well thats really kind of you, thanks a lot
Non-fiction / Conversion
The enemy's spies who have come to spy on us
must be sought out, tempted with bribes, led away and
comfortably housed. Thus they will become converted
spies and available for our service.
~Sun Tzu, from “The Art of War.”
I am, regrettably, a nail biter. I don’t remember when I started. It’s been that long. I clipped my nails, to my memory, exactly once. I had just gotten braces, and for a week back in 7th grade, I was bleeding gums, not fingertips.
Oral fixations have this tendency to overcome adversity. We tried everything. Habanero fingernail polish. Gloves. Hypnosis. Sleep deprivation. None of it works. Even so, I am committed to quitting. Cold turkey. In fact, I haven’t had a single chew since the pain started. I’ve called for a truce. A ceasefire. The threat of biological warfare has brought me to my knees.
“Are you allergic to any medicines?”
“No.”
“Have you had unprotected sex? Shared a needle?”
“No. No.”
“Here’s a prescription for Somentaxin. It’s an antibiotic that covers a broad spectrum of contagions. If you develop a rash, stop taking the pills immediately. If the swelling doesn’t subside by Monday, we’ll have you in to see the hand surgeon.”
I ask the doctor if we can lance it. They weren’t set up for that. No, he tells me, they don’t have any leeches. He doesn’t know if I’m making a joke. Neither do I, so I cough past it and ask him the worst-case scenario.
“Call this number if you start to get chills. If you notice any streaks up your arm, get yourself to a hospital,” the doctor tells me. “As long as the bacteria isn’t resistant, you won’t have to worry about worst-cases. Needless to say, keep your other fingers out of your mouth.”
The morning routine is slightly abridged. I skip brushing my teeth. I wipe my ass with my left hand. Everything else is coffee, cereal, and crosswords. That is, before the run in with the police officer.
Walking to the fridge, I call a friend. He’s in the medical field. Lets call him an EMT.
“Has the swelling spread?” he asks.
“A little bit, in my palm I think.”
“Do you see any streaks up your arm?”
“No…none of that. Except, my armpit is starting to get tender. I might have tweaked it at the gym. Can you tweak an armpit?”
“Do you have a straight razor? You’re going to need to get the pus out.”
I drag the tip of my pencil just above that swollen cuticle. I don’t know how it feels. Not normal. Not right. Not all that painful though. Not on the surface anyway. Its starting to throb and I think of all those white blood cells jostling for a best seats.
The EMT tells me to stop with the hypochondriac routine. He tells me where to get a good razor [home depot], how to sterilize the blade [fire, rubbing alcohol], the right way to wash my hands [you’re on your own for this one]. I wonder if I should stop thinking I’m sick, or if I should run to the store for 100 proof vodka. I feel like I’m getting conflicting information here, and so decide on non-action. Let’s call it the Quaker approach to infection.
“I might hold off another day. It’s only been forty hours since I started the antibiotics.”
“That should be fine,” he tells me. “Give it another day.”
Our phone call ends.
I feel a little lightheaded. But I might have stood up too quickly. I drain the quarters from the orange juice container and toss it in the trash. I realize my phone has a camera, and I can send pictures. The audio makes a sound like it’s a camera from the 1980’s, because cameras should sound like cameras. I send the EMT the picture.
It’s been ninety seconds. Vibrations, south. I reach into my pocket with the bad hand. On impact, I feel like I slammed my pinky in a car door. I drop the phone and it answers the call from the ground.
“I change my mind.” That’s how the EMT starts. No hello.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Was juggling the phone.”
“That looks pretty nasty.”
Compared to what, I think.
“The infection has probably spread. Your lymph nodes are reacting to the pathogen. That’s why your armpit aches. Go to the Emergency Room. Do you have a fever? You probably shouldn’t drive yourself.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know, Officer. Considering the circumstances, I think I handled that pretty well.”
He looks over his shoulder at oncoming traffic, looks back at my driver’s license. “Mr. - Toms, that maneuver was… interesting, to say the least.”
“I tried to stop. You saw the brake lights.” I told myself in the mirrored glasses. “She came out of no where.”
“Have you been drinking?”
The reflection in the glasses showed me everything but straight ahead. I told him no.
