Accidents Happen

My first true love Rachel and I were spooning after a wilder than usual morning screw, snuggled up under my down comforter. Sunday was one of my few days off from the Los Angeles Zoo, where I was in charge of the Reptile House, so I was blissing out, about to fall back to sleep, my dick nestled against Rachel’s bare, gorgeous ass. I could hear her gnawing on her thumb nail, which she did when she was stressed.

            Then she said, “Greg, you know you have tiny balls.”

             A shiver woke me right up.

            “Nice way to spoil the mood, Rach.”

            I propped myself up on my elbow to look at her.  She rolled over and stroked my cheek.                           “Your semen output is kinda pathetic, too.” 

            “You’re bringing this up now, after all this time?”

            “Maybe one day I’d like a baby.  You think those tiny balls will suffice? I’ve seen my share, and well ….”

            “Geez, Rach, let’s take this one step at a time. We need to move in together first. Plus, I see my share of reptile babies at the zoo and it ain’t always pretty.”

             Later that afternoon, at the Walmart in North Hollywood, we were checking out patio furniture for our “someday dream home,” when Rachel dragged me down the medical aisle, straight to the “Sperm Check” Fertility Test.

Heading home in my Prius, Rachel was kissing my neck and fiddling with zipper of my Lee jeans.

“Whoa Nelly. We don’t want to goof up the test results.”

“I’m just eager to see that glorious schlong again.”

Back at my place, June gloom had settled in when Rachel “helped” me with the process. She was correct. I was producing almost nil. Any little buggers that were there weren’t going to win any Olympic medals.

Rachel and I sat naked on my bed. She pulled the sheets around her and stared at the test results. Finally, she pushed her hair out of her face and hopped off the bed.

“Ugh, Greg, I had a feeling this was not good,” she said. “I love you, you know that, but now I don’t know about moving in together. I need some time to think things over. I want a baby and that might not happen.”

“Sweetie, you worry too much. We’re 33. We’re fine.”

“Yeah, but we aren’t getting any younger,” she said,  as I tried to pull her in for a snug hug.  She wiggled away and grabbed her purse off the dresser.

“I’m gonna sleep at my place tonight,” she said. “I’ve gotta be at the speech clinic early tomorrow, anyway. Have a new client — a teenager with a stutter.”

“I should get up early, too. But maybe I’ll investigate the ‘thing.’” I said, pulling my boxers back on.  

I walked her to the door and watched her walk to her car. She didn’t blow a kiss or even wave. It was too late for Casa Vega, but I really needed a drink.

*

            After three days of dealing with a maladjusted loggerhead sea turtle and feeling like acid was burning a hole in my stomach, I called Dad — who moved in with his “buddy” Stu in Silver Lake after my mom died a few years ago —  to see if he could cough up any information about why my swimmers were almost nil. Maybe it was the vegan diet he and my mom forced on me.             I could hear him rifling through a cabinet, probably looking for stuff to make Stu’s favorite marinara sauce.

“Greg, listen,” Dad said. “You don’t remember, but when you were little — around 2 or 3 — you had a bad case of the mumps. The pediatrician warned your mother and me that it might affect your ability to father a child, but we discarded that as misinformation. Well, really, we didn’t pay that much attention. Your sister had arrived so we were just trying to stay above water.”

How dumb of me. It was obvious. My parents, the former owners of Doin’ It Naturally Homeopathic Goods, were not advocates of conventional medicine and were part of the “clan” who believed vaccinations caused autism. Still, withholding vital health information seemed beneath even them.

I clenched a joint in my hand so tightly that the rolling paper tore a bit and some flecks flew into the air.

“Why would you wait 30 years to tell me about something this important? You know Rachel and I are getting pretty serious.”

The loud whirl of my father’s food processor nearly drowned out his answer.

“You’ll just have to find a woman who doesn’t want a child.”                

“A cougar or something? Jesus.”

“Maybe cool it on the pot and booze for a while. Maybe that’s a solution.”

“Yeah, Dad, like I should take advice from the guy who decided at 60 he was a hippie and moved in with his buddy.”

I slammed down my iPhone, abandoned the ruined joint in the ashtray on the coffee table,   scratched the new hairs on my chin, grabbed my laptop from beside the ashtray and played three quick games of poker. Jazzed from winning two out of three, I called my bookie and placed a modest bet on the night’s Los Angeles Lakers playoff game. 

