ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE (Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)

(Hey, I had to show you how he ended up in the hospital, didn't I?)


ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE
(Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)



I suppose it’s a good thing that we’re trying to get along with them. It’s certainly not fair to deny them anything just because of where they’re from. They should be able to use the pool at the hotel, of course. If everyone else gets out of the pool when one gets in, that can’t be helped. You can’t control everybody, now can you?

But let’s face it – if given a choice, would you share a hospital room with one?

We have one TV between us. True, we each have a remote. But it doesn’t matter which button I push, when he can just flick out one of those tentacles of his, without getting out of bed, and change the channel back. So he picks all the programs. Ten hours a day of nature shows about squids and octopi gets old fast, let me tell you – and what do I care how homesick he is for a world where everyone has tentacles?

And the first time the doc needed to check his private parts, what does he do -- have the doc just drag the curtain around, like anyone else would? Oh no, he has to eject this cloud of noxious-smelling black fumes for camouflage! The staff were quick to point out that it’s harmless, that it doesn’t pollute the air anymore than an octopus pollutes the water with its ink. But they don’t have to lie here and smell it all afternoon. I don’t care how much Glade the nurses spray in here, I can still smell it. And I don’t care if he just did it by instinct – what it means to me is that in here, it stinks.

Then his squeeze comes to visit him, and they do pull the curtain around. If I wasn’t hooked up to all these tubes, I woulda been outta here. I know they were just kissing hello, but I never heard such a disgusting sound of slurping and gurgling and smacking in all my life. And the flashing red lights! You’d think he just pulled in his own private ambulance over there!

I used to be a lot more liberal, but now that I’ve had to live with this for five days, I think we need to ship them all back to Venus where they came from.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)

SUPPORT

You sit with me before my surgery
And stroke my hand, and softly lend support;
Awhile without a word, yet you report
A wealth of subtle sentiments to me.
The nurse pops in, and says that the I.V.
May pinch me; I don’t let my face contort,
Wanting to seem brave and polite. We court
The best blood pressure with infused tranquility.

It’s time to go. The doctor shakes your hand
As if we’re at a sports event. I say
“I love you,” as you do, with confidence.

They wheel me off. Though I wear no gold band,
I feel your presence near me when I fade.
I’ll wake wrapped in your silent eloquence.

(C) 2005 by Jack Veasey


This poem appeared previously in Wild Onions XIX.

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any manner without the author's written permission.

Wild Onions, by the way, is the literary magazine of Hershey Medical Center -- where I underwent this surgery.