“On your cell phone?”
“Not when this happened, no.”
“What is it that you do for a living, Mr. Toms?”
“I don’t mean to sound disrespectful. But could you make up your mind quickly. To answer your question. This moment, what I do for a living, is drive to the hospital. You can meet me there if you’d like any more time.” I show him my left hand as a control group. I show him what should have been its mirror image, in my right.
“Whoa man, that finger looks nasty.”
Compared to the control group.
“You should see the other guy.”
“Ha. Funny.” He says after a moment. “I’m going to follow you there.”
And so I earned a police escort. This, after he witnessed my critical thinking and fast twitch reflexes at work. Let me show you what he saw. There were six lanes of traffic, three going in my direction. I was to make a left a mile up the road. In the appropriate lane. The two right ones were jammed, waiting on the light. But not my lane. It was a free and easy going, as the technologically feminine voice on my GPS told me, all the way to the hospital. The speed limit on the road was 35 M.P.H. I wasn’t in much of a rush.
A middle-aged woman in a champagne colored tank in the far right parking lot of a lane, thinking over her options. She’s in a line of stopped cars. There’s a line of stopped cars between us as well. Wait out this light, this jam, she thinks. But only four or five cars were getting through at a time. Judging by the number of cars ahead of her, the length of each green light, corolla borealis maybe, she calculated how long it would be before she could continue on with her life. She decided on a deliberate and cross traffic U-turn.
“I’ll nudge my nose into the middle northbound lane to block the cars coming my direction,” she must have thought, “Wait for an opening, a window, in the oncoming traffic, and bam, I won’t have to sit with my thoughts anymore.”
We’ve all been there. We’ve all got places to be. If there is unexpected construction on the highway at one A.M, I am not above driving over the grass median to backtrack. I am not above rolling stop signs. I am not above right on red. This lady, sitting high and upright, was above plenty.
I couldn’t see her or her vehicle, not yet. The Septa gray blocked the sight lines between us. Common driving sense tells you, if you can’t see where cars would be coming from, you have to assume they are coming. Common sense exits the Range Rover. She was worrying on picking up the candy, or grabbing a last second tinker bell costume, on her way to poor kid charity work. Maybe she needed cider, some pumpkin spice… maybe she had the pie dough resting, didn’t want the yeast to glutton itself to death. Maybe she was drunk.
Back to that window. She inched out. Saw it closing. Changed her mind. Stopped. Changed her mind back. But she looked right, not left. At the break in riverflow traffic, not at me. Went. Stopped dead, looking now. Middle aged. Offwhite turtleneck. Vest. Gray hair dyed immature strawberry. See the brake lights I spoke about. See me picturing the letter T – made of cars –becoming a crucifix.
Two choices. Broadside the turtleneck? Clean up in the center aisle. Or take my chances with the window. Brake or hit the accelerator. Hand over hand over hand, ten and two rotates counterclockwise. Tires lose their grip, so I relax the angle. Halfway between hydroplane and flipped the fuck over. Knuckles stereotypically white and its over. Made it across the street. In the far shoulder, facing the direction the Range Rover intended. The window closed behind me. My hands shake from the adrenalin. The finger that should be hitting delete or depressing the shift key, instead, is leaking autumn humors into the lap of my jeans. A police officer taps on my window.
My temperature is up and the nurse is offering me painkillers. Yes, please. She asks what I do for a living. She’s darkskinned, big freckles through all the tones of tan. I like her. Even as she stabs my arm, I wonder how old she is. She says something about finding a vein. Is she married? Takes another poke lower down my arm. Has a kid in high school. Finds it. Her daughter dated this kid I coached. I read her nametag and forget doing so. I like her. She doesn’t hurt at all.
The nurse takes a step back. Now, Dr. Mara tends to my finger. Sweet Dr. Mara. Her head seems a little large for her body, but she’s gorgeous. I won’t remember any particulars other than that. These drugs are great. Morphine Goggles.
She asks if I work where my hands are always wet. Tinea manuum. Who I’ve touched. Herpetic whitlow. Did I have a pet? Staphlyococcus Aureus. She’s putting together a patient history. Deductive reasoning. Embarrassed, almost, I tell her I bite my nails. Well used to. I just quit.