After a quick trim of my nasal and pubic hair — who knew, maybe Rachel would call and want to see me and she liked me well groomed — I headed out for some “therapy” at Casa Vega.

Juan, the valet, greeted me with a fist bump and took over my Prius. 

“Take it easy tonight, big boy,” he called out as I walked inside, where an empty bar greeted me.

“Whatcha doin’ without the voluptuous Miss Rachel?” Jerry, the usual Thursday night guy, asked.

“We’re not talking right now.”

What I didn’t say was that I hadn’t even gotten a two word text in four days from a woman who usually texted me ten times a day. Jerry put a stiff Bacardi and Coke at my spot and served up some stale bar snacks in a fake Terra Cotta dish.

“You didn’t screw this one up, did you, bud?” Jerry asked.

“Nope, not me. We can blame my self-righteous parents this time.”

The 12-inch TV hovering over the tequila assortment provided good news — the Lakers were up 20-6 on the Celtics. Jerry gave me a heavy knuckle bump, added a splash of Bacardi to my high-ball glass, and yelled to the kitchen staff for my vegetarian taco platter.

“Tell them I want beef. Beef, not that vegetarian pepper crap.”

The Lakers had a sizable lead at the half and the other diners looked like they’d escaped from the retirement facility down the road, so I bid Jerry an “adios.”

Back in my 1980s two-story condo, a long pull off a freshly-rolled joint and sips of Bacardi on ice floated me into a dizzying, peaceful haze.

The blare of a smoke detector startled me out of a drowning dream; I was being thrashed by ocean waves and could not surface. The amber flame from the joint had drifted too high and now the smoke detector was screeching.

“Shit,” I yelled and jumped out of the recliner.  I sprang onto the Ikea coffee table to yank the detector and its battery out of the cottage cheese ceiling and fan away the remaining smoke.

One final hit mixed nicely with a splash of Bacardi,  I smashed the joint firmly into the green glass ashtray, and reclined all the way in the La-Z-Boy.

*

The next morning, sun glaring through the off-white plastic blinds woke me up quickly. Crap. It was 10:01. I needed to be at the zoo by 10:30. Fifteen 9-year-olds were coming for a “Radical Reptiles” party.  My pits passed a smell test, some Axe gel fluffed up the hair, and mint mouthwash helped clear the rum remnants that clung to the back of my throat.   

I stumbled out, toting my khaki messenger bag packed with plastic rattlesnakes and lizard-decorated43 bookmarks. Shit, coffee would be helpful.

In the Reptile House, a chime from my iPhone startled me just as I was tossing the rattlesnakes to the cowering and screaming boys. It was a text from the manager at 24-Hour Fitness saying I was listed as Rachel’s emergency contact. She had been in a serious accident during Pilates and was now on her way to Trinity Hospital in Hollywood.

The boys were having a blast. I really didn’t want to leave, but I turned the party over to my assistant and bounded down the hill, breaking into a full sweat.

With a glance into the Prius’ rear view mirror, I smoothed out my wavy hair and turned my collar up for a more avant-garde feel, but I had not idea what kind of greeting I’d get from Rachel. I went into the carpool line and got to the hospital in record time.  

I found Rachel curled up on a gurney in the hospital hallway. A large gauze pad was stuck to her right cheek and an IV line protruded from her left arm.

I bent down to her level and kissed her right hand.

Rachel opened a squinted eye and pulled her gray hospital gown over her perfectly shaped breast. She squeezed my hand and whispered, “Hey, Greggy.”

Phew. She could talk and recognized me, but my mind was all jumbled. 

Suddenly, she propped herself up on an elbow and vomited the remnants of what looked like an everything bagel into a peach colored basin.

“Yuck. Are you OK? What the hell happened?”

“I don’t remember exactly. The Pilates lady slipped on something, maybe water, and dropped me,”  Rachel said, rubbing her nose with the sleeve of her gown. “She was like 4’11” and 92 pounds. Don’t know why they even let her help people on that big Cadillac thing. Bet I wasn’t the first.”

“Christ, Jesus, what are the doctors saying?”

A male nurse, wearing overly-decorated clogs butted in: “Time for Miss Golden’s MRI brain scan.”

“Can I go with her?”  I knew she hated closed spaces.

“Are you immediate family?” the nurse asked.  “If, yes, yes, if no, no.”

“That’s Greg, my fiancee,” Rachel said. 

