A San Francisco Medical Adventure

8/8/2019 A San Francisco Medical Adventure

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A San Francisco Medical Adventure (deleted scene from Stairway To Nowhere )

By the time Miki is groping for his first smoke of the day not only is my

jaw raging constant pain but, due to sleep-dep and general exhaustion, I

am convinced that I have an abscess under my tooth, that the offending

molar is sitting atop a reservoir of puss that will explode into my blood

stream at any second and poison me stone dead.

How is that going to look in the annals of dead rock stars for fuck’s sake?

So I stagger down to the diner next to the hotel and wait for Annette.

“What’s the matter with you this time?” she asks, eying the

miserable, disheveled wreck who front’s her current shot at managerial

stardom.

It’s to her credit that despite our planet-sized egos and complete

lack of rational judgment about, well anything really, she is still working

her arse off dragging Fashion around America, seriously believing we



have a legitimate shot at the big time. And there are times when she

assumes the role of road mother and is actually sympathetic, and this is

one of those times.

“You have to get me to a doctor right now. I’ve got an abscess in my

mouth the size of Miles’s wallet. But far from being locked, this is about

to blow and poison your lead singer …”

I’m babbling.

She calms me down, gets an ice pack from a waitress (well a

dishcloth full of ice which is just as effective) and asks the same waitress

where the nearest doctor’s office is.

“There’s a bunch of them on Van Ness” the waitress says, then

asks, “Do yuh have medical insurance?”

She then tells Annette just how many arms and legs it’s going to

cost for me to get medical treatment.

“I wouldn’t worry.” Annette tells me, “You’re probably exaggerating

the whole thing. You might not die. Let’s get you some aspirin and see

how you feel this afternoon.”

“Whereas I can’t say I’m entirely surprised that you’re willing to

gamble with my life, I’m telling you that if you don’t get me some medicaltreatment right fucking now I’m not playing or singing another sodding

note.”

I slam my fist down on the table, sending knives and forks flying

and adding a bruised thumb to my list of woes.

“Yuh should try the free clinic.” The waitress says, “It’s famous.

Started up treatin’ acid casualties.”

“Very appropriate.” Annette says, “You sa y it’s free?”“Yeah.”

“Where is it?”

As Miki is still glued to his bed, I insist on a ca b.

http://www.iceni.com/unlock-pro.htm





“This has better not be one of your fantasies.” Annette says as we

bounce and swerve our way down California Street.

“Yeah, I’ll do my best to almost die but not quite.” I say, slumped

down in my seat, a soggy, warm dish cloth pressed to my face.

At the reception desk a young punky girl with a pierced cheek

wants to know what drugs I’ve taken.

“You want a list?” I ask.

“Well, yeah.” She says.

“Okay. Well let me see, I suppose the first drug I did was coal gas,

bubbled through milk when I was about nine-years-old. That got you

pretty mixed up. I probably smoked my first hash when I was about –”

She holds up her hand.

“Please. Just the ones you’ve taken today. Okay?”

“Oh. Right.” I say, then summoning my best martyr expression, “I

should be so lucky. Look I’m in a lot of pain, so can I please get some

now. Anything you’ve got handy would be greatly appreciated.”

“You’ll have to see the doc for that.” She says. Then grabs her

purse and has a bit of a rummage.

“Hang on,” she says, “Might have some downers here somewhere.”

She looks up at me. “You’re cute.” She says in that direct way American

women have that still shocks me slightly. I smile and wince.

“Thanks. Look we’re playing the, er … “

“Mabuhay.” Annette supplies automatically.

“Yea. There. I’ll put you on the door if you like.”

“No need, honey.” she says, “I’m bartendi ng there tonight.” And she

hands me a couple of little yellow pills. “Percoce t.” She says.

“Please to meet you, er Percocet.” I say, “ That’s one of my most

favorite names.”

I dry swallow the pills.







By the time I get to see the doc I’m smiling, albeit a bit crookedly.

The doc is some long hair who looks like he’s taken more drugs than he’s

prescribed. I immediately take a liking to him.

“So you think you might get blood poisoning and die, eh?” he asks,

peering at his clipboard as if it’s a long way off.

“Right doc. Straight into the old ticker and before I know it I’ve

popped me Doc Martens.” I say.

“I have no idea what you just said.” He says, “However, your pupils

are dilated. What are you on?”

“Er, perco summat.” I say vaguely, hoping I won’t get the

receptionist chick into trouble. “Took the edge off the pain a bit. Nowhere

near enough though,” I add, “Feels like a morphine job to me Doc.”

“So that’s your expert diagnosis, is it? As a …” he peers at the

clipboard again, “singer guitarist.”

“’Sright.” I say, trying my best to look like a puppy badly in need of

a hug, or in this case, a drug.

“Well, as a medical professional I’d say you are in no immediate

danger. You need a dentist. And a couple of aspirin. Have a nicer day

man.”And he wanders off. I don’t really care that much because the

percocet has kicked up a notch and the ache in my jaw is now almost

pleasant, in a sick semi-sexual kind of way that’s hard to put my finger

on. I often find it hard to put my finger on sick semi-sexual pleasures,

although God knows it’s not for want of trying.


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A San Francisco Medical Adventure