I babble on like I’m drunk, like I’ve been slipped a mickey, like I can’t feel any pain. “When I come back, we’re going to drain that finger,” says Dr. Mara.
“Wait wait” I say, and she turns, and I take a moment before I know what I’m going to say. “I forget.”
The human hand is not designed for efficient circulation. It’s built to grab and manipulate. Push and pull and touch and build. This dexterity has its tradeoffs. That’s why the hands are the first thing to go cold in the wintertime. High on nerves. Low on capillaries. As a counterpoint, look at the circulation in your head. The brain takes something like 40% of the oxygenated blood from the lungs. First dibs. Picture a small cut below your left eye. How it pours. How the iron oxide fills your nostrils so you’re tasting rust before anything red reaches your lips. How the blood clings to those tiny hairs on the cheek, like its scared of heights, reluctant to fall. Picture that same cut just below your fingernail. Picture yourself thinking nothing of it. Ouch, maybe, and then you continue on with your day.
But modern medicine teaches us this is wrong. Stop everything. Disinfect. Pictorial directives on how to wash your hands. Antibacterial soap. Flu shots. Gingko Biloba. Hydrogen Peroxide. Innoculating your kid with his best friend’s chicken pox. The invisible guiding our actions. Cell phone reception. Gravity. St. John’s Wort. Compound Interest. Love. Montezuma’s revenge. M.R.S.A. Mumps. Run and hide. The scarlet letter stood for adultery. See it stand for A.I.D.S. Google search “walls of Jerico.” Find What: Trumpet. Replace With: Vibrio cholerae. Wiki Samson. Read how he slew an entire army with his bare hands. Disregard the parts about his hair. Samson was a walking small pox blanket. A carrier who didn’t show signs of the disease. It had nothing to do with his hair. It’s all about bacteria. Faith in the invisible. Faith in the minute. Airborne toxic event. Divine and invisible wind.
So my hand becomes infected. So much depends on a red right pinky. Swollen, its some Dali representation of the phallic macabre. Then its white, the pus has encapsulated. Think a pimple. Think an individual cell of bubble wrapping. That’s encapsulation. The human body’s trench warfare solution to bacterial imperialism. We can’t push you out, but we’ll hold you fast. Keep the infection localized. Until something breaks. Until someone drops the mustard gas.
You know your trench has failed when the fever starts. The lymph nodes swell. Red streaks creep up one extremity and down the next. Like poison ivy. But in rows. Like sunburn through Venetian blinds. That’s an antibiotic resistant infection. Exactly. Burning. Look for shade.
And there’s the thirst. Look at your body like it’s a car. The faster you drive it, the more you need to gas it up. Running a temperature of 101 for a few hours, you’re sweating like you’re in a spinning class. That’s your body, revving and revving and revving. Pistons going a thousand miles a minute, even though the wheels aren’t turning. For a real high, try some ice-cold orange juice when your thermometer reaches 101.5. You’ll never taste anything better. Its like nitrous oxide, for the boost you feel. You’ll almost feel better, for a minute or two. Then, you get off the phone with the EMT, before you hit 102 Fahrenheit. Before you almost hit the Range Rover. Before you almost get a reckless driving ticket. Before you get the morphine. Before they start cutting into your hand. Before you know if the fever is ever going down.
Cutting. Bloodletting is how Thomas Jefferson dealt with infection. Modern medicine calls it Phlebotomy. Or that’s what the Internet says modern medicine calls is. Two burning pin pricks go by and my hand is numb like I’m scraping the windshield of frost. The morphine doing its thing, and still I feel every stroke from Sweet Mara’s disinfected steel. Too much college I guess. Tolerance has a way of overcoming adversity.
I turn my head. My toes shoot out past the end of the bed. I steel my nerves in the grip of the railing to my left, but still she’s at it.
“I thought we’d be able to just go above the cuticle. But it looks like we’re going to have to go under the nail as well.”
“Doctor…”
“Yes?”
“Will I ever hand model again.”
This time she knows I’m kidding and if I remember how she looks I’ll tell you how her teeth gleamed when she laughed.
I ask for something to bear down on when she goes at me again.
“Wait a second. You felt all that?”
