Guinea Pig

My friend Ryan told me about it. Said you could make a hundred bucks a day easy, sometimes more. Making loads they said sitting around doing nothing. What's the harm in making money? Ryan said the people that did it were pretty cool. It's not like it could kill you or anything. Maybe I could pay my bills for once and not have to ask Ma all the time for money.

The ad read:

Human Subjects Needed
Medical Testing
Volunteers must be healthy and pass physical exam
Compensation available
850-559-7026

I ripped the ad out of Ma's newspaper one Tuesday morning when I stopped by to drag her garbage to the curb. It sounded like the same place Ryan told me about. He'd been going on Mondays to this place and just sitting around letting them take blood. He said he had to take a pill but that was it, and they paid him two hundred bucks. Pill didn't affect him at all. Said he didn't even get high. He just sat around playing video games and eating bad cafeteria food. The food was free, though. I cut the corner of the phone number ripping the ad like that—my hands were freezing and I didn't have gloves—but I got all the numbers and shoved it in my pocket before Ma could see. She can't drag her garbage to the corner anymore. So I go over at six in the morning on Tuesdays and drag it out because I don't want the neighbors to see an old woman with an arm in a cast wrestling with a trash barrel when her good for nothing unemployed son doesn't lift a finger. It doesn't matter how many jobs I get. I'm still good for nothing and unemployed. Once a screw up, always a screw up. Like the time I made it to the state wrestling championship in high school and didn't make weight. I was so hungry from starving myself that I stuffed down two chili dogs at the concession stand. Eliminated. Like oversleeping the morning of my math final my senior year. They made me walk at the back of the line at graduation like a complete loser. Ma said it was better, though, because she knew where to look for me. Like all the jobs I've been fired from. Mess up after mess up, that's me.

So I called the number and made an appointment the next day. They said I had to go through a full physical exam, fill out forms and stuff, and have an interview. I had to lie about a bunch of stuff like how much I drink and if I smoke. I figured they'd never know and the other guys I know who do this are in no better shape than me. I've seen Ryan smoke weed every weekend since the 8th grade. I called in sick to Kroger's that morning. Told Jamie he'd have to get someone else to meet the deliveries because I was puking. He didn't sound like he believed me but he didn't threaten me so I figured I got away with it. I made a little gagging sound as I was hanging up the phone.

The lab was located in a strip mall across town. It looked like a normal business from outside with a small sign in the window with their hours, and the inside was like a funeral parlor. They had nice couches and little rugs and side tables. The magazines were newish and classical music was playing from somewhere. It made me want to take a nap right there. The paperwork took about an hour with the same questions again and again. Those fancy hard chairs made my back hurt, and I had to scratch my cheap pen on the side of the form to get more ink out. A lot of other people kept coming in for the testing, but some of them were turned away. I think it's because they smelled like alcohol and looked homeless. One guy could barely stand up. He swung open the doors and yelled, "I'm here for the medical testing! I'll be your guinea pig!" He stunk so bad. Like rancid meat. I hid my nose in my coat. The receptionist stood up quick and said, "Sir, you'll need to leave or I'll call the police again." She didn't seem all that bothered.

After the medical history, a nurse in scrubs came in to get me for a "blood draw." Her scrubs were yellow and they had little ducks all over them. I'd like a job like that, where I could wear my pajamas all day. Except I wouldn't want the blood and needles and bedpan. Ryan said that sometimes the nurses aren't very good at taking the blood and they have to stick you a lot. He showed me his arm and it looked like someone had taken a meat tenderizer to it. This nurse was cool as a cucumber. She even yawned and looked up at the clock while my blood filled eight little tubes. It made me queasy because I hadn't had anything except a cigarette for breakfast. "You need to eat before you come in," the nurse said. She didn't ask if I had had breakfast. She just told me to do it. I figured she'd seen enough faces go white after the blood thing to know. Then they weighed me and put that arm thing on that pumps up and squeezes till it hurts. I minded that more than the blood.

