　me　open；　the　fluids　will　run　downhill　to　collection　points　at　its　base。　Plenty　of　samples　for　the　state　lab　in　Augusta；　should　there　be　any　questions　raised　by　the　autopsy。
　　I　focus　all　my　will　and　effort　on　closing　my　eyes　while　he's　looking　down　into　my　face；　and　cannot　produce　even　a　tic。　All　I　wanted　was　eighteen　holes　of　golf　on　Saturday　afternoon；　and　instead　I　turned　into　Snow　White　with　hair　on　my　chest。　And　I　can't　stop　wondering　what　it's　going　to　feel　like　when　those　poultry　shears　go　sliding　into　my　midsection。
　　Pete　has　a　clipboard　in　one　hand。　He　consults　it；　sets　it　aside；　then　speaks　into　the　mike。　His　voice　is　a　lot　less　stilted　now。　He　has　just　made　the　most　hideous　misdiagnosis　of　his　life；　but　he　doesn't　know　it；　and　so　he's　starting　to　warm　up。
　　'I　am　mencing　the　autopsy　at　5。49　P。M。；'　he　says；　'on　Saturday；　August　20th；　1994。'
　　He　lifts　my　lips；　looks　at　my　teeth　like　a　man　thinking　about　buying　a　horse；　then　pulls　my　jaw　down。　'Good　color；'　he　says；　'and　no　petechiae　on　the　cheeks。'　The　current　tune　is　fading　out　of　the　speakers　and　I　hear　a　click　as　he　steps　on　the　foot　pedal　which　pauses　the　recording　tape。　'Man；　this　guy　really　could　still　be　alive！'
　　I　hum　frantically；　and　at　that　same　moment　Dr。　Arlen　drops　something　that　sounds　like　a　bedpan。　'Doesn't　he　wish；'　she　says；　laughing。　He　joins　in　and　this　time　it's　cancer　I　wish　on　them；　some　kind　that　is　inoperable　and　lasts　a　long　time。
　　He　goes　quickly　down　my　body；　feeling　up　my　chest　（'No　bruising；　swelling；　or　other　exterior　signs　of　cardiac　arrest；'　he　says；　and　what　a　big　fucking　surprise　that　is）；　then　palpates　my　belly。
　　I　burp。
　　He　looks　at　me；　eyes　widening；　mouth　dropping　open　a　little；　and　again　I　try　desperately　to　hum；　knowing　he　won't　hear　it　over　'Start　Me　Up'　but　thinking　that　maybe；　along　with　the　burp；　he'll　finally　be　ready　to　see　what's　right　in　front　of　him　…
　　'Excuse　yourself；　Howie；'　Dr。　Arlen；　that　bitch；　says　from　behind　me；　and　chuckles；　'Be