evaluation and management of traumatic brain injuries

[excerpt from rough cut of: drawing pictures of birds]

Jude buses tables and washes dishes at the local twenty-four hour diner. It’s one of those places where the plates are so thick it takes both hands just to lift one of them, and the coffee is perpetually burned from spending long hours cooking on the warmers. In a place like this, a city that turns into a virtual ghost town after dark, a restaurant that is not only open but survey leathery, over-fried omelets at three in the morning, draws all kinds. In my mind, the idea of spending eight hours a day chipping at dense layers of melted cheese sounds about as appealing as sawing off my leg with a steak knife. Jude doesn’t seem to mind so much.

“The best part is cleaning out the booths,” he says. “Usually its just some spare change or whatever.” Huddled in the diner’s concrete block of a bathroom, Jude takes a hit off the joint we’re sharing and reaches past me to push open the small, chicken-wire-laced window. “But sometimes,” he says through an exhale of smoke, “Sometimes you’re lucky and what gets left behind is a folded up to-do list or a photograph or a grocery receipt.”

Perched on the sink, I shift my weight awkwardly to keep the cast iron edge from cutting off circulation to my legs. It might not be much, but getting high in a cramped bathroom beats sitting home, listening for ghosts. Hands down. I take a hit and pass the blunt back to Jude. It slips and lands in thick, yellow toilet water.

“Aye, dios mio!” He cups his hands to his mouth, filling the space between them with the warmth of his breath. “I can’t feel my goddamn fingers.”

I smile, watching it float like a leaf in the ripples.
The death of a perfectly good roach.

Outside metal grinds against metal as the back door swings open and then there is the hiss of steam as someone dumps a bucket of hot mop water onto the frozen pavement. I check my watch. Another two minutes until Jude is due back from his break. He unwinds himself cautiously from his entanglement around the dirty toilet and squeezes himself into the tight space next to me at the sink.

“I’m not moving,” I tell him.

“It’s not like there’s exactly anywhere else for you to move to,” Jude says and laughs, leaning in to examine the roots of his dark hair in the clouded mirror. He squints as though he’s trying to find something, anything recognizable in his reflection. Dilated pupils in weak afternoon light makes his eyes into thin black crescents as he takes a step back to get a better look. He runs into the toilet.

“I swear,” he says, shaking his head, “Every couple years or so I wake up and I’m this completely different person. I think it happens while I’m sleeping.”