I look at the blood and bile soaked gauze on the sheet on my lap and tell her no, not all of it. But enough that I want something to bite into. Something that’s not the inside of my cheek. “We’re not at the limit for the local anesthetic yet, I could give you more.”
“God bless opiate receptors,” I say. Mara looks at me cross-eyed. Asks me what I do for a living.
“I did a project on endorphins in 7th grade.”
She makes a small cut between my fingertip and the nail, and this time I watch. More gauze. Less pain.
But I’m okay now, and the nutritionist (hospital waitress dressed in organ grinder reds) asks if I’ve filled out my breakfast menu. The Salisbury steak is still on the tray, as was the roast beef before it, and the scallion quiche before that. The pudding bowl, I’ve licked clean for 5 straight meals. They make me pee in a Tupperware container designed for the purpose. Reading god knows what in the color and quantity.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask her, but I’m hoping she doesn’t look in the waters and see a brandy tinted version of herself before she drowns.
She hands me a mini golf nub of a pencil. I circle oatmeal. I circle banana. I circle orange juice but then cross it out and circle milk. I am just now realizing I have a choice in the food that I’ll not be able to eat. Its not that I am not hungry. I am starving, but still have some standards. I’ll pass on the government stroganoff and the Salisbury ration. Stick to staples. Grains, dairy, potassium. Not exactly a man’s first choice for his last meal. More like a man that will never bite into hospital quiche again. Oatmeal tastes bad no matter where you eat it.
Sweet Dr. Mara– with the Japanese cartoon eyes - turns to nurses with names like Dottie and Midge who turn to a doctor that small talks about “his boy scout troop” without mentioning “his kid.” Weird, right? Parents should attend every meeting with their sons. But that’s terrible, that this healer, this life long volunteer, has this stigma attached to his passions. It only takes one pedophile to ruin it for the rest of the bunch. It only takes one amoeba to ruin a Mexican vacation. That doesn’t make all amoebas bad. But we’re still going to use the bottled water to rinse after brushing.
Dr. Ameoba has his hand gloved in latex, and he’s trailed by two med students. I don’t know if I should call them doctor or not. Dr. Ameoba has his hand in my armpit, and he’s showing them how to prod me as hard as they can without rupturing their own protective handwear. I think about making a joke about condoms. But Chlamydia is no laughing matter, and the nutritionist is about to leave.
“Hey,” I tell her, “You forgot your pencil.”
“You keep it,” the nutritionist says, in a friendly tone but it comes out a little quick. Then I think about quarantines and plagues and containment. Then I try to remember the last person to shake my hand. The last person to contact me without barriers of gauze and rubber and plastic. I can’t recall. What I’m thinking though, is about that sheet the Hasids use to have sex with, the one with the glory hole in the middle. Never mind the Internet tells me this is an urban myth. And I look at the I.V. pumping me full of anticoagulants, antibiotics, and antiperspirants for all I know, and then I make the connection from the one to the other. I think about breaking the pencil but its too small and I can’t get any leverage so I just drop it to the floor.
I’m out of the hospital now, and at my cousin’s Christening. My hand is bandaged. I tell people it’s a basketball injury. I tell people it’s a car door injury. I tell people I can hold my breath forever, so in lieu of waterboarding, the government decided to rip out my fingernail. I change the subject.
Eight families are in the church waiting their turn to watch their infant join the church. They don’t baptize kids when they’re born anymore. Someone did away with Purgatory. Now, Baptisms are an event. People dress up. There are holy bibs involved, white pacifiers, cameramen and youTube videographers. Parents pass along children to grandparents pass along childrend to godparents pass along children to priests.
Words. Prayers. Invisible rites of unremembered passage.
Aspersion is the sprinkling of water on the head.
Affusion is the pouring of water over the head.
Immersion is sometimes submersion.
The kid doesn’t care. It cries or laughs or dirties another diaper. But back to the point.
All those people in the hospital scared to touch me. Scared to become infected. All for naught, by the way. They ran tests. Nothing out of the ordinary with my infection. It wasn’t Staph. Its wasn’t S.A.R.S or Polio. Mononucluosis, I’ve seen the top of that mountain.. It wasn’t polio. Nothing to write home about. Just bad luck. Some little bugs found a warm place to eat and reproduce. It just so happens that my finger was the ideal environment for the ceremony. The bacterial equivalent to a hotel bar.
