Prick Van WinkleChapter 11
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Forty-five minutes after they left Gus and Margie, Betty dropped Bob off at the entrance to the hospital and said she'd be in after she parked. He walked up to the doors, looking for a handle, when the door suddenly moved by itself, sliding aside for him. He looked at it curiously and it started to close while he was still in the doorway. He jumped inside and stared as the door opened again. Shaking his head he went to the information desk, where he explained that the doctor who had treated him had asked him to come back for a follow-up examination. She took his name and her fingers flickered across her computer keyboard.
"We don't do that here," said the woman smugly.
"I don't understand," said Bob.
"You had routine emergency room treatment. Follow-ups are supposed to be done by your own doctor." she said firmly.
"But he told me to come back," said Bob helplessly.
"I don't know about that," said the woman, making it obvious she doubted the doctor had actually said that, "but Doctor Adams is a very busy man. You need to go see your regular doctor."
"I don't have a regular doctor," said Bob. "Doctor Adams is the first doctor I've had in fifty years."
The woman looked at him strangely.
"Am I being punked?" she asked, beginning to get excited. "That's it, isn't it?" She looked around wildly. "Where are the cameras? I'm being punked aren't I?!" She began patting her hairdo.
"Ma'am," said Bob, confused, "I certainly didn't call you a punk. I'm just here to see the doctor, because he told me to come back."
When the woman realized she wasn't going to be on television, her mood changed back to that of a dour bureaucrat.
"I already told you that's impossible. Do I need to call security?"
Bob's hands were out palms toward her instantly. "No!" he almost shouted. "You do not need security. I'll leave!"
He turned about and fled as the woman picked up her phone anyway. As he ran toward the door he heard her say "Security?" Remembering that the door would open for him, he didn't slow.
Except that the door didn't exactly open for him. He was looking over his shoulder and, in fact, it started to open, but he was moving much too fast. Just as he faced front again, he slammed into the door, hitting the edge of it with his face and sternum. Bob bounced off and sat down hard, his chest muscles paralyzed by the blow to his xiphoid process. The door, designed to be pushed open in emergencies or power failures, attempted to swing out, but it was a foot along on its sliding track and jammed instead. An alarm went off. Bob, unable to breathe, looked around frantically. Two people outside were standing and staring at him as if he were some madman. He saw Betty's shocked face behind them as she ran toward him. He got in a little piece of breath, that just taunted him, letting him know there was a world full of oxygen out there, but he could only access the barest sniff of it. He wavered drunkenly as he tried to get to his knees and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He looked up to see a security guard and immediately crumpled into a fetal position, his hands covering his face.
Bob was in a dreamland for a few seconds. His hands had covered his face automatically, thanks to the last incident he'd had with a security guard. While he couldn't see anything, he could hear Betty's frantic screams, which set off a couple of other women who screamed in sympathy with her, apparently. The security guard was shouting too, attempting to restore order, and the door alarm beeped insistently. The babble of voices and sounds overwhelmed Bob and his hands moved from his eyes to his ears as his lungs were finally able to drag in a complete breath. He concentrated on breathing for five more breaths until he was convinced he could breathe again without thinking about it.
"He's bleeding, you bastard!" Betty's voice broke through to his conscious mind and he opened his eyes. Through one of them the world looked fuzzy and red. He looked at his hands and saw they were bloody. He tried to wipe his bloody eye and hands stopped him.
"Relax sir." came a deep male voice. "Help is on the way."
"I don't need help." he croaked. "I just need to get out of here."
"You're not going anywhere, sir," said the voice. "You people back off. Give this man room to breathe. Ma'am, calm down, he'll be taken care of in a few minutes."
"Let me through, dammit!" screeched Betty. "That's my father!"
By now a crowd had gathered, mostly gawkers, trying to see what the fuss was about. Comments began to fly ... things like "Did she say father?" ... and "Sounds like she's the one who needs treatment." Then one enterprising person said "Hey, he looks like that guy they've had on TV ... you know, the one who slept for fifty years ... that Rip Van Winkle guy?" That, plus Betty's rash statement about Bob being her father broke the dam and soon there was almost a riot as people babbled and pushed to get a better look at Bob. The security guard tried to push them back and then grabbed for the radio at his waist, talking into it urgently.