*

And here I am a year later. A guinea pig. A rat for hire. I've made okay money at it, but to tell you the truth, I'm done. I hate lying to Ma all the time. I hate the way she looks at me and shakes her head. I hate being a constant disappointment, like everything else in her life. I feel sleazy every time she asks where I am or what I'm doing. I should be doing something with my life and this isn't it. So I'm going to quit soon, I've decided. The problem right now is the scars and the blurry stuff I keep getting in my eyes. Ma saw those track marks on my arm this morning when I was dragging her trash out and lifted her eyebrows at me. "I'm not using drugs, Ma," I said. "I'm not." My voice was whiny and she just kept eyeballing me. I pulled my sleeves down and grabbed the barrel. It clanged on the cement and bounced back and forth as I pulled it too hard. The lid flew off and made a bunch of noise hitting the driveway. I picked up the lid and banged it hard on the metal can.

"Then, what, Jeffrey? Why do you look like that?" She stood at the screen door smoking. "Your eyes are all pink again." She exhaled and the cloud made her cough. She stamped out her cigarette on the ground and held her housecoat tight at her throat with her good hand. She was shivering beneath the thin cotton. It reminded me of a hospital gown. Pink and yellow triangles smashing into each other. I could probably get her some of those duck-covered scrubs for free.

"It's nothing, Ma. I'm paying my bills. I'm doin' fine. Lay off."

"Then why do you look like that? You look terrible, Jeffrey."

"Thanks, Ma. Just forget it."
"How can I forget it when you look like you're doing drugs? How can a mother just forget that? You're my son, Jeffrey."

"Forget it, Ma. I'm fine." I tried to push past her in the doorway but she stood there with her good arm in the way.

"Ma," I said. "Come on. I'm going to be late."

"Well, I don't see why a mother can't ask her son a question."
"Just not today, Ma. I gotta go."

"What's wrong with the back of your head?"

"Nothing's wrong with the back of my head. They're just little shaved spots, Ma. It doesn't hurt. I gotta go, Ma." I leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. She watched me walk up to my car and get in and try to start the engine. The car choked a few times and coughed out a cloud of black smoke. It jumped forward as I put my foot on the gas. Ma just stood there in the cold holding the door open.

*

When people see me like this working at Kr oger's, they think I'm a cancer patient or something. Why would a cancer patient have a job stocking shelves and lifting boxes? I can feel them looking at me, so I pull my hat down harder to hide the bald spots. They'll walk around me and try to hush their kids up. "Why's that man have pink eyes, Mommy? Why are his arms all bruised?" That's when I know it's all gone too far. That's when I know I'm going to quit soon. Renting my body for cash is better than a lot of other jobs, though, that do basically the same thing. Fashion model. Professional Athlete. Prostitute. They sell their bodies, too.

So I'm thinking again about quitting when I pull into the parking lot of Mercy Medical. I see Ryan's car. Sarah's too. It's not that hard to tell the guinea pig cars from the doctors and nurses if you know what I mean. Sarah's bumper sticker says My Karma Ran Over Your Dogma. She's parked her Honda sideways across two spots like another ding would hurt the damn thing. We call Sarah a Brain Slut because she'll do the stuff the rest of us won't. Like psych drugs. I saw her foam at the mouth once. Another time she couldn't remember her own name. Ryan and I draw the line at taking pills that mess up your brain. Psych drugs are no good. Do almost anything you want to my body but not my brain. We stick to the procedures and pills mostly. The easy ones are the ones that they'll pay you to do so that interns can practice on a real body. The worst one I've done was the spinal tap one. That one hurt like shit, but they paid me two hundred bucks a pop so I shut up. I had to stay still while they put this long fucking needle in my back. It felt like they were pulling juice out of my toes. The good part was that it only took about an hour and I didn't have to sit around all day while they watched me and took notes. I don't mind the sitting around part but I don't like the watching part. I've got this last study that will be over by the weekend—a new drug for big money—and then that's it. I'm out. Game over. I'm tired of it all. I'll try to take on more hours at Kroger's. I'll move back in with Ma if I can't make my rent. She needs the help anyway. Maybe Jamie will train me to be a cashier if I stop calling in sick. Maybe I'll get back into music. Maybe I'll take some art classes at the community college.

The double glass doors open in front of me. I see my reflection and think Ma was right. I do look like shit. My eyes are watering from the cold and I need a shave. I may even have lost a few pounds, which I really couldn't afford. I pull my ball cap down to hide my greasy hair.

