Who's a Good Boy...?

My mouth was dry.

That was the first thing I remember.

My mouth was dry in the same way that mud is sticky:  everything from my lips to the back of my throat was stuck together with a kind of vacuum-packed glue that made the parts seem impossible to separate.

It got so bad I gave up on the mouth and started working on the eyes:  had to get them open.

Where was the dog?

I tried to call for him, but I couldn't make my mouth work.  I tried to look for him, but I couldn't make my eyes work.

The washcloth-thick hospital blanket felt like a wonderful eiderdown comforter whose warmth radiated through my body like a cat resting on my belly.

The exposed flesh of my arms and face felt cold by comparison.

It would be safer under the blanket.  I needed to stay under the blanket.

The strain of trying to wake up was making me sleepy.

I could only hope that we had trained each other well enough so that he would be there when I woke up again.

Who's a good boy...?

Another time I tried to wake up was when they brought in a tray.  It might have been food, it might have been surgical instruments, I couldn't tell the difference.

I could see, but I couldn't tell the difference.

I tried again to ask about my dog, but could not pry my lips apart.

"Do you want a popsicle?  I bet you want a popsicle....  What flavor...?  Do you like grape?  I bet you like grape.  Everybody likes grape....  I'll be back in a minute."

You stop me in the street and ask, I'm going to tell you that I fuckin' hate popsicles, but when she came back with that no-name-too-long-in-the-freezer-so-that-the-paper-sticks-to-the-frozen-kool-aid treasure, I was ecstatic.

What was this stuff they were pumping into me?

The popsicle was making me cold and so I had to keep putting it down to pull up my blanket.  I was toasty warm and freezing cold at the same time and the thermal confusion was making me sleepy again.

The last time I woke up I remember it seemed like it was in the middle of the night.  I only knew that because it was a little bit darker and a tiny bit quieter.

I didn't want to open my eyes.  I was savoring the momentary peace in the limbo that comes after sleep and before your feet hit the floor.

Something squirmed on what sounded like a vynil-covered chair.

Was there a chair?  I didn't remember a chair.

"You can cut the shit, I know you can hear me."

If I didn't know better, I could have sworn I knew that voice.

"Willy!"  

There was a stabbing quality to his stage whisper that seemed to obliterate all pretense.  I think I may have even flinched.

"Jee-zuss Christ, Willy, we don't have much time."

It couldn't be Phelps, he was dead.

But I had to look, just to satisfy myself, just so I could go back to sleep.

I forced my eyes open and then, when I saw him, I couldn't stop them from opening.

"Ji--?"

"Shut up," he said.

"Listen," he said.  "We don't have a lot of time.  The docs are going to be here later this morning and it's important they buy-in to your legend."

Legend?  

I was having trouble organizing my thoughts.  What was the play?  Who was the mark?  What was the game?

"Look," said Phelps.  "I know you got questions, but there simply isn't time.  You're the rope on this one.  Cinnamon is the Inside and Rollin is working it from the other end.  All you got to do is make sure they buy your act."

"Act?"

"Just tell them what you saw and what you think you saw and that will be more than enough."

I could tell from his tone that Phelps was getting impatient.  His eyes kept looking past me toward what I assumed was the door.

"Dog?" 

Complex sentences seemed out of my reach.

"Don't worry," said Phelps.  "He's wrapped up and happy.  You just keep your head in the game."

Game?

I didn't have time to ask, because he was out of there like a shot.

Why couldn't I remember the play?

I was awake now.

I had to get out of this bed.