Chainsaw Pete

I have had rejection letters from some of the best literary agents in Canada. I may skip them in the publishing process and go straight to the publishers.


Someone has left a chocolate bar wrapper on the table where I sit smoking. “Heathens,” I say and pick it up. I notice a 1-800 number on the back of the wrapper for people who may need help. A smile dances across my mind. I have a silly idea. “You want to have a little fun with me, boys?” I ask.
Francis and a guy named Noah, long story on that one, follow me to the ward phone just outside the smoking room. Noah is an odd one. He's in his mid-fourties, a computer systems engineer for a local university. Except he's manic depressive, too. Right now he's down. They're tweaking his brain chemistry in here so he can go back and high function again at his life. His black curly hair reminds me of my father sometimes.
“What are you going to do?” Noah asks.
“I'm going to pretend a little bit here on the phone,” I say. I dial the 1-800 helpline number on the chocolate bar wrapper.
“Will we get pussy from this?” Noah wants to know. Noah is also a virgin, his whole life. I don't even bother to answer him.
The phone rings on the other end. After the second ring I hear a woman's voice with a southern U.S. accent go, “Helpline. How may I be of assistance?”
I try to make my voice sound like a sick kid. “Hello?” I say.
“Hi, Sugar. What can I do for you?” she asks, definitely from the South.
“I, see, I kind of ate, one of your bars,” I say. “And now my stomach ain't so good.” Francis has caught on and starts laughing.
“Is someone else there with you, child?” she asks. “Can they be of assistance.”
I wave to Francis to keep it down, impatient. “No. I'm all alone,” I lie. “That was the TV you heard. Ooooooh God, I ain't too good.”
“You hang on there, Honey. We'll get you some help right away,” the woman from the South says. She sounds awful desperate all of a sudden. Maybe this isn't so funny. I have a guilt panic. I hang up.
“Aw, why'd you hang up? That was the best,” Francis says. Noah just stands there staring at the phone. When the phone rings Noah jumps a bit. It rings again. We three look at each other. Francis shrugs his shoulders.
I pick up. “Hello,” I say. I forget the sick kid voice.
“Boy, if you in a hospital already, why in hell you calling me for?” Southern Woman asks. She sounds more than a little pissed. I have no clue what to say. This isn't as funny anymore.
“I'm feeling much better. Thanks for your time,” I say. Francis and I shrug at each other. He tries to lean in to the receiver and hear what she is saying.
“Young man, listen to me for a moment. This is serious,” she says. “We get some very sick people calling this line looking for help. You understand? Potential suicides, ODs, people being abused who don't know where else to turn,” she says. “Now if you tie up this line, maybe one of them who really need our help can't get through to us. You follow?” she asks.
“Yeah. Again, thanks for your help,” I say.
“Call if you need us. Have a nice day,” she says. The line goes dead.
I hang up my end. Noah wanders off towards the meds counter. Francis stares. “Smooth move, Ex Lax,” he says.
“And you could've done better? She made me feel like shit. That line is for really sick people,” I say. This is starting to affect me. Francis walks into the smoking room without saying a word. I notice that this is how a lot of my conversations on the ward seem to end. One of the parties often just walks away.
Today is the day I get back in shape. That's it, that's all. I get a mental image of me playing high school football. Quite the all-star. The hospital ward has exercise facilities. I decide to hit the stationary bike. Precisely 8.42 minutes later I'm seeing stars from the exertion. It's been a while.
I return to the smoking room for my after workout aperitif. I just light up when a bit of an episode starts to brew. Francis is getting a visit from his girlfriend. As mentioned, these two are pretty intimate with each other sometimes. Even I have felt a little off put by it. I watch Francis and his girlfriend, never did catch her name, give each other a bit of a smooch, right there in the smoking room. Amy, from the dining hall fame, goes completely loopty-loo at the site of this.
“It's like a fucking dating service in here! It's like a fucking dating service in here!” Amy yells. Hefty Bags Harry is on her like white on rice. Harry gently guides her out of the room to the nursing station. I kind of follow them out, to see the commotion. A nurse gives Amy a big orange pill and she's right as rain just a few seconds later.
This gives me an idea. I wait a few minutes, then I walk up to Hefty Bags. I wring my hands and fake twitch my eyes open and shut. “Hey, Hairy Arse,” I say to Harry. He knows me by now.
“What's the problem?” he asks.
I twitch it up a bit. “I'm feeling a little ANXIOUS,” I say. “Maybe you give me something to kind of take the edge off?”
Harry looks me up and down. A smile, an actual full-fledged smile, breaks across his face. “Go to the nurses station and say what you just said to me,” Harry advises. “And Pete, don't overdo it. If I saw through it, they'll see you coming a mile away.”
The next thing I know I'm up on a chair in the smoking room, swinging like I just don't care. Our little smoking room radio is cranked up. Some catchy song plays. I dance like it's the second coming. Harry and a nurse are watching, laughing, from the doorway. “DANCE YA BASTARDS!” I yell. I really yelled it, too.
Harry is looking up at me for a change. “OK, Twinkle-toes. That's enough. Down you come,” he says. Harry puts his hands under each of my armpits and fixes to lift me down like a child.
“NOT NOW, JETHRO! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M ROCKIN'?” I think I'm yelling again. I know I'm dancing on a chair.
I walk down the hall towards my room. Harry is walking me to my room, is what the relationship comes down to. “You guys have great shit in this hospital, man,” I say.
“I may have to stay with you for a bit,” Harry says.
“We can maintain the buffoonish facade of a friendship,” I say. That'd be nice. Harry just keeps walking me.