"Morning, Sandy." I drop my backpack on the counter and lean over it.

"Got a sandwich in there for me, Jeff? Did you pack my lunch?"

"Not a chance," I tell her. Sandy always makes me smile. She's a big black lady with beaded braids down her back that shake when she laughs. She throws her whole head back and the beads smash together and click, click, click. I showed her some of my drawings once and she liked them. I want to draw her one day. Sometimes she keeps my bag behind the front counter if I can't keep it with me. Otherwise I use the lab rat lockers, but they can get busted into, especially if there is a group on restricted diet. Sometimes the animals get so hungry they break into everything, looking for a snack. One time last year when I first started guinea pigging a group was paid seventy five hundred big ones for a five-week study and they were put under a kind of house arrest. The place turned into Animal House by the third week and they started stealing cookies and chips and hiding them everywhere. You could roam the guinea pig floor at 2 a.m. and see them all up gorging on Cheetos and playing Halo till their eyes burned. I'd like to think I wouldn't do something like that. The Halo thing, yes, but someone telling me what I can and can't eat, no. I have my standards and I've mostly stuck to them in the last year: no studies longer than a week, no psych drugs, and nothing up my ass. Ryan thinks my last rule is ridiculous. I think Ryan'll do anything for friends, including a tube into an orifice that should only be an exit. He's a lonely guy, that Ryan. Lonely enough to love being a guinea pig.

"You'll let them stick tubes down your throat that make you puke for $100 but not a tube up your ass for $200. That don't make sense." Ryan's only rule is the no brain drugs. He once did a two weeker with twice a day endoscopies for a grand. He said it was easy money but I know he had to drink milkshakes the whole time because his throat hurt so bad. And they only gave him Versed three times a day. Versed's good stuff but it ain't worth that.

I hit the button for the 13th floor and pull my hat down again. A kid on the elevator keeps staring at the back of my head. I can see him in the mirrored doors, so I stare back. The door makes a ding sound as it opens into the waiting room. The kid looks away first. I was prepared to keep riding up if he didn't. I scan the room and nod at some of the other regular guinea pigs. Jake, Sammy, Vanessa. They're all sprawled in the chairs. Some of them are napping on the floor with their bags as pillows. There are some homeless guys sleeping in our normal corner. Ryan's sitting by the vending machine. He sees me and waves me over so I take the chair next to him.

"Why's it so crowded today?" I ask.

"Amarynth Lab shut down yesterday. Some ethics thing again. They had to move the illegals here to finish. Illegal aliens gotta eat, too. That's what I heard," Ryan answers. He shuffles his cards again and lays out a new game of Solitaire. Ryan and I worked the Amarynth Lab a few months ago and hated it. But we both needed a break from procedures. So pills it was. The nurses never smiled over there. They were all business and the paperwork was a pain in the ass. We only agreed to do the Amarynth Lab because they got a B rating in the Guinea Pig Weekly Zine. Ryan's always spouting off stuff from the zine. He thinks an online trade magazine makes us professionals. "Professional what?" I asked him.

"Professional guinea pigs. Hey, we make more than our high school teachers. So there," Ryan said. Like we're noble human servants or some bullshit like that. Ryan loves the ratings in the zine. He memorizes them like sports stats. The Amarynth Lab was worth the money but we like the 13th floor of Mercy Med best. I think the zine gave this place a C only because you have to share rooms sometimes. And there was that TB outbreak six months ago. When pigs report stuff like that to the zine, the lab ratings go way down. Ryan and I know the staff here and they goof off a lot. They aren't as strict about rules either. And they have pool tables. Ryan likes to hustle some of the new guys. He introduces himself like a helpful tour guide. "Name's Ryan," he says, "you need anything, let me know." I swear to God I think he believes himself. Like we are one big fucking family. He says hustling is his way of making tips on top of his compensation. That's what they call guinea pig money. Like whatever they do to us is okay as long as we're compensated.