I squeezed her hand.  Had the bang to her head wiped out her dismissal of me or was she just scared to be alone?

“Sorry, not official enough.”

“You don’t get it, man, she doesn’t have anyone. She’s a speech therapist and works in a small private office — moved here alone to finish up some training, then set up shop,” I said too loudly, causing a security guard to perk up.

The nurse just shook his head. My time here was up. I was about to kiss Rachel goodbye when she threw-up again, this time spewing only liquid. The nurse wiped Rachel’s face and took her away.

                                                                                 *

Acid was burning a hole in my empty stomach as I took the 101 home to Casa Vega. It was Bradley’s shift. We high-fived and he placed a Bacardi and Coke at my spot. Bradley loved to listen and analyze. 

When I finished downloading the week’s events, he said, “In my esteemed estimation, Rachel didn’t mean to call it quits. She just needs time to think. Plus, there are other ways to get a baby, you know.”

He called to the back for veggie tacos. I let it sit.

A gaggle of 20-something guys stumbled into the bar. Smells of marijuana and cheap beer took over and a red-headed guy shoved me aside.

“Step aside dude, we have the guest of honor — the groom — here.”

The guy was in some Hawaiian outfit and looked liked he’d be a lot better off going home soon.

“Hey, got a joke for you,” the red-headed one said. “What guy goes out in a moo moo and a Hawaiian lei the night before his wedding?”

“The one who’s trying to get laid, get it?” asked some other random dude. “Escorts will

be here soon. Might be an extra for you, bud.”

“Forget the tacos,” I told Bradley. “I’m outta here.”

Back home in my Lazy Boy, I took a few hits off a joint and called Rachel, who sounded okay, but kind of lackluster. She had a horrible headache that the hospital meds weren’t helping.

“Maybe your dad can get me something he used to sell that’ll help. Maybe he could even get something to help you, too,” she said.

“Oh, come on, really? Are you serious?  I don’t know, Rach,” I said, kicking my Nikes across the room.

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea, but I’m not in the mood for talking to my dad right now.  We’ll

see ….” I said, not adding the usual “Love ya” before we hung up.

I was at the end of my joint, so I finished it up.  It wasn’t the best blend, so I struggled to shut off my brain.  I love Rachel, I want Rachel  Rachel wants my dad to help. I need help.

The next morning, the spring sun through the living room blinds wrapped me like a fleece blanket. I wanted to bask in it, but I needed to get to Rachel. After a 90-second steamy shower, I dressed in pleated khakis and my green polo — her favorite. She always snickered at the safari print they made me wear at the zoo. 

I found Rachel slouched down on a pile of pillows in her room. The bandaged wound on her head was less swollen and a bit of sparkle had returned to her aquamarine eyes.  Two fluid-filled bags were hanging on an IV pole.

She gave me a faint smile and pointed to a stained fabric chair. The morning round of doctors and nurses made their way in.

“Who’s this?” a buff Persian-looking physician asked Rachel. 

“I’m her more humorous half,” I said, thwarting her from answering.

“Yeah, well, I’m the serious one. Someone has to be in charge.”

Her head was splitting, she told them. The nurse was already there with some morphine for the IV.

“This is all normal after such an injury,” another one of the doctors said. “This may take some time to get over, but you’ll recover. We’ll see how you are tomorrow. Rest for now.”

Rachel’s chest was moving up and down in a gentle drug-induced snore. Good. I needed time to figure out a plan.

Not in the mood for Casa Vega (it was Shelly’s day), I grabbed some stuff at Trader Joe’s — frozen pizzas, veggie lasagna, vodka, OJ, pretzels, and sandwich cookies. Rachel loved the vanilla ones.

                                                                                     *

A ding from the iPhone cajoled me out of a deep sleep. Christ, it was almost 10:30 in the morning. I slept in again.

Rachel wanted to know when I could come to see her. I shot off a quick text: “Gotta few things to do, but I’ll see you later.”

The Dodgers were away at Cincinnati — the Reds were having a crappy season so I told the bookie to put down $500. The Daily Double at Santa Anita looked solid, so I went for $100 on that.

I went by the zoo and checked in on “the kids”  I’d been neglecting. One of the tortoises had been overly aggressive recently, so I added some calming essential oils to her food. The big boa, who’d been with me for six years, was curled up in her favorite log, and our iguana, who was in isolation for “bad behavior” was munching on an apple core.  My assistant reported that the birthday party was a big hit and that she could hold down the fort for as long as I needed.

