This morning eternity called

This morning eternity called.

She is waiting for an answer. 

I have her on hold.

“Cole, they’re here!” My wife called to me.

I stepped outside the house and saw Ramil pull up in his center car.  I knew the pig would be in the back where the passengers usually sit.  Ramil pulled up alongside of me and we gave each other our warm wordless greetings.

I walked over to the back of the center car and looked in.  There on the floor lying quietly on its side was an adult pig.  All four of its legs were firmly bound with twine.  I looked at the pig’s face.  It was calm.  Its eye stared up at nothing.  I could see it was breathing but nothing else.

Up front on either side of Ramil were two of his kids, Marisol and Ramil Jr.  They both looked back at me, eyes wide with excitement, and then down at the pig. 

About then Datu pulled up on his motorcycle and motioned for me to hop on. 

“Let’s go.”  He said with an easy grin.

I hopped on the back of the bike and we all sped off into the Filipino night.

Is “perfectly good” any more perfect than “perfectly bad?”

I suppose that is a legitimate philosophical question and I presume the answer is “no” but I still find it unsettling.  Of course, that’s just the human in me.  Always wishing for things to be good.  Or at least for things to make sense.

Calbayog City at night is exquisitely chaotic.  The dimly lit streets are alive and jammed.  Motorcycles, tricycles, hordes of people all crossing the street at once.  And noise.  Motorcycle engines, blaring horns, music blasting.  And smells.  The smell of cooking street food.  Smoke.  Exhaust fumes.  Datu’s motorcycle followed closely behind Ramil’s center car with me holding on for dear life.

Shortly Ramil’s center car pulled off the main stretch and turned down a narrow back street.  Datu and I followed behind.  Halfway down the narrow street the center car turned into an even narrower alley, and we followed.  Tall dark buildings loomed on either side us.  A few windows were lit in yellow light.  Presently the alley opened up into a driveway and we pulled in.

I got off the motorcycle and went over to see how the pig was holding up.  The kids got out as well and presently a few other people were there milling around speaking Tagalog.  I looked down at the pig.  It was breathing heavy now and its eye was wide open now.  The whites of the eye showed as it looked back at me.

Suddenly the pig tried to run. It thrashed around furiously trying to gallop with its legs bound, squealing loudly.  The pig’s outburst made the kids laugh.  After a moment the pig quieted down.  It lay motionless again with heavy breathing.  And wheezing.

Ramil and Datu came over to the car with a couple of men that I didn’t recognize.  We all gathered around and looked down at the pig.  I noticed that the pig’s underbelly was lined with two rows of large nipples.

“Girl?”  I asked, surprised.

“No, boy.” Someone answered.

“But look.”  I pointed at the nipples in confusion.

“Boy” They all assured me.

“Transgender.”  I joked and everyone laughed.

Except for the pig.

Is “perfectly good” any more perfect than “perfectly bad?”

Personally, I’m going to hold off on answering that question. 

I will say this though, if I have learned anything in this life it is that nature is completely indifferent.

I guess that’s also a type of perfect.

The kids moved around to the front of the center car.  I joined them to be out of the way as the men got to work.

Several men reached in and grabbed at the pig.  The pig screamed and twisted its head around violently as hands grabbed at its legs and tail all pulling hard.  The pig’s mouth opened wide showing teeth, and it tried to bite.

“Watch out for those teeth,” I thought but the men were all laughing in the excitement.

After much pulling and fighting the men had the pig up to the edge of the car and then with a final heave the pig fell unceremoniously to the ground.

Quickly the men unbound the pig’s legs and then they tied a single rope to one of the pig’s front ankles.

The pig stood up with the rope tied to its ankle.  It looked dazed.  The men gathered around the pig talking.

Then one of the men pulled on the rope tied to the pig's ankle and the pig stumbled forward.

I watched in awe.

The man pulled again, and the pig stumbled forward again.  This time though the pig recoiled and dug in its front legs and began bellowing loudly.

But the pig's resistance was futile.  The man gave another firm pull to the pig’s ankle and again the pig stumble forward.  A few more steps.  Bellowing and squealing as it was grimly led forward.

And I thought about those trucks, all in a line, filled with Polish prisoners.  Traveling slowly through the dark fog, into the Katyn forest.

When the trucks had pulled to a stop the men were led away.  One by one.  Into the forest.  Hands bound behind their backs.  Blind folded.  Some must have resisted.  Some must have yelled.

“Cole.” I looked up.

Datu was motioning for me to come.  The pig was being led down a narrow path between two buildings.

I followed behind and watched the pig as it stumbled forward, slowly making its way through the dark narrow, into a yard, where it met its final master.  A little girl.

The girl looked like she was about ten and she was standing there waiting for the pig.

The man handed the rope off to the little girl and she began leading the pig toward a little metal cage.

The pig saw the cage and would have nothing to do with it.  It turned as if to flee and the little girl hauled off and savagely kicked the pig on its side.

The pig was rightfully shocked and momentarily turned back to the cage but then it turned again and tried to flee and the little girl kicked it again.  And then again and again slowly kicking the pig into the little metal cage.

I still have eternity on hold.

I know she’s waiting for me, but I just don’t want to pick up the phone.

Not yet.

I still have some things and honestly, I don’t want to take anything with me.

The next day was my daughter’s birthday.

And the pig’s final appearance.

My daughter is three and it was a gala affair with a freshly roasted pig taking center stage.

And folks, it was delicious.  Not gonna lie.  A treat really.  If you ever have a chance to eat freshly roasted lechon do so.  It really is good.  And the skin is crispy.