Sarah stands up from a group of illegals on the floor and comes over to sit with Ryan and me. She's wearing some hippie skirt and her hair looks like it hasn't been combed in weeks. She pulls a navy blue bandana out of her pack and does her hair up in it. "Got a cigarette?" she asks. I slip Sarah a cigarette and she puts it in her pack for later. Ryan shakes his head at me and I shrug my shoulders like What? She asked for it. Ryan looks away. It's not my fault Sarah's grandma has lung cancer. It's not my fault she smokes. And it's not my fault that guinea pigging is a shitty way to pay for your dying grandma's drugs.

"Those reporting for the Claxton-Brown drug trial please follow me," a nurse says reading from her clipboard. I turn around in my chair and see her blonde bob and caked makeup. It's Kathy, who Ryan's got a thing for, and she's wearing her hot pink scrubs. "Blood work first. Sleeves up, everyone."

Ryan and I join the line snaking around the front desk. Sarah's a few people behind us. She's got her ear buds in now and she's moving her arms to the Grateful Dead. Sarah's always listening to the Dead and belting out their lyrics like a lecture, like they're fucking profound. Let your life proceed by its own design. Nothing to tell now. Let these words be yours, I'm done with mine. Done with mine. She looks high but I don't think she is. Another nurse hands out clipboards so we can do the paperwork while we wait for our blood to be drawn. A guy in the back calls for a pen. Most of us carry our own.

"Sleeves up, gentlemen," Kathy says. She smiles a little. She puts on new gloves and unpacks the syringes. Ryan sits opposite her and I hold his bag.

"Hey, Kathy. How come you never give us pregnancy tests, too?" Ryan asks.

"You want to pee on a stick, Ryan, I can arrange that. But I'll tell you now that you aren't pregnant," Kathy says. She unties the rubber band and lets it snap hard against Ryan's arm. He winces but doesn't say a word. "Sorry," she says but I don't think she is. I sit down in the seat Ryan just got up from. The plastic is still warm from him. I roll up my right arm sleeve and Kathy shakes her head.

"The other one doesn't look any prettier," I say but I roll up the other sleeve also. "That new nurse, whatser' name? Joan. Jane. Jesse. She couldn't get a vein last week. Stuck me six times. Said they'd all collapsed. She just didn't know what she was doing was all, though." Kathy doesn't say a word. She just pulls on new gloves and unpacks a new syringe kit.

"Your number?" Kathy asks when she releases the plastic band. She holds the other end so it doesn't snap my skin.

"65789211," I answer. She types it into the computer and the printer spits out a label with my name, number, and assignment.

"Do you know what it is?" I ask.

"Nope. Three pills a day. Unlimited meals. Three days. That's all I know."

"Sounds like painkillers," Ryan says. He holds up his hand for a high five. I ignore him.

"It's not painkillers," Kathy says. "Claxton brought in their own team of doctors to observe. Painkillers they'd let us do. This is something else."

Ryan and I join the line to turn in our paperwork. We shuffle forward a few steps every couple of minutes. I press play on my CD player and listen to old school Metallica and close my eyes. Ryan reads printed pages from the latest Guinea Pig Weekly Zine. He keeps trying to interrupt my jam and tell me some fascinating news from other guinea pigs. "Look here," Ryan says pointing to a paragraph he's highlighted with yellow marker, "some guinea pigs are trying to form a union. We should join that, Jeff. We should have our own." I just don't want to know.

He taps me on the shoulder to get my attention. "Hey. Why are people leaving?" He nods at the front of the line. After registering, people should be going through the double swing doors to check-in. Boring info session, pills, tests, breakfast. That's what we always do. But only a few are making it through the doors. Most are being sent back out to the lobby to wait or being turned away.

"They must only need a few pigs. Must be a Phase I." Ryan and I haven't done Phase I's much but this study's paying $300 a day and we're determined to be in. We hold our place in line and count how many get through the door. Ryan puts his paperwork on the counter first. The nurse checks his blood work, writes something on his chart, and prints off a label for him to wear. He waits to see if I make it through, too, and when he sees that I'm clear, we agree to meet for breakfast after orientation.

