Page 49 of The Alibi Club

Rick powered up his phone and looked down at the screen. Lorna strategically placed herself alongside the nurses’ station counter, just over his shoulder, so she could see for herself. Rick had exactly two text messages, one from his telecom company telling him he was due for a phone upgrade and the other from Woolrich announcing a new $440 sweatshirt coming out next month. He checked his missed calls. Then his messages. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

He frowned. Lorna looked away, not wanting to be a witness to this pitiful display. Then a delightful ping of a text came in. He brightened. “And so it begins.”

Lorna saw that it was from someone named Sienna.

Hey Sorry Rick but I have to cancel tonight. I have a thing.

She ended the text with a little video of a cartoon cat holding a sign that said “SORRY!”

He frowned again and put his phone down. He turned his attention back to the nurse. “Has anyone come to see me while I’ve been here?”

The nurse was busy filling out forms but paused and said, “I can check.” She walked toward the nurses’ station.

He looked up at Lorna. “I go out of town a lot, so people think I’m always gone.”

Lorna nodded and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Right.”

The nurse came back and said, “Good news. You did have a visitor. It was Dana Rice, the owner of the restaurant whose railing you hit. He was concerned.”

Rick sat perplexed in his wheelchair. He texted someone named Miles Angelo. His business partner, Lorna assumed.

Yo. Dude. I’m in the hospital.

No response. He texted Sienna the same message.

Nothing.

Rick angrily sent out several more texts to friends, coworkers, even a distant aunt who lived in Petaluma. Lorna took out some mints and popped two in her mouth, trying to figure out how to extricate herself from this embarrassing, sad situation. It was like watching a slow-moving train wreck. She couldn’t look away.

Finally, a text came in from Miles.

What happened, cowboy? Hey, where is that Google doc you created for the toothpaste pitch? I need it.

Outwardly incensed by his partner’s lack of empathy, he sniffed and sent another text. This one all caps.

CAN YOU PICK ME UP FROM THE HOSPITAL? I’M BEING RELEASED.

It took a few minutes before Rick got a reply from Miles.

Whoa! Can’t wait to hear that story. No can do, buddy. I’m in Pitch Mode! I’ll tell my assistant to send a car.

“What an asshole,” Rick muttered to himself.

The nurse handed him the release form to sign. He grabbed it, nearly crumpling it, and rushed a signature.

Lorna looked wearily toward the exit.

The nurse said, “Sir, I can’t allow you to leave without a ride.”

Rick sat in his wheelchair fuming, his finger hovering over the Uber app. He looked up at Lorna, who was giving him a pitying look.

He began incessantly checking his phone for a return text. Lorna sensed that his anger was morphing into something exponentially worse than anger: perhaps a deep unrelenting chord of fear.

As if offering an explanation for his inability to locate anyone who cared enough to pick him up, he looked up at Lorna and said, “This is an anomaly. My life is full. I swear. I have great friends, surrounded by gorgeous women, even my clients love me…” he trailed off.

“Yes, of course.”

“I mean, I don’t have a wife. Or kids. Or even a dog. But I own a stylish, midcentury modern home with a hot tub in a highly sought-after area of Manhattan Beach. Paid in cash. I’ve been to all seven continents. People love me at parties,” he said, clearly grasping at trying to find the things that made his own life more meaningful and finally ended his list with, “and I have good hair.”