Page 7 of Lost Souls

“LOVE?” exclaims Arnie, at some volume and with a degree of saliva expulsion that makes both his wife and his nurse recoil. “What iswrongwith you?” He enlists the poor medical attendant into his diatribe. “Can you believe this, sweetheart? I know you wouldn’t think it now, with more structural work to her name than the Statue of Liberty, but in her prime, this woman was God’s gift to erotica aficionados in fifty states and Canada. She won the National Erotic Cinema Award for Best Three-Way four years running. Now she says she has found true love!”

“A life to be envied,” says the nurse, checking his oxygen levels.

“Yeah. Right. I know from love, Sister. Love is for wimps.”

“Okay, I was hoping we could do this painlessly,” persists Melisande. “A simple service. Snappy cremation. Tear-free mascara and a short probate. But I see that’s not in the cards. Although…” She turns to the nurse. “What’s the hospital’s policy on pulling the plug?”

“Fine,” says Arnie, gathering strength before the nurse can respond. “You wanna battle? You got it! I will skin you alive. I will leave you poverty-stricken and hopeless, like you were when I picked you up outta the gutter. I’ll…melt your silicone!”

His brows begin to knit as he winces in obvious pain. The nurse appears concerned, but Melisande just goads him along.

“Dream on, pornmeister. Good, good. Tell me more!”

“Begging for your next meal, selling that pathetic re-tread of a body to whoever has the small change to pay for it and eyesight bad enough to enjoy it.”

“Arnie. Bubeleh,” she says, sweetly. “You don’t have the balls.”

“No? Ask Cleo. I got botchie balls.” He nods towards the nurse. “Ask this lady. I got balls you could bowl with. I got balls so big that—” He suddenly falls back onto the bed, groaning and quivering, his eyes firmly closed. The nurse rushes towards him.

“Is he dead?” asks Melisande, solicitously. “Tell me quick. I can still catch the lawyers.”

The nurse checks Arnie’s pulse then nods sadly. “He’s dead.”

Melisande pumps her fists, then notices that the nurse is checking again.

“No, wait. Yes. He still has a pulse. It’s a miracle.”

“Well, praise the fucking Lord!”

“Ma’am, please watch your mouth. Mr Garth shouldn’t be disturbed. He’s had a life-threatening event.”

“Not life-threatening enough. Call yourself a carer?” Melisande makes for the door. “This ain’t over until the short, balding pornographer croaks!”

As the door closes, the relieved nurse makes a final check, then gently raises the sheet and looks downwards.

Arnie’s eyes pop open. “What?”

“Just checking for… bedsores.”

“Go away.”

As the exasperated woman stomps off, Arnie sighs and slowly covers his face with the sheet.

And this is where I come in.

Not that I haven’t been here all the time. Perish the thought. I’m kind of what you might call quietly ubiquitous. But this time I get a speaking part.

“Things not looking so rosy on the longevity front, huh brother?” I say, by way of an icebreaker.

Very slowly, Arnie lowers the sheet. What he sees, sitting casually on that chair right next to his hospital bed, is an incredibly handsome and impossibly muscular young man, with dark wavy locks, a gleaming Mediterranean tan and the brazen look of a Greek god. Or, to put it another way, an absolutely premium blend of Gregory Peck, Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt.

I’m lying, I’m lying!

What our ailing Mr Garth actually notices, somewhat to his surprise, is a pale, rather gaunt fellow, in his late middle-age and, if I’m being brutally honest, maybe a tad on the nondescript side. Yet, even though I say it myself, this is at the very least an extremely clean and reasonably well-turned-out gentleman, in a decent lightweight business suit, with attractively greying hair on some, if not all, of his head and a neat, well-trimmed, salt ’n’ pepper moustache.

Needless to say, the patient isn’t thrilled to see me. They seldom are.

“Who the hell are you?Where d’you come from? How did you get in?”