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When In Williston....Just Don’t

First entry.  First attempt at writing a short story.  The following is a true story.  Obviously, names aren’t included.  I do welcome all feedback.  Please also share.

Here goes….

Fresh out of training, yet still in my probationary period dubbed first 120.  I began my embarquement from Seattle, Washington to Chicago, Illinois on my normal run called The Empire Builder.  The total journey would be 6-days; 3 there and 3 back.  Assigned to the Sleeper Car, I was in charge of first class services.  This entails providing services to 16 to 24 rooms with 1 to 5 passengers per room; making beds, to-go meals, luggage assist, etc.  I especially like working in the sleepers because of the direct customer contact.

This summer was proving to be an especially difficult one.  Continual track work bestowed us with countless delays.  This resulted in irritated passengers.  Still nothing I couldn’t handle.  Even as we entered Wolf Point, MT and I learned a tornado caused a freight liner to derail just ahead of us, I could still direct the mood of irritated passengers into a more positive one and keep people entertained.  

I guess I was too focused on the people and paid no attention to my arachnid homies, causing one to get especially bitter.  I asleep in my room, while Charlotte spun her web somewhere in the vicinity.  After a long day of whipping out some web, she must of developed a bad taste in her mouth.   

Through her several eyes, I can only guess she saw me as one of two things: An asshole who was keeping her trapped there, or a nice humid incubator where she could sink her teeth into a nice tender thigh.  Since Wilbur never gave her any bacon, after writing all those messages in the web, I assume she saw this as her one opportunity to get some good squealing in.  

I awoke with a burning sensation in between my legs.  Not that of a result of a great time with a complete stranger in a cheap hotel room.  But still one that would require countless antibiotics.  Where’s the fun in that?  I’m not sure whatever happened to Charlotte.  But I’m guessing after her journey to the nether regions of my southern hemisphere, she turned eight feet up and six feet under.  

Now me being me, I of course fell right back to sleep.  If the intruder alarm in my house won’t wake me up for long, chances are some heat near my hot pocket won’t wake me up either.  When I awoke though, I discovered Charlotte’s little parting gift for me.

Throughout the next several hours, I worked as normal.  Trying to ignore the pain of what started out as a pea-sized nob, and then had grown into a half-dollar sized coin.  By the night, I had started mastering the penguin waddle.  You skinny people might not get this reference.  But the penguin waddle is what us larger people do when chafing occurs in between the thighs.  As to not piss our ham hocks off any further, we keep our thighs close together and swish our hips, while keeping our legs straight in order to keep pain at a minimal.   I haven’t had to use this maneuver since my teenage years.  Luckily, it was like hopping on a bike after not being on one for a decade.  Oh the things I take pride in.

Going late into my 3-day, and still no where near Chicago, the abscess between my thighs had now grown to about 6-inches.  Still too scared to seek medical attention, I did find it in my better interest to let a crew member know just in case, you know, something worse could happen.  Despite his years of experience and vast knowledge of how Amtrak handles things, I still chose not to make management aware.  During the first 120, it was ingrained in our heads you will be fired for any mishap.  I must emphasize, this is not the case as I later learned.  

Our layover in Chicago, when on time is approximately 18-hours.  The delay from the derailment lowered that layover to approximately 4-hours.  I had planned on going to urgent care, getting an I&D, then leaving out on my return trip.  Unfortunately, I had just literally pulled a 24-hour shift, and was allotted 4-hours to do laundry, take a hot bath, nap for 1-hour and then return to work the train going back.  I was riding myself hard and putting me away wet.  

The wound had now spread from my groin to knee and was the most beautiful color of dark purple, had it not been my flesh.  Full car coming back, there would be no rest for this wicked man.  

In the distance, I heard the sound of a call light go off.  As it was lunch time, this could only mean they wanted to order their food to-go as opposed to being normal people and eating in the dining car.  Normally I wouldn’t be so irritated by such an easy request.  But my time back on this bicycle was making my ass more tender than veil.  

After collecting their order and returning with their food, I knocked on their door.  The vibrations of the knocking must of set off the richter scale because a splitting of the plates happened.  I ruptured.  The man answered the door with the biggest smile.  Those fresh burgers for him and his girlfriend had finally arrived.  And how he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into them.

Yes he was greeted with that, but no.  There would be no smell of fresh angus beef and bacon in the air.  There would be that of the foul stench of the walking dead.  I dare not say what just happened.  We both looked at each other as if to say “What hell did you eat?”.  He knew it wasn’t him.  I knew it was me.  But he didn’t know that.  I gave him the look like it was him.  Which I hope made him believe it was his girlfriend.  Both our faces wrinkled to the point of needing an immediate injection of botox.  We still managed to exchange product for gratuity.  If they are still together, I won’t ever know.  

I was at a loss.  There was no more penguin waddle left in me.  I could only now slither like a slug to the nearest shower room and play doctor with my first aid kit.  I texted my partner in crime to let him know that an act of God had just occurred.  And thank goodness because we were approaching our next stop and I had to let passengers on and off.  There was no way I was going to help people with sappy, soupy pants on with the fragrance of that one wouldn’t even smell in a soup kitchen.  

Now seriousness was going to have to take place.  There was no further thing I could do but seek medical attention.

“Good afternoon passengers” came across over the PA system.  “Our next station stop will be Williston, North Dakota.”  

This was to be my stop.  The conductor had called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital.  I had only had about 15-minutes to pack my room, dress my wounds, dress myself and be available at the door.  Oh, and please don’t forget that I’m still only one 1-hour of sleep.  

As I stood there waiting for that next station stop, my passengers had began to cluster around the vestibule area, eager to step off the train, have that much desired cigarette, and of course witness my grand exit.  