“Anyway, how’s Rachel? She’ll be O.K.?”

“Yeah, she got a pretty bad concussion, but she’ll be O.K. Thanks for asking.”

                                                                        *

Jerry would just be getting into Casa Vega; I yearned to see a familiar, non-misshapen face.

He went for the Bacardi, but I needed tequila. Jerry blended up a marg, topping it with a splash of Mezcal. He yelled to the kitchen to get me a chicken tostada.

“Gotta try different stuff, you know.”

Jerry got the unabridged version of the on, off and maybe on again Rachel, my annoying dad, and my recent ups and downs at the track.

“My two cents, want them or not—don’t get too invested in this recovery. Who knows when she’ll remember that she didn’t want you.”

“Come on Jer, ease up. You’ve seen how she fawns over me.”

Jerry served up another margarita as a peace offering and had the kitchen add a scoop of guac to my chicken mishmash. 

“The problem is,” I told Jerry, “she needs me.” 

“She’s got money, right? Hire her a damn caretaker or something.”

“Right, have some random stranger care for her? No way, man.”

At that point, I was just tongue-tied and wanted to be alone.

I threw down a twenty and a ten and took off for home, but on my way there, Rachel called and said she was being released and asked if I could I come and get her.

“Oh great, I’ll be there as soon as I can, Maybe like 30 minutes,”  I said, grabbing some Tic Tacs from the glove compartment.

Rachel was set to go, already downstairs in a wheelchair, clutching a big envelope and a bag of pill bottles. “Make sure she checks in with her regular doctor and it’s important that she not be alone for very long,” he said, with a quirky wink.

She dozed on and off during the traffic-filled ride home.

I got her settled on her couch, snuggled up under an afghan, so I ran to Vons for some necessities — coffee, milk, Michelob, champagne (for when Rach was better), soups, an assortment of frozen stuff — pizzas, enchiladas, ice cream.

I tiptoed back in  — in case she was snoozing. Instead, I found her crumpled up next to the coffee table, a trickle of blood coming from the cut on her cheek. I ran over to her, cradling her in my arms.

“Something’s really wrong,” she cried, curled up like a roly-poly bug. Rotten, stale cow overwhelmed my olfactory senses. “Jesus, what’s that smell?” 

Then I saw it — a sticky puddle of something the consistency of bourbon barbecue sauce intertwined with thick snot was saturating the light gray Berber carpet.

            I eased Rachel onto the couch and called the hospital.

After hearing about the mess and odor now completely permeating Rachel’s apartment, the charge nurse hypothesized: “Sounds like a miscarriage. The trauma from her head injury must have caused it. If she can take care of the bleeding and the cramping, she can stay home. Just keep her comfortable. Give her one of the prescription Naproxen. Check her temperature and make sure she has no fever. And take her to urgent care in the morning for an exam.”

“Are you sure that’s what it is?” I whispered to the nurse.

“Nothing else it could be. It’s the dark color and the smell. Oh — and no action for a few weeks.”

  I nestled in beside Rachel on the couch and held her head.

“It was a miscarriage,” I told her.

“I was pregnant? Must have been that wild night after Casa Vega,” she said, moving the afghan off her lap. “I’m exhausted. Can you help me to bed?”

                                                                               *

At urgent care the next morning, the doctor said the miscarriage was complete — in other words, she didn’t need any further treatment.

Within a few weeks, her short-term recall was almost back to normal and her rosy disposition, after some depression from the head injury and miscarriage, returned.

One night, I knew she was back to herself entirely when I brought her some soup and she asked for champagne.I’d moved in to her place right after the miscarriage.

She took the soup from me and smiled. “I hope this tastes better than last night’s concoction.”

“Well, you know you’re supposed to be the chef. I’m here to provide comic relief, remember?”

“Your dick isn’t so bad, either,” she said, kissing my cheek.

I took a deep breath, got down on one knee, and said, “Rachel Golden, will you do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Gregory O’Keefe?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” she said, leaning over and giving me a long kiss on the lips.

Now we had a wedding to plan.

BIO Kristen Henderson is a former journalist who now writes flash and short fiction. She is EIC of Bright Flash Literary Review, an online journal for flash fiction and memoir. Kristen splits her time between her homes in Los Angeles and Lamy, NM, where the sky never ends.