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This is such an amazing short story. From the collection "Jesus' Son" (1992).
Excerpt:
EMERGENCY
I’d been working in the emergency room for about three weeks, I guess. This was in 1973,
before the summer ended. With nothing to do on the overnight shift but batch the insurance
reports from the daytime shifts, I just started wandering around, over to the coronary-care unit,
down to the cafeteria, et cetera, looking for Georgie, the orderly, a pretty good friend of mine.
He often stole pills from the cabinets.
He was running over the tiled floor of the operating room with a mop.
“Are you still doing that?” I said.
“Jesus, there’s a lot of blood here,” he complained.
“Where?” The floor looked clean enough to me.
“What the hell were they doing in here?” he asked me.
“They were performing surgery, Georgie,” I told him.
“There’s so much goop inside of us, man,” he said, “and it all wants to get out.” He leaned his mop
against a cabinet.
“What are you crying for?” I didn’t understand.
He stood still, raised both arms slowly behind his head, and tightened his ponytail. Then he grabbed
the mop and started making broad random arcs with it, trembling and weeping and moving all around
the place really fast.
“What am I crying for?” he said. “Jesus. Wow, oh boy, perfect.”
I was hanging out in the E.R. with fat, quivering Nurse. One of the Family Service doctors that nobody
liked came in looking for Georgie to wipe up after him.
“Where’s Georgie?” this guy asked.
“Georgie’s in O.R.,” Nurse said.
“Again?”
“No,” Nurse said. “Still.”
“Still? Doing what?”
“Cleaning the floor.”
“Again?”
“No,” Nurse said again. “Still.”
Full story:
www.narrativemagazine.com
Excerpt:
EMERGENCY
A STORY
BY DENIS JOHNSONI’d been working in the emergency room for about three weeks, I guess. This was in 1973,
before the summer ended. With nothing to do on the overnight shift but batch the insurance
reports from the daytime shifts, I just started wandering around, over to the coronary-care unit,
down to the cafeteria, et cetera, looking for Georgie, the orderly, a pretty good friend of mine.
He often stole pills from the cabinets.
He was running over the tiled floor of the operating room with a mop.
“Are you still doing that?” I said.
“Jesus, there’s a lot of blood here,” he complained.
“Where?” The floor looked clean enough to me.
“What the hell were they doing in here?” he asked me.
“They were performing surgery, Georgie,” I told him.
“There’s so much goop inside of us, man,” he said, “and it all wants to get out.” He leaned his mop
against a cabinet.
“What are you crying for?” I didn’t understand.
He stood still, raised both arms slowly behind his head, and tightened his ponytail. Then he grabbed
the mop and started making broad random arcs with it, trembling and weeping and moving all around
the place really fast.
“What am I crying for?” he said. “Jesus. Wow, oh boy, perfect.”
I was hanging out in the E.R. with fat, quivering Nurse. One of the Family Service doctors that nobody
liked came in looking for Georgie to wipe up after him.
“Where’s Georgie?” this guy asked.
“Georgie’s in O.R.,” Nurse said.
“Again?”
“No,” Nurse said. “Still.”
“Still? Doing what?”
“Cleaning the floor.”
“Again?”
“No,” Nurse said again. “Still.”
***
Full story:
Emergency | Narrative Magazine
Emergency by Denis Johnson — I’d been working in the emergency room for about t...