The Orientation room looks like all the other rooms on the 13th floor. Pale walls, sterile smell, ugly fake leather furniture. There is a big screen TV in the front and a guy drones on about the possible benefits of this study. They keep showing crippled guys suddenly walking down the street like kids again. "And that's when Claxton-Brown's research changed my life," some bald old guy in a red plaid jacket says. He glances toward his wheelchair and then walks out the door without it. Birds are singing and stuff. Who believes this shit? That's what I want to know. After the video, a nurse reads a description of monoclonal antibodies. I've tested those in the past. They do them on us first to see if they kill us before they give them to the cancer patients who are dying anyway. Ryan and I lock eyes and nod at each other. We've done this before. No big deal. Ryan got bad headaches last time but that was it. Headaches are nothing. I've seen guys piss blood. I once saw a homeless guy have a seizure but they said it was him, not the drug. Problem is if you tell a nurse, sometimes they'll pull you from the study. And if you don't make it to the end, forget about the big bucks. The trick is to just have mild enough side effects that they'll give you a painkiller or two. There's not much better than watching Lord of the Rings three times in a row on Oxycontin.
After the info session and the paperwork where we promise not to sue if they kill us, I find Ryan in the breakfast room at the end of the hall. We'll get our first pills in about an hour, but they like us to take them on full stomachs. Cuts down on the side effects. Ryan's in a corner shoving bacon and eggs in his mouth like he hasn't eaten in a month. "You hungry much?" I ask pointing to the three trays of food on his table. "Is one for me?"

"Nope. Get your own. There's plenty." Ryan waves a fork at the steaming metal carts of food. Cafeteria workers stand in the clouds of moist air with metal spoons. I grab a tray and watch them load it full of scrambled eggs, hash browns, biscuits, and gravy. It's all a dull yellow color but hey, it's hot and it's food and it's free. Claxton wants our bellies full and our side effects minimal.

"What's the word on the drug?" I ask pulling up a chair next to Ryan.

"Don't know. Don't care." Ryan starts on his second tray.

"Come on. You've heard something." I dig my fork into the powdered eggs.

"Kathy said there were ten of us. This drug costs a fortune, she said."

"Did Sarah get in?" I lean back in my chair and look around the room. I don't see her at the regular tables. I know she needed this one bad to pay a hospital bill. Her grandma was in for two rounds of chemo. This money will just about cover that.

"She's out back. Having her last smoke. Thanks to you," Ryan answers.

A voice comes on the intercom calling us for our first pills. It's Kathy's voice and Ryan just sits back and smiles.

One thing I haven't seen before is paperwork like this. Like I'm going to read all the lawyer talk. I don't think it matters anyway. If something did happen, these guys have more lawyer money than me and more ways to screw us pigs. It just wouldn't matter. And that's the risk we take. It pays the bills and means I don't have to live with Ma. So bring it on. I'll sign it.

Kathy is standing in front of a metal push cart with a tray of pills sorted into small white cups. Some of us get the drugs, some of us don't. They say we won't know who, but we usually do. If your mouth fills up with cotton, you've swallowed the drug. If it doesn't, you got the sugar pill. Kathy's reading more drug talk outloud and she sounds as bored with it as we are.

She hands us each a manila envelope and a consent form. Ryan and I sign without opening the envelope. A few of the new guys hang back and you can tell from their faces they are reading the list of possible side effects: shallow breathing, hallucinations or confusion; chest pain, dizziness, fainting, fast or pounding heartbeat; trouble breathing, feeling light-headed, or fainting, skin irritations, rash, swelling of the face, lips, tongue, or throat…blah, blah, blah. I know what it says. I know that sinking feeling inside your stomach that makes you want to run. I'll be running after this one. Before Ma finds out. This is it for me, I repeat in my head. Back to the real world. Back to minimum wage. It would kill Ma if she knew. I figure at least bagging groceries and stocking shelves helps people put food on their table. It's a service, you know? I like that idea.

Finally, another nurse calls out our names and we each step forward to sign another waiver and take a pill. Ryan's in the back of the line because of his last name, Valentine. I'm first as an Adams. Sarah is somewhere in the middle. Mitchell. We all wait for each other and head to the game room. "Betcha I can beat your sorry ass at pool," Sarah says nudging Ryan's arm.

"You're on and you're a loser," Ryan says chalking his cue.