Like super duper bacon.

…………………………….

Afterword.

Peter, the ancient Chinese told us.  They told us that the only reason why we have beauty is because we have ugly.  Even though it drives us mad, what is, simply is.  And try as we might the best we can do is raise a royal middle finger up to God and scream FUCK YOU!

But we all still love beauty.

Calbayog City  2022

The bad news was

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Phlebotomist (flu-bot´u-mist) – noun - A health care worker trained in the art of drawing venous blood for testing or donation. 

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The bad news was the Phlebotomist had called in sick. 

Sorry, no good news. 

For the last couple of weeks, I've been on night relief. At 8pm all the medical teams sign their patients out to me and I'm left covering two floors of patients until 8am the next morning. It's OK. A little hectic at times but in general not so bad. 

At about 2am one of the nurses said to me, "Oh, by the way, Mr. Smith has a fever." 

Fever means that blood cultures have to be drawn. No phlebotomist means that I have to draw the blood.

I looked up on the census and Mr. Smiths was in room D1024. 

I got the blood draw materials together and went to his room. When I got there I found him sleeping. It was 2am after all. 

"MR. SMITH, MR. SMITH." I called out, "I need to draw some blood." I gently shook him. "Is that alright?" 

Mr. Smith had been sound asleep but he said, "Yah, OK." and started to wake up. 

I got the equipment all set up and asked him to sit on the edge of his bed. I put the tourniquet on and assessed his arm.  He had pretty good veins which didn't mean all that much because I'm just not that good at drawing blood. I wiped a vein clean with an alcohol swab and went at it with a butterfly needle.

Mr. Smith was the type of patient who watched intently while the needle went in. 

I missed. 

The needle went in deep but no blood came. I pulled back a bit and still no blood. 

Mr. Smith said, "Oh man, I could hit that easy." 

Just what I needed at 2am.. a kibitzer. 

"Mmmm," I said, "Do you have experience putting needles in your veins?" 

"I was in the army for seven years, what the fuck do you think?" he said. 

I wasn't really certain what that meant so I went ahead and tried again and I missed again. 

"Shit man! I could hit that with my eyes closed!" 

Maybe I shouldn't have said what I said next but what I said was, "OK, you do it." 

We looked at each other for a moment. 

"OK." He said. 

I handed him the butterfly needle. He held it in his free hand and looked down at his vein. I got the sample bottle ready. Then he said, "Damn, I don't have my glasses on. I can't see." 

I took a moment to analyze the situation. 

"Here," I said, "try my glasses." I took off my glasses and put them on his head. "Is that better?" 

"Yeah," He said and looked back down. We huddled around his arm. Him, with my glasses on, holding the butterfly needle, and me, poised with the bottle waiting in anticipation. 

And he went for it! 

He stabbed himself with the needle and ZING! he got a flash of blood. 

I pushed the bottle onto the line and we got a flow. But the blood came slow. Just a trickle. 

"OK," I said, "You got it, but it's not coming good." 

"Let me move the needle around." He said. 

We barely filled the bottle and then the blood flow stopped. That was a problem because blood cultures need to be done in duplicate. I told him we needed more and he nodded and looked back down at his arm. 

Did I mention that he was bleeding? 

He had been bleeding since I first stuck him. I had hit the vein both times and when I had pulled the needle out the blood flowed down to his elbow and had been dripping. By now his bed was getting covered with blood. 

He stabbed himself again and missed. Then he stabbed himself again in a different vein. 

"Fuck, I gotta be in that damn thing!" He was becoming obsessed. 

Then for some reason I looked at him and suddenly I remembered him from a few nights before. 

"Wait a second." I said, "What's your name?" 

"Mr. Jones." he said.

I stood up and stuck my head out the door and looked at the room number. 

It was C1024 not D1024!

Now look, I'm fairly new in this hospital and at 2am all the corridors look the same. And I cover 50 patients. And… I fucked up. 

"Who'd you think I was?" He asked. 

He suddenly didn't look too happy. 

"Well..."  I started.

"Shit man, you'd better not send in that blood cuz who ever it's for is going to be awfully surprised when it comes back positive for Hepatitis C." 

You know, there are times in life when things just start to spin out of control. 

Suddenly Mr. Jones was up and pulling all the sheets and blankets off his bed. 

He said, "Help me get rid of this shit. We're going to get busted." 

"Huh?" I asked. 

"If the nurse comes in here and sees all this blood everywhere she's going to fucking freak out." 

By this time he had the blankets wadded up and he was stuffing them in the biohazard bag. 

"You're just going to throw everything away?" I asked. 

"Yah, you should have seen it last night. I was vomiting and the nurses chucked everything." 

I started helping him. 

We got all the linen in the biohazard bag and I went around picking up all the paper and plastic. He got a towel and moistened it and cleaned his arm up. Pretty soon the room was lookin' pretty nice. 

"I'm going to go out and have a smoke." He said. 

"Yah, OK." I replied. 

By then I wasn't arguing. 

About an hour later I was standing at the nurses' station trying to look like I knew what's going on. 

Presently I looked up and saw that Mr. Jones. had come back from his smoke.

He walked up to me and handed me a piece of paper. It had his name and phone number on it. 

"That's my number." He said. "I live in the Keys. If you're ever down there look me up. I'll give you the tour." 

I looked back down at the paper and then I looked up at him. 

"Thanks." I said.

I'm going to do it too. That's one tour I don't want to miss.

Miami 2006