I have the same manic bus driver as I had on Monday. “Not running late today!” he says triumphantly.
I’m the only one in the waiting room, and I don’t have to wait long until Shelley greets me. “Oh good, you’re early. I need to get out of there and help my little monsters get dressed for trick or treating.”
“ Where’s your costume? I thought everyone was supposed to dress up today.” The only person in costume is Vicki, in tie dye and fringed leather boots.
Though I see Sjon in the background, I’m relieved that Shelley is instead joined by Aaron. They don’t ask any of the usual questions, Aaron cuts the cast and Shelley sits at the computer, not typing anything. The inside of the cast has gotten wet, but just in the heel. “Don’t hesitate to come in if this gets wet,” he says. “It can really make things get bad really quickly.” I tell him I hadn’t realized it had gotten wet; I’ve been keeping it wrapped up in a bag now that the rainy season is upon us. But he says the wound itself looks smaller, though he doesn’t bother measuring it. There’s a small amount of drainage, which means I should be able to go back to once a week visits after next week, provided it doesn’t get worse over the weekend.
Dr. Bayliss appears, dressed as a blue shark, complete with a floppy dorsal fin. “I wear this every year,” she says. I tell her I’m having flashbacks to all the shark movies Sally made me watch in the chamber. She swims off to let Aaron prepare for the cast. As always he is speedy but methodical, at times asking Shelley for her advice, to make her feel important, I assume. She is so sedate and pleasant I wonder if she’s medicated, but then she says she had too much candy and is crashing after the afternoon’s sugar high.
Jenny pokes her head in to say hi, then Dr. Shark returns to put on the cast, a yellow paper gown over her costume. The cast doesn’t go on smoothly, and Shelley ends up doing a lot of it, four blue gloved hands frantically rubbing my leg at once. They end up putting on an extra roll of Fiberglas. “Well, guess I won’t be taking my pants off this weekend,” I say.
“Hey, do you want a job?” Jenny asks as Shelley puts my shoes on. I always tell her I can do it myself and she always insists. “We’re hiring someone for the reception desk.”
“Oh no, is Perez leaving?” I ask.
“No, her job’s just… changing a bit. You’d basically be answering phones and doing scheduling.”
“He doesn’t want to work forty hours a week,” says Shelley.
“I already work forty hours a week,” I say.
“You could get free wound care,” says Jenny.
“Throw in a few free sessions in the chamber and you’ve got a deal,” I say.
Although it’s a gloppy, chilly night, I feel don’t feel like spending yet another night at home alone, so I wrap my cast in plastic and venture down to the Goose. It’s raining lightly and the chilly air is refreshing. At the corner of 16th and Clay I see a car approach the intersection. They have a stop sign, so when I see that they’re slowing down, I cautiously start to cross. They don’t stop, and slam on the brakes and avoid running me over by less than a foot. I stand there and stare at the driver for a moment, though I can’t see them, then continue to hobble across. This is why I don’t go out at night much anymore.
The Goose is full of costumed revelers, and I take my usual seat on the deck and hope that one of the servers notices me through the crowd. Rachel Clark herself does. Bud Clark’s only daughter (he has two sons), Rachel has run the place for years. Since he died, she hasn’t changed a thing. She comes over to ask if I need anything. She’s dressed as a witch, and is clearly enjoying herself. “Thanks for being here!” she says warmly.
My Pendleton tastes particularly good tonight; just the right balance of sharp and sweet. Everyone is talking so loud I can’t make anything out. Rachel herds everyone in a line for the costume contest. I can make out a blurry farmer, a blurry Batman, a hot dog, an astronaut, a goose.
When all the contestants have filed inside, it’s a lot quieter out on the deck. Rachel pops her head out for a moment to ask if I want to vote. I say no thanks.
Michael Jackson’s Thriller blasts over the speakers, followed by the time warp and the monster mash, all as inevitable as baby it’s cold outside and Feliz Navidad will be a month from now. This is my beef with Halloween: like anything that gets too popular, it has become precictable. I'm bored of the tired tropes, the same skeletons and tombstones in every yard.
Every time the door opens I smell warm pastrami as another best Reuben on the planet is birthed. the ghost of bud Clark drifts among his guests, not unhappy in the afterlife but wishing he could still taste the beer. I wouldn’t be here now if he hadn’t created this sanctuary, this haven in the hollow. I wouldn’t be sitting on the edge of this deck, watching a hot dog hit on Cruella DeVille. As always, I remain apart from the action, Invisible as a spirit. What kind of life is this anyways, this life spent observing rather than living, this life I’ve chosen?
Rachel rides her broomstick into the dark and is replaced by a new server I’ve never seen before. She’s young and seems to know everyone. she doesn’t look my way or come near enough for me to ask her for another drink. After a while I finally haul myself up and go inside.
Cobwebs and skeletons are everywhere. Moe is behind the bar.
“Hey seann, what can I get ya?” she asks in her gritty voice.
“Pendleton neat, then close me out. And I had one other one.”
“Where were you sitting?”
I point to my usual spot. Moe checks the ordering screen and says she doesn’t see anything. Rachel never charged me for my drink. I could have dissipated like a spirit into the night and no one would have noticed.