I open the door upon arrival and before me are approximately 14 paramedics.  Not quite the paparazzi, but still very intimidating.  Then the press conference begins.

“Why is it you think you need an ambulance?” the one reporter boasted.

“I beg your pardon?”  What the hell kind of question is that?

“Why do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

Am I interviewing for a patient position, I thought.  I turned and look behind me to see my passengers just a chomping at the popcorn, anticipating what I was going to say next.  Well I’m sorry to disappoint.  But your not going to hear me say “Oh I have a compromised immune system and a wound the size of my fucking thigh just blew up in my thigh and I thought this would just be the next fun thing to do in my day.”

“I’ll be more than happy to answer that questions on our way to the hospital without an audience.”  I assertively replied.  

While dancing in the back of the ambulance to every pothole on the road, someone must have heard me say “I have ebola”, because when I got to the hospital, every person was wearing thick gowns, spit guards, and filtered masks.  I’m now so emotionally distraught, and tired, I have no idea what to do.  

I then was blessed to meet probably the only person with a brain, the PA who walked in asking why she felt she was on a movie set instead of a hospital.  As the lambs started “baaaaaaaaaahing” out their reasons, she quickly schooled them and said contact precautions as normal.  None of this additional crap is necessary.  She then looks at my wound and says “Cellulitis and possible MRSA.”  Oh Christ, I thought.  My next emotion was to cry.  Apparently this was something they didn’t know how to handle.  Well not handle so much as acknowledge.  

Because at this moment, I had learned Nurse Ratched had continued her education, becoming a doctor, my doctor and was standing before me.  “If we don’t keep you here, what is it you think you’re going to do?”

I didn't understand the question.  Yes, it was to the point.  I just didn’t see how it related to me.  “What do you mean, what am I going to do?”

“Well do you think Amtrak is going to just give you another ticket?  What are you doing to do?”

Despite Nurse Ratched’s continued education, I noticed she still somehow must have missed any courses involving bedside manner.  It feared me though that once I explained I was an employee and fully insured, how quickly her tune changed.  But that wasn’t a hill I was ready to climb.

While being admitted as an inpatient, I had understandingly fallen asleep to only be awoken by the Hospitalist, a harpy I dubbed Olga the Oger.  “Michael, we need to talk.”

I fumbled to awaken myself.  SInce my bladder felt as if to explode, this initial task was a bit easier.  “I need to use the restroom first.”

I’m not sure what kind of fetishes this harpy had, but she grabs a urinal,sits it in front of me, then sits down herself, giving me the strongest execution of poker face I had ever seen.

“Without an audience.” I commanded.  

While waiting for her to come back in the room, flapping her wings to perch in her nest, I fell back asleep.  Then again with that same shrill I heard “Michael, I said we needed to talk.”

Hold up.  What’s that?  No ma’am.  You obviously don’t know who I am.  It was at that moment my hummingbird ass was put to rest by my alligator mouth.  I couldn’t believe I had it in me.  The harpy looked down, looked at me in the eyes, then said “I am getting security.  I don’t feel safe with you in the room.”

Security must have been busy fighting the meth monsters from the emergency room.  Because she came back with no soldiers.  Which I was fine with.  I grabbed my big boy britches, apologized and proceeded our discussions.

Three more times she ran out of my room in fear.  No my friends, not from my hot temper.  But to change every order she had already written for me because she failed to find out my allergies beforehand.  I was starting to feel that Charlotte and I were going to be seeing each other again in the after life by the way things were going.

Well I survived the that 5-day stay in the hospital.  But no.  Mount Fiji had yet to be conquered.  My final night in Williston was to be at a hotel.  Work had generously called me cab to take me to the Ritz, no Discount something or other inn.

As I stand there waiting for my chariot to arrive, a strong sense of anxiety consumed me as I saw this black SUV come racing towards me.  Oh God.  This can’t be my cab.  I found placing my luggage in the back to be especially easy as the the whole back window had been busted out.  Upon entering the cab, I took notice to the several inches of dirt and dead insects upon my bench.  I especially loved that my “driver” rhythmically licked and chewed his lips as if they were two cheeseburgers from the best burger joint in town.

“Now they told me you would need a receipt.  I told them we give receipts on cards.”

Fair enough I thought.  Wait….What’s this.  Lip Licker hands me the card of a female real estate broker who specializes in short sales at Remax.  On the back of my card it says Cab Fare $17.00 and a signature.  Oh yeah.  Accounting will look at this like seeing a turd floating in a punch bowl.  

Thank Christ, I’m at the hotel!  I walk in to see the accommodations were doable.  Not the Ritz as I dreamed.  But after my week, a cardboard box set up in the middle lane of a highway in a rainstorm wouldn’t seem so disappointing.  “Sir.  We have your complimentary dinner available for you in the hallway over there.”

Dinner in the hallway?  Oh hell yeah!   Jackpot.  I couldn’t wait.  As I stand in line behind every roughneck in the state acting like vultures before 3 metal canisters, I couldn’t hardly wait to see what lottery winnings I could be consuming.  Door number one had something that I think might have been tuna.  Whatever it was, it was shredded, white, and crusty on top.  Behind door number two, chicken so oily, had I dropped it, Foghorn Leghorn would have slid straight to the Canadian Border.  Then behind door number three, corn dogs so hard, I could speer someone’s eyes out from across the room.  I figured between the preservatives, and the 600 different antibiotics running through my system, the speers would be the best way to go.

Oh let the C-Diff begin!!!!

It’s safe to assume, if I’m ever bit again, by anything, I’ll probably not wait so long to address it.  Maybe I’ll start asking for directions too.