I stand with my hands in my pockets and watch. "I'll play the winner of you two losers," I say. I plop myself down onto one of the couches lining the room and close my eyes. I'm so sleepy all of a sudden, but I don't know if it's the pill or the big meal. I listen to the clicks each time the pool balls collide and the swish when they fall into the mesh pockets.

My eyes snap open when I hear all the voices. "It's just a headache," Ryan says. He's sitting on the couch across from me. Kathy and another nurse are standing over him. Kathy's putting on a blood pressure cuff and the other nurse is writing stuff down on her clipboard. Sarah sinks into the couch next to me.

"Dude. He was fine one minute and then out of it the next. He says it's just a headache," Sarah says. Her voice is small and quiet. She stares at Ryan and scrunches up her eyebrows.

"What happened?" I ask. I wipe at some of the crusty drool on my cheek. "How long did I sleep?"

"Three games. I beat him every one. Must be a bad day. Ryan never loses. He kept saying his head hurt, though. And then on my last shot, he just put down the stick and laid down on the couch. I called the nurses. I thought he was just trying to stop me from winning three in a row."

"He gets those headaches. Remember last summer when we did that nasal decongestant thing and he said his head hurt the whole time? I thought he just wanted a painkiller." Kathy looks at me and then looks away real quick. She's thinking something, I can tell, but she's not saying anything.

"Where's he going?" I call to Kathy.

"We're just taking him to a bed to rest. It's probably nothing. Paperwork, you know. We've got five rooms on the left wing for you guys to check into. The doctor will have to fill out an AE. You can visit him later," Kathy says. Ryan is sitting in a wheelchair, which sounds alarming, I know, but is just hospital procedure for everything. It's part of AE protocol. The minute they have to call a doctor for an AE, which stands for adverse effects report, you have to sit in the wheelchair, even if you can still walk. Whenever you start feeling anything, they want you to lie down to minimize the effects. Most people don't puke when they're lying real still and it's hard to feel nauseous if you're just staring at a ceiling. Ryan and I joke that if you want to take a piss here, you have to either go in a bedpan or aim high in an arc from a wheelchair.

Sarah and I follow Ryan in his wheelchair down the hall. When we reach a room, Kathy helps him onto a bed. He curls up in a ball and closes his eyes. "Let's just let him rest awhile," Kathy says. She brushes my shoulder with her arm as she walks past. I stand in the doorway with my hands shoved in my pockets. Sarah pulls out a sucker, sticks it in her mouth, and says she'll be in the TV room. I don't believe her. I know this is her chance to steal stuff while the nurses watch Ryan. I don't know what she takes and I don't want to know. Probably stuff for her grandma is my guess. I decide to call Ma and let her know I won't be by for a couple of days. The phone rings three times before she answers.

"Hello?"

"Ma. It's me."

"What's all that noise? Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Ma. I'm visiting a friend. Sarah. Nothing's wrong."

"You call from the hospital and want me to believe nothing's wrong? Sick people go to hospitals, Jeffrey. Can't a mom worry about her own son?"

"Yeah, Ma. But I'm fine. I told you. Ryan and I are going on a road trip. Up north. To see some bands. I'll call you then. Okay?"

"Just like that, Jeffrey? A road trip? What about work? Do you need money? If it's money—" Like she has any, I think.

"I'm fine, Ma. I told you. Jamie gave me a few days off. It's just for fun. Nothing's going to happen. I'll stop by Friday morning. I'll see you then."

"Well, fine, Jeffrey. I'll just worry until then. Friday. Fine."

"Bye, Ma."

She just sat there on the phone waiting for me to say something else. I could hear her inhaling and exhaling her cigarette.

"Bye, Ma." I close my phone and feel like shit. I always feel worse after talking to Ma. I feel like the word disappointment is written across my forehead. I walk back to my locker and pull out my pencils and sit at the little round table in the corner. Most guys these days are using computers but I still like paper and pencil for my drafts. That's what I want to do when I get out of here. Maybe I'll finish a few of my drawings and send them somewhere. I've never even tried. I'd like to at least try.

So I'm coloring in a woman's face when my vision goes double. I blink hard a few times but it won't go away. I shake my head and close my eyes, but when I open them again, it's worse. I lean back in my chair and try to see through the door to the nurse's station. I'm not sure if I can walk there. "Kathy?" I call. "Nurse?" My chair falls out from under me.