I’m looking at these people kissing infants, dousing infants, passing infants, holding infants, and I’m making connections. Let’s face it. Little kids are not that interesting. They are all the same awkward body type. They have the same blue eyes. They can’t burp by themselves. They can’t use a toilet. They can’t hold up their end of the conversation. Some cry more than others. Everyone says they’re beautiful, whether or not that’s the case. They all need constant attention. Few of them respond well to shaking. In a lot of ways, they remind me of beauty contestants.
So why all the attention? Here’s the idea. You’ve made it this far, so you might as well stay for the punch line. It’s all about resistance. Viva la revolution. Our bodies are porous. We are vulnerable when we eat, breath, shit, sweat, and play at reproduction. The very act of survival is to invite the enemy. The enemy is microscopic. Before we had microscopes, we knew. We knew about sickness. Its been programmed into our genes, our heredity, our evolution. This is why people fawn over children. The idea is to get them sick early, and see what happens.
If they are exposed to a germ and survive, they are stronger for it. They build up antibodies. They learn to live. If they catch a bug that is too strong, too antagonistic… Well, they die. Its survival of the fittest, even if it sounds like “here, let me hold the baby.” Its too bad if the fever runs too high, but then those precious resources can be spent on making new children who will grow up to hunt the mastodon or lose their virginity on prom night. You’re welcome. It finally makes sense.
But that’s before discovery and subsequent misuse of penicillin. That’s before M.R.S.A. (the R stands the resistant…). That’s before we were able to magnify our scope to such an extent that an infected pinky is more than an infected pinky. Before we changed the bacterial rules of engagement. The people in the hospital, the ones that wouldn’t touch me, looked at me like I was a walking Petri dish. And they were right. When the guerillas have the nukes, no body is safe. Watch as the bacteria – in the arms race – keep stride for stride.
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Kondov reviewed Version 1 -
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Publishable – 10.. simply nothing more to add.. couldn’t take my eyes off it once I started reading.
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JenT reviewed Version 1 -
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I really liked this. The writing is tight, no wasted words, very few grammar errors. It also has a very “Fight Club” esque feel to it. Now, I have a box here for Non-Fiction ranking…but I have to say nothing about this strikes me as non-fiction. I’d love to read an entire novel written in this style, this voice.
KatieL reviewed Version 1 -
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This story flowed very well and kept me captivated.
There was one part that i didnt understand. “Halfway between hydroplane and flipped the fuck over.” That gave me the image that the car had flipped over… but i thought that couldn’t be right.
I epespecially like it how you backtrack to scences.
acdoyler reviewed Version 1 -
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I’m having to go back and re-read the first few paragraphs again, which is not good. Somehow you’ve forgotten to say what it is that’s wrong with you. ”... since the pain started…” is all we get. it’s not good to confuse a reader – holding back info. can be ok sometimes, but…your transitions are choppy too.
‘white blood cells jostling for a best seats.’ a’’ is either a typo or mistake
’...fever? You probably shouldn’t drive yourself.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know, Officer. Considering the circumstances, I think I handled that pretty well.”
I suppose this is a formatting issue? There’s no space, no indication in change of time or scene.
‘A middle-aged woman in a champagne colored tank in the far right parking lot of a lane, thinking over her options.’ This is one lone subject. Did you not want a predicate? i thought ‘champagne’ was a good choice.
‘didn’t want the yeast to glutton itself to death. Maybe she was drunk.’ two pretty good lines.
‘Hand over hand over hand, ten and two rotates counterclockwise.’ questionable line. i understand it but i think you could have done better.
‘autumn humors.’ unique, i’ll give you that. pretty good.
