John Doe

“When I was a young boy, I used to sit on the roof of my mom's house. I used to sit and pretend like I was somewhere else, that the person that sat underneath the roof wasn't my mother, that the moment I climbed down from the roof I would have a different family, all smiles and shit.” He let out a chuckle. “Oh, shit, am I allowed to cuss?” His head tilted as he stared, laying in a hospital bed. He had a few days worth of stubble growing on his face. I sat on the visitor's chair with a notebook open, scribbling. I scratched out the last bit – asking if he was allowed to cuss and looked up.

“I'm sure my teacher's heard the words before.” I answered, smiling, side-eying the clock. “Please, don't distract yourself too much.” He looked at the fluorescent lights. “Was your family that bad? I mean, sitting on rooftops... it's a little extreme.” I tried getting back on topic, I clicked the pen a few times.

He shrugged, “My parents were divorced, my Dad worked full time and my Mom had me twice a week and every other weekend. It was an ongoing battle for the right of their son.” He explained, scratching his stubble. “But the roof isn't the point, and neither is my mom or my dad, see.” He paused, “The point is, you're hooked, right?” I nodded, for his sake. “You're curious about how fucked up everything was. How worse can his life be? I'll be sitting in my fucking car, the woman of the night would stare at me, like seriously, did he just admit that? I mean I did, I did admit that my mom used to call me retarded in front of my teachers, like I was her problem...” He winced and continued, playing with his tongue. “I used to ask her, if she hated me so much why did she bother fighting for custody? You know what she said?” I shook my head, I mean how would I know? “She told me, get this, she told me...” His finger in the air, holding the words. “She told me I was her punishment, that... twenty eight years ago she thought about getting an abortion, me, and God told her if she went through with it he'd smite her. I was her problem. He never told her, 'Oh by the way treat your son nicely, make sure he has a good life' he just said she had to be in my life.” He snorted and rubbed the bottom of his nose. The room was a pale blue, apparently supposed to calm the patients. He was chewing his lip something fierce, mulling over what to say next. “Finally, I was able to leave. I hid it so far inside, I would go 'what childhood?' But, a few years later it trickled out, leaked, it had to, you don't walk away from that without some baggage. I started paying women, hookers – I mean, to listen to me.” He looked at me, his lips went from smiling to frowning. “Is that pathetic or what? But I truly believed... I still believe, rather, that these women are the only ones who know what true tragedy is like. So I talked to them.”

I look at him, I'm a junior in high school with a bull essay about an important person in my life, six pages, double spaced, he could tell me he's a hotshot at some company, instead he goes for the more truthful, soppy shit. My essay is now on the man in the hospital bed – he's practically dead, and his final testament to the world is his confession about confessing to hookers. Already a question popped in my head: “Why not therapy?”

He smiled – obviously he's thought about this for awhile, “I found out a therapist is 50 bucks, per session, 50 bucks just to listen to you and tell you you're secretly in love with your mother or some shit and drop pills in your lap. I wasn't gonna deal with that, I mean fuck those pretentious assholes sitting behind their desk listening to these sob stories day in and day out. Instead, 50 bucks for a girl whose seen every cock up and down 18^th street? She's not going to judge, how can she? She'd fucking blow me if I asked her because I have 50 bucks in my hand.” I think he realized he was rambling and he stopped, smiling. “Anyway there's a sort of pathetic...” He paused, tonguing his cheek.”...Joy in giving a stranger your life's story, I always feel better afterward, it's addicting.” He chuckled and started picking at his robe. “Shit, I can't even tell you how long I've been doing it for, and it's never the same story or the same girl twice.”

I watched him, curious, no doubt the hookers weren't just for talking to. Deciding to prod a bit more, sitting at the edge of my seat, “Why not just find a girl to have a one night stand with? After you're all done just tell her how you're life sucks.” Seemed reasonable.

He responded, laughing at first, his eyes cast downward. “You think some... one night stand girl wants to hear how my mom overdosed on her couch listening to Disco? How she cried wolf for years and years in my teens about committing suicide, and I changed my number time and time again and still, I get voicemail messages. I just stopped checking my box after awhile. Then, I get this call from a family friend, 'Please you have to come to her funeral, she has nobody else.' I deleted my voicemail, all of it, I had the message, I know I did, I didn't even listen to her last words.” He looked up at me, a little confused. “What was the question? Oh yes, one night stands. I think the problem with one night stands is some of those girls, bless their hearts, they want to fix you, the sex isn't as good when you know the girl is just doing it out of pity. And after telling them a story like that, you know it's out of pity.” I didn't want to know how you know, I'll take his word for it.

