In the Beginning

When Rico came out of the alcoholic blackout, the only problem he had was that the car he was driving had left the road about one hundred feet back. The car was traveling through the rocks and trees at about sixty miles an hour and was coming apart all around him. The first time the car rolled over on its top, the windshield exploded in his face. The second time the car rolled, the back of the seat he had been seat-belted into broke in half, and he was thrown into the backseat. The third time the car rolled, the roof was crunched down around the steering wheel and seat where he had been a few minutes before, smashing him flat between the seat and the flattened roof with his feet sticking out of the back window. The car slammed into the bottom of the ravine with an explosive impact that echoed through the mountain slopes. When the car finally came to rest, its weight pinned his legs and feet in the mud and rocks of the mountain stream that was at the bottom of the ravine that he had just descended.

The dead silence that followed was broken only by the tick of the cooling metal and the spinning of a single wheel that lasted for only a few minutes. The gurgle of the stream became the only sound for many, many minutes.

Slowly there was a digging, a struggling in the water and mud under the car. It became more insistent as he displaced rocks and mud and had more room to struggle. The struggle became shoving back and forth to gain more space with each effort, until a last wrenching pull brought a sucking sound that meant freedom.

Rico was inside the backseat of the car, still trapped by the car resting on its crushed roof. Then came the pounding blows that struck again and again against the unyielding metal. Slowly the rear door on the driver's side of the car began to jolt open, inch by inch, imperceptibly at first, then wider. Until at last, a narrow slot of only perhaps eight inches or so opened, enough for him to stick his head through, then to wriggle his shoulders and then hips through to freedom.

He stood by the side of the car for some time, marveling at its total destruction. Every piece of glass in the car was shattered. The roof was smashed down to the level of the hood and trunk. The backseat was filled with shattered glass and his blood.

He turned to climb up the slope of the ravine to try to hitch a ride into town. He climbed up about three-quarters of the way up and fell back down again. He picked himself up and limped over to a rock.

He was in no better shape than the car. His hair and ears were full of gravel. He had a bruise the size of a television set across his back. He had a hematoma, a swelling the size of half a cantaloupe on his right hip that had been split by the glass. The gashes laid open the muscle all the way to the bone, and blood flowed freely out of them. As he watched, the edges of the gashes began to close, slowly at first and then with gathering speed, working toward the middle and the ultimate closing of the gashes.

He sat cross-legged on the mountain rock, watching his own blood run down the mossy surface and thought, I have got to cut this shit out.

The Hospital

Rico pulled himself up and walked over to the car. He reached into the backseat to the place under the front seat. From there he pulled out a bottle of clear vodka, about one-half empty. He removed the lid and took two deep swallows. He then put the lid back on and threw the bottle into the stream so the police would not find it when they searched the car. He then reached down to the stream and brought up several handfuls of water to his mouth and face, rinsing and washing them so that the police would not smell the vodka on his breath. Oh well, he thought, vodka doesn't smell anyway.

He began the climb up the slope of the ravine to the highway. The steep slope, the rocks and bushes, and the pain of his injuries made the climb long and painful. Finally, he broke the crest of the road and pulled himself up on the shoulder. Slowly he pulled himself up to his feet and stood as erect as he could. He heard shouts behind him and turned to see a uniformed state patrolman running toward him. He looked down at the hematoma on his right hip and noticed that the cuts had not quite healed and closed. Good, he thought, it will not draw too much attention or alarm. As he watched, the healing ceased.

"Is there anybody else down there?" the patrolman asked.

"No, I am alone."

"Thank God. We have been searching the sides of the bank because someone reported that the car went over, but it was too far down the ravine for us to tell where it ended up. Are you okay?"

Rico sank to his knees and then to a sitting position. The patrolman leaned over and put his arm around his shoulders and kept him from going the rest of the way down to a reclining position.

"Yeah, thank God."

"Hang on. There is an ambulance on its way. You don't look in too bad of shape for the ride you've just taken. You must be the first sober person in ten years who has gone off that curve. Usually it catches the drunks trying to get over the mountain. Must have caught you because you aren't from around here."

"I hit that patch of loose gravel, spun out, and went over the edge."

It sounded good.

The ride down to the town and hospital was made in silence. The attendants were more interested in his vital signs than they were the details of any harrowing story. Based upon the description of the wreck that they had received on the radio and their experience with the mountain wrecks in that vicinity, they had expected something in the range of massive injury or death. They were visibly relieved at the lack of such after their assessment.

At the hospital, he was wheeled into the emergency room and placed on a gurney. He watched with interest as the doctor sewed up what was left of the cuts on the hematoma. The doctor was alarmed and asked several times if he had been administered anesthesia. Assured by the lack of any sign of discomfort, the doctor finished and went home.

The state patrolman came by as Rico came out of the emergency room and apologized for having to give him the ticket. Improper mountain driving, and if he had a clean record, they would allow him to plead it down to something insignificant. He thanked the officer for his help and was wheeled to his room.

Elaina saw him for the first time when she came to check on his vital signs at the start of her shift as night nurse. He said little as she went about her work, polite without revealing anything other than answers to direct questions. She had little time during her shift to check back in on him, but he stayed on her mind. The odd looks, unidentifiable ethnic group, dark without being swarthy, blue eyes, high cheekbones, small nose. She was attracted but professionally distant. She needed this job; no need to go off and do something dumb, no matter how tempting. But she did like the burly, rugged types, not the pretty boys. As she checked his stitches, she noted that he certainly was that.

Close to midnight, she found the night telephone operator leaning against the doorjamb of his room, silently watching him. Asked what she was doing, the operator said she just wanted to see what he looked like. Why?

It seemed that he had had calls from four or five different females during the hour and a half since...