‘Now, Dr. Mara tends to my finger.’ don’t need ‘now’
‘Embarrassed, almost, I tell her’ don’t need comma after embarrassed, just almost
good paragraph about the hand and blood, but, as in the rest of your narrative, your style is chopped burger, rat a tattat. maybe that’s how you want it, but a little flow never hurt anyone. especially not my mind ear. anyhow…
‘Its like nitrous oxide, for the boost you feel.’ for? what for? keep the comma, zap the ‘for’
just because this actually happened i wouldn’t classify it as non-fiction. more like memior, or short story, or something. not non fiction. not this. and holding your breath doesn’t help when experiencing waterboarding. it just goes up your nose.
you’ve got an it’s without the apostrophe when talking about the baby
’ Watch as the bacteria – in the arms race – keep stride for stride.’ i think you meant to write ‘and’ instead of ‘in.’
not bad overall. just think what you could do with an amputated leg.
martykate reviewed Version 1 -
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I like the quote by Sun Tzu at the beginning—I think that yes and no it is appropriate to the story that follows, as I feel about your title “Conversion”, but this whole piece flows so smoothly. From the EMT call, to the “adventure” that lead to the police escort to the hospital, to the way you took medical terminology and made it metaphor. I wasn’t sure about the baptismal event endings, but in the end the analogy seemed appropriate.
In interest of making this short, let me say that this is the best piece I have ever read on URBIS! You classify this as non-fiction, and if this is the case, you have the stuff here for a movie—or at least a short. Almost flawless and I loved it.
Silence_Rains reviewed Version 1 -
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Fabulous!
”...Let’s face it. Little kids are not that interesting. They are all the same awkward body type. They have the same blue eyes. They can’t burp by themselves. They can’t use a toilet. They can’t hold up their end of the conversation. Some cry more than others. Everyone says they’re beautiful, whether or not that’s the case. They all need constant attention. Few of them respond well to shaking…”
The above has got to be my favorite line by far, especially the last sentence. I have a sick sense of humor though, so I couldn’t help but laugh about it.
I am also quite amused by the randomness; the sequences in which things come… However, I know a lot of people who are not a fan of that style of writing. It moves very quickly and becomes jumbled and has an almost ADHD quality to it. I like it a lot, but just pay attention to who the message is going to, not who it’s coming from.
Overall, you did awesome!
mrkawaiipenguin reviewed Version 1 -
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Unfortunately, I am also a nail biter. However, that fact has never lead to someone wanting to know more about me. Your quote about “The Art of War” might get people to want to read more about that book but your own first line needs to be strong enough to draw people in.
When you say that “tendency to overcome adversity”, I don’t think adversity is the right word. Adversity is defined as a misfortune. The misfortune is yours not the oral fixation’s.
When your character starts asking about lancing, I’m lost. I don’t know what needs to be lanced. You haven’t talked about anything like that. All I know is that his gum’s were bleeding and that he can’t stop biting his nails.
I don’t know what kind of crazy world you character lives in but when you introduce the EMT telling him to straight razor his own hand… I don’t think you’ve set any reader for what’s happening.
You’ve also mentioned a police officer but didn’t address what happened. It was fine until then but before then he’s draining the puss from his hand with a razor? I mean, that’s not a normal part of my day to say the least and it doesn’t seem like a normal day to what you’ve told me about the character.
Is his EMT friend retarded? Who advises someone to cut open his own hand? Especially an EMT. You’ve taken the suspense of disbelief and tossed it out the window. At this point, I wouldn’t doubt the possibility of a pink elephant flying in the room.
The lack of a break between the conversation with the EMT to the officer throws the reader off. I thought suddenly he was an officer. There’s no indication of time passing there or after the officer asks him what he does for a living.
“in my right” is redundant. We already know your right hand is the mirror image of his left.
The second usage of “Compared to the control group” is implied already.
You might want to start by reading this to someone else. If they can’t understand it you might want to rewrite those parts. By not even 30% into the piece it’s become unreadable. Without any notes to the reviewer I can’t tell what you’d like improved.
Hailie_L_Love reviewed Version 1 -
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its way good (although I don’t aproove of the swearing) but other than that its good. the only thing I don’t like is there isn’t enough information like what do the people look like? what is there environment?
alleniverson reviewed Version 1 -
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i think the ending doesn’t concur with the rest of the piece. stay in the hospital.
groundscore reviewed Version 1 -
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I enjoyed your style of writing. Thank God it was about something other than a civil-servant-type! I hate that. I was most impressed that it was original in its flow. I will also say that it was well researched too. Do you have more?
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