I looked at the time, I would inevitably have to come back Thursday – waiting for my sister to get off her shift in the hospital. “Final question for today, how did you end up here?” I smiled, “Simply saying John Doe from the room 324 in Saint Mercy Hospital isn't very... I mean, you're still young and in the death floor.” I felt a pit in my stomach, maybe he didn't know it was the death floor, maybe he did.

He touched his chin, “How do you know this it the death floor?” He asked. His eyes looked toward the cart at his feet, an unopened pudding cup.

“My sister works here, not, this floor, but this building.” I explained, “I'm actually waiting for her to get off her shift.” I press my lips together, don't ask my name, don't ask her name – I pray to God.

Instead he looks longingly out the window. “That must be quiet the age gap.” He commented.

“She is a little over thirteen years older than me.” I explained, “My mom died when I was younger.” I clicked my pen, impatient. This isn't about me, this is about you.

He looked at me with the same pathetic puppy dog eyes the same kind everyone gives me, “Oh I'm sorry.” He whispered, forcing some kind of sick sympathy. And all I can think is 'Oh fuck off, who are you to tell me you're sorry, you spend your life telling hookers your sad ass stories and you think your sympathy means shit to me? I bet you're sorry, sorry you never had a loving sister who took care of you, sorry you ended up here in this hospital.' I sucked my cheeks in, trying not to glare, trying not to murder him with the pen in my hand. He watched me closely, “I don't want to keep your sister waiting, can you hand me the pudding cup?” He asked, looking at it. I stood up, still sucking my cheeks in, still keeping the urge to grab the pudding spoon and scoop his eyes out, I hand it to him, not making eye contact. “Something on your mind?” He asked.

Yeah you bet there's something on my mind you piece of shit. I coughed, “What happened to land you hear?” Smooth.

He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, “I never did answer that, did I? Well, short answer is I was shot by a pimp.” He smiled, oddly enough. “Not even a pimp for the hookers I frequent. This was blocks away, farther away than I'd ever go for some girl. I was just out walking, and then this asshole shoots me, said something like I 'looked like another John who was choking his bitches.' Imagine that, some bitch ass chokes hookers and I get the bullet.” He laughed and held his chest, looking in pain. “Fuck that, the fucking prick shot me in the chest and the hooker is screaming, I'm blacking out and this chick goes, 'No Boss you got the wrong guy!' By the by, I was also robbed before the ambulance came, can you imagine? Some good Samaritan took my wallet and I'm not about to give these hospital assholes my name. Fucking, next thing I know I wake up here and some white coat is telling me how lucky I am for surviving. You know why I'm lucky? I get to live an extra four days because someone called the ambulance. The bullet shattered and there's still a piece near my heart, and they're too scared to pull it out. My heart is pumping and this shard is moving constantly.” His heart monitor was rapidly beeping as he ranted. “This shard can pierce my heart any second and kill me, and the nurses and doctors don't want to touch it.” More beeping and I could hear nurses running to the room. They came in and looked at me with bugged out eyes. I could hear screaming from the other room, and he dropped his pudding cup. His face was paler, but he smiled.

“You should go.” The nurses ordered.

I took a peek at his medical chart, John Doe, born April 1^st, 1984 looked at me, “Hope you get an A on the paper.” He croaked.

“I hope so too.” I replied, leaving. What else was I gonna say?

As I walked away I heard him tell the nurse, “Are the angels as pretty as you are? Maybe it won't be so bad.”

I met my sister at the front of the hospital, she always changed out of her scrubs and into pedestrian clothes. “Did something happen today at school?” She asked. “You look a little down.” Always the noisy one.

“I watched a documentary.” I replied. A sad documentary on the life of John Doe, computer analyst, practiced therapy in the form of hookers, and probably, most definitely someone my sister would have a heart attack if she knew I met. He looked peaceful afterward though, or maybe that's wishful thinking on my part. I like to think giving his life story to a stranger wasn't a form of joy, but relief, catharsis. He let hookers into parts of his life that probably no one else saw, vulnerable and a little child-ish. In that way they probably saw parts of themselves, they got to do some self-reflecting too. I might also be romanticizing him a bit, for all I know telling stories of his screwed up childhood was the only way he got hard. It's not some form of therapy but some weird kink he discovered one night. Maybe, but that's kind of gross and too jaded of an outlook for a man I barely met. John Doe of 324 just wanted people to listen, so he got his wish. I got my wish too, in a way. “A really, really sad documentary.” I repeat. My sister wrapped her arms around me, making puppy dog sounds, rubbing my shoulder and back. At the end of the day, at least, I have her. For once I don't feel like bitching at her for making me go to a school near her, just so that she can pick me up after work easy. I just want to stay in her arms and thank her for being there. For once, I feel happy to be alive.