It took only four and a half more minutes and five more security guards to get Bob out of the foyer of the hospital and into a room they could secure. It seemed to Bob like it was an hour. Everyone else, including Betty, was denied entry. Tearfully she tried to explain, but she was mobbed by the ... well ... mob. Bob found himself facing three security guards, while the other two stood outside the door trying to restore order.
"My daughter's out there," said Bob, holding a hand to his bleeding forehead. "Would somebody get her please?"
It took him two more minutes to convince the three men that he was telling the truth. Since they didn't know what else to do anyway, they left one man with Bob and the other two went outside. A few more minutes passed in tense silence until Betty was brought through the door. Her dress was torn halfway open, three buttons missing, and her ample breasts were almost on full display. Her hair was a mess and she was still crying. When she saw Bob she almost attacked him and two security guards started to pull her off of him when he batted at their hands and said it was all right.
Bureaucracy being what it is, it took another half hour before things got straightened out. Doctor Adams appeared and began barking orders as if he were a king, rather than one of a hundred doctors at the hospital. His word appeared to be law, though, and soon Bob was in a treatment room.
"I'm so sorry about this," said Adams, as he cleaned Bob's split forehead.
Bob explained what had happened and Adams growled.
"All she had to do was call me and I'd have explained." he said.
"I just didn't want any trouble," said Bob.
"I'd hate to see what happened if you did want trouble." snorted Adams. "I'm going to put a couple of staples in this." he said, inspecting the wound.
"Staples?" responded Bob incredulously. "Doc, I'm really sorry I caused so much trouble, but come on... staples?"
Doctor Adams looked confused and then stepped back and chuckled.
"Mr. Winkle, these are medical staples. They've replaced sutures in certain situations. It makes the wound heal with less scarring and they're a snap to take out once healing is well along. I'm not torturing you.
Bob sighed and relaxed. "Staples!" he muttered. "Maybe I should have just stayed asleep."
Doctor Adams looked thoughtful for a few seconds. "Look, I know this is the wrong time to talk about this, but the reason I wanted to see you again wasn't actually about the pepper spray. I mean I'm interested in that too, but the real reason is that you need to be studied."
Bob held up his hands. "No." he said firmly. "I do not need to be studied. I know what happened to me is strange and all that, but I'll not become some guinea pig for the medical establishment."
Adams crossed his arms. Then he unfolded them and ticked off his fingers as he talked. "First, you slept longer than any human known to science. Second, it wasn't a coma - your initial examinations showed that. I looked them up. Third, you suffered no ill effects to your musculature, which every bedridden patient in all of history has suffered. Fourth, you did not age, mister Winkle. You didn't age one minute. All your tests, your appearance, your biology - all those things suggest you are exactly what you appear to be, a twenty-five year old male. But you're not, mister Winkle. You're a seventy-five year old male in a twenty-five year old body. And last, you survived those entire fifty years without a feeding tube. You had no food or water for fifty years!, and yet you survived in perfect health. Mister Winkle, this is bigger than penicillin. This is bigger than the polio vaccine. Mr. Winkle, you very well could be the eighth wonder of the fricking world!"
He stopped for a dramatic pause, and then went on.
"You don't have to let anybody do anything, but I wouldn't be surprised if the fricking government decides you're a matter of national fricking security and locks you up if you don't! Please! I'm not trying to threaten you. All I want you to do is enter into a formal agreement with me to let me do some research. We'll listen to your demands, and try to do this with as little upset to your life as possible. But you have to understand that somebody is going to look into this. Wouldn't you rather it be someone you already know? Please?"
Bob stared at the man.
"Could the Government really lock me up?" he asked.
"This is America," sighed the doctor. "The Government seems to do pretty much whatever it feels is necessary, whether people get hurt or not."
"That's not the Government I remember," said Bob. "Well, except for World War two ... and Korea. But that was different. We needed to do those things."
"I haven't the faintest idea whether studying you will result in new cures to old problems or not," said Adams. "But I know that somebody will think that you have the answer to aging, or some other problem we've been trying to deal with, and they'll do whatever it takes to get access to you. I mean look at the mob we just got you out of, and all THEY were, were curiosity seekers. Look what they did to your daughter, for pity's sake."
"And if I sign some kind of agreement with you then the rest will leave me alone?" asked Bob.
