“How lucky can one guy be? I kissed her and she kissed me. Like da fella once said, ‘Ain’t that a kick in the head?’”
Frank Corrigan sang the lyrics from one corner of his mouth while the other pinched a cigarette into place. His gloved finger dug into the stomach cavity of the patient. Corrigan preferred not to know their names. It made it easier to process the unfortunate outcomes.
“The room was completely black. I hugged her and she hugged back. Like the sailor said, quote, ‘Ain’t that a hole in the boat?’”
The song began to skip. Corrigan held his hands steady. “Can someone get that, please?”
Two nurses exchanged glances. One of them skittered toward the turntable. The record scratched. The cigarette spilled from Corrigan’s lips, bounced off the patient’s right arm, and flipped toward the floor. Corrigan stomped his foot onto it without looking down.
“Start it again,” Corrigan said, eyes fixed on the five-inch hole that contained the inflamed appendix. The nurse fumbled with the thin, wobbly arm, leaning forward to put the needle on the edge of the seven-inch vinyl disc.
“Start it again!”
The music began. Corrigan’s face softened. He belted the words while slicing away the infected organ.
“My head keeps spinnin’. I go to sleep and keep grinnin’. If this is just the beginnin’.”
Corrigan held up the appendix and smiled at it. “My life is gonna be bee-eau-ti-ful.”
He wrapped his fingers around it and tossed it away.
“Sew this bastard up,” Corrigan said. He fished a fresh cigarette from the pack he kept in his pocket and lit it.
One of the nurses whispered, “Doctor, it’s a she.”
“Then sew her up. When she wakes up, tell her it’ll be a good idea to switch to a one-piece.”
***
Corrigan leaned against a wall in the hallway outside the operating room. He smoked a cigarette while humming the song. A nurse approached him from the nearby station, holding a pink square.
“When’s the next one?” he said, taking another long drag.
“Twenty minutes.”
“What am I doing to this one?”
“Exploratory laparotomy, I think.”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you like a good mystery?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Did you not hear me?”
“I did, I just—”
“I don’t. I like to know what I’m doing. I don’t like going on a wild goose chase inside someone’s guts.”
The nurse looked down at the pink square. “Someone has to do it, I suppose.”
“Thank you. I still don’t like it.”
She held the sheet toward him. “Your wife called. She left a list for the grocery store.”
Corrigan snatched it and studied the items. “From the saving of lives to the fetching of food,” he said. “Just like that.”
“Does she know how talented you are?”
Corrigan crumpled the note. “She knows. I don’t think she cares very much, but she knows.”
He flipped the pink ball back to the nurse. “Don’t you need this?” she said.
“My talents include reading a grocery list one time and remembering it.”
* * *
A cigarette drooped from the middle of Corrigan’s mouth as he pushed a cart with both hands. He frowned at the song that started to play over the speakers in the grocery store.
“Instant karma’s gonna get you. Gonna knock you right in the head. You better get yourself together. Pretty soon you’re gonna be dead.”
Corrigan went up and down the aisles, plucking the items, holding them before his glasses, dropping them in with the rest. After he plucked the box of Rigatoni, he rolled the cart to the front of the store. He flicked the spent cigarette away.
He lifted the items and handed them to the cashier. She punched the price of each one into the register. After he gave her the last one, she smiled.
“Find everything you’re looking for?”
He popped a fresh cigarette into his mouth. “That’s rather existential.”
“It’s what?”
He lit the cigarette. “I have what I need.”
* * *
Corrigan steered the thin wheel of his red Alfa-Romeo with his left hand while working the stick with his right. He regretted getting a convertible. Even with the top up, it was too cold to drive it in the winter. Another cigarette dangled, flopping with each shift of the gears. A news update played on the radio station.
“And finally in sports today, the local pro team has selected Louisiana Tech quarterback Terry Bradshaw with the first pick in the draft. They earned dibs the hard way, losing thirteen of fourteen games last season.”
Corrigan shook his head. “Louisiana Tech? My God, they’ll always stink.”
Sinatra’s My Way began to play as Corrigan slowed the car into the driveway.
He looked at the house. A light fixture over the door cast the porch in a rich glow. He could see the flashes from the TV coming through the curtains of the front window.
They’d lived there for five years. The place was big enough. It wasn’t nice enough, not for how well he was now doing.
Corrigan turned the key and killed the engine. The tip of the cigarette glowed in the darkness. He considered the porch again. Yes, he knew it was time to upgrade.
He opened the car door. His left foot landed in a pile of melting snow at the edge of the cracked concrete. He shook the slush away from his shoe. A cloud of breath mixed with the smoke rising from his cigarette.
He closed the door and started for the back of the car. He held the key for the trunk. A flash of blue lightning made him flinch. His head jerked toward the sky, sending a piece of ash flying away from the cigarette.
He saw only stars, along with a thin fingernail of moon. He looked for clouds. There were none.
When he turned back to the car, it was gone.