Doctor Adams' face went tight. "I won't lie to you. I can't promise that. But if you enter into an agreement with me, then at least we can fight in court to keep others away from you. And that I can promise. This is a teaching hospital, and you, sir, are a coup - I won't lie to you about that either. Our lawyers will defy hell itself to keep you for themselves.
"What would I have to do?" asked Bob.
Adams relaxed. After he stapled Bob's forehead, they talked for another hour, as Adams described the kinds of examinations and tests that would be needed. In the end, Bob agreed. Adams had already gotten a contract drawn up by the hospital legal staff and it took another hour to go through that while Betty leaned over his shoulder, asking questions and suggesting that they wait and talk it over with the family. By then, though, Bob wanted something on paper. His memories convinced him that the American courts were his best defense against abuse, either private or Governmental.
It didn't occur to him that they weren't the same courts he remembered, either.
The first thing the hospital had to do for Bob was when he tried to leave. Word had spread that the modern day Rip Van Winkle was at the hospital. Descriptions of the incident had, as these things will, been blown completely out of context. Part of the crowd waiting outside for Bob were the same four news teams that had waited for him at the incident at Amalgamated. They were already reporting that hospital personnel had attacked Bob, preventing him from leaving the hospital so they could do mad scientist experiments on him, perhaps even dissecting his living body to see what made him tick. About the time Bob walked out of the examination room with Doctor Adams, the police were arriving to quell the riot at the front of the hospital. Hospital security and a staff lawyer were waiting for them, having been told not to interrupt the "examination" on pain of dismissal. The hospital administrator came huffing up to the group as plans were being made to try to get Bob out of the hospital through a side entrance.
"Helicopter!" panted the top doc of the whole place. He was as out of shape as all the patients he continuously told to get in shape. The first thing he did, between gasps was to ask Bob if he had an attorney named Gunderson. When Bob nodded he looked relieved and said that Gus had been in contact with the hospital demanding they protect Bob. Then he explained, pausing for breath every once in a while, that there was a life flight coming in with an accident patient. When it left, Bob was to be on it. There was a hurried consultation as Bob demanded that Betty go with him. Then there was a short delay as telephone numbers were exchanged. Doctor Adams didn't want to know where Bob was staying.
"Somebody on the staff might leak it." he said. "I'll call you when we have something set up. Maybe we can use the chopper for that too."
Then Bob and Betty were on the roof of the hospital as the helicopter landed and the victim was whisked to the elevator on a gurney. The pilot, an old Viet Nam vet, grinned as things were explained to him and yelled "Hop in, strap in, let's go for a ride."
It was the first time either of them had been in a helicopter, and Bob himself had never been off the ground. He was fascinated by the whole experience. The nurse thrust a helmet at him and when he put it on, showed him how to press a button to speak. The pilot informed him that a news chopper was shadowing their flight.
"I think they suspect something," said the pilot. "So we're going to go back to the barn like normal. From there we'll figure out how to get you home. It's an honor to meet you."
"The honor's all mine!" shouted Bob. He lowered his voice when the pilot winced. By the time they got to the hanger Bob had a new friend. He was told to wait in the plane as everybody else got out and it was pushed into the hanger. The news chopper was still circling above them. Once the helicopter was inside, though, the other one peeled off and flew back toward the hospital.
Half an hour later Bob had six new friends. Betty gave her car keys to one of them, who went and got the car, driving it off right under the noses of the news crews that were still at the hospital waiting to get a statement from the hospital staff. Traffic was snarled for miles, the police completely overwhelmed by the situation. It wasn't under control until after Bob and Betty got back to the cabin.
Bob refused to let the public control his life. When he got back to the cabin he called Gus, who was completely incoherent for the first couple of minutes. He didn't know what to believe about the stories he'd heard on the news and his repeated attempts to convince the hospital legal staff that he really was Bob's attorney had only yielded their promise to "do the best we can under the circumstances." Not wanting to give him any fodder for a future lawsuit, they had decided only to call him back saying that Bob was off the hospital premises and safe, for now.
Once Gus settled down, Bob told him he wasn't about to let the public, the Government or anybody else make all the decisions about what his life would be like in the future. He needed money to insulate himself, and he asked Gus to move forward with Amalgamated as soon as possible.
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