*

When I wake up, I'm in a bed in a room by myself. The sunlight is blinding and I close my eyes but I can still see the orange rim of the sun through my lids. I can't feel anything else. And then it hits me. I can't feel anything else. My head feels heavy and everything is fuzzy. I'm not seeing double anymore, though. I open one eye and look around for a call button. "Nurse? Hello? Anyone?" I call out. A nurse comes through the door with a clipboard. It's not Kathy.

"Mr. Adams?" she says. "Just hold still. I'll get the doctor."

"What's going on?" I ask. She walks out of the room.

And then everything goes black again. The next time I come to I see Ma in the corner crying into a wad of purple tissues. There is an IV bag in my arm. Just opening my eyes is painful so I keep them closed. "What happened?" I mumble.

Ma sits up in her metal chair and stops sniffing. "Jeffrey? Jeffrey, it's Ma. Can you hear me?" She's standing by the bed. I open my eyes and see her hand on my leg but I can't feel it. I stare at her hand and watch the blue veins in her arm pop up as she squeezes my leg.

"What's going on? Why are you here, Ma?" I close my eyes again and try to swallow. It feels like something is stopping my spit from going down. I can hear my own breathing in my head. Like I've got ear plugs in at a concert.

"Something happened, Jeffrey. Something in your brain. They said you took some pill. Why would you take a pill, Jeffrey? You said you weren't doing drugs. I don't understand." Ma starts crying again and puts her head down on the bed. My head is pounding. I just want the pounding to stop. I want everything to stop spinning and pounding. I try to say this but it doesn't come out right. Ma lifts her head and looks at me.

"Jeffrey? What's wrong? I'll get the nurse. Just wait, Jeffrey." I hear the door click shut and then it's quiet. I think I can actually hear the pounding. It's dark out now. The window is completely black. I don't know what day it is. I don't know why Ma is here. I get that something went wrong but it's a struggle to try to think. Ma shouldn't be here. Everything is fuzzy. I feel like I'm swimming in butter.

"Jeffrey? Can you hear me? It's Dr. Michaels. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me." I open my eyes and see a tall man in a white coat. He looks like my high school principal. "You have an infection, Jeffrey. It's in your brain. We're treating it now with antibiotics through your IV. Can you hear me? Nod your head once if you understand what I'm saying."

I nod my head and open my eyes. I look at Dr. Michaels and he looks away. And that's when I know it's something bad.

"It's the drug trial you were on, Jeffrey. The drug caused an infection in your brain. Can you lift your hand, Jeffrey?"

I look at my hand and it doesn't move. I squint and try to focus on lifting my hand. It twitches a little but I can't seem to make it move.

"That's okay, Jeffrey. The infection sometimes causes temporary paralysis because of where it's located in the brain. It's called progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy or PML, as we call it. It's treatable but it will take awhile. We need you to rest, Jeffrey. I'm going to have the nurse give you something to help you sleep. Nod your head again if you understand."

I nod my head again several times and close my eyes. Ma brushes the hair back from my eyes and I register that I can feel that. I can feel her hand on my head. I hear someone else come into the room and then I feel myself fading again. It's a relief and I go towards a dark place.

*

What sucks the most, I think, are my hands. They still feel numb a lot and when I clench them, sometimes they shake. I can't even think about drawing. I'm sitting in a wheelchair in Ma's front room looking out the window at the street. Nothing moves. Everything is covered in ice from a storm last night. Even the trash cans are iced shut. I wonder how Ma got them to the curb. I tried last week to drag the cans from my wheelchair, but the lids flew off and I had to call to Ma to help. She picked them up and slammed them down on the cans and left them sitting in the middle of the driveway. Then she wheeled me back into the house without saying a word. I felt like crying for the first time, and I knew Ma was just as pissed by the way she ripped open the plastic on a new pack of cigarettes. Her fingers trembled as she held the lighter and brought it to her mouth. Then she took a huge drag, exhaled, and turned away from me.

When I think about Ryan I guess I'm supposed to feel lucky. Everyone says I should anyway. He can't even talk and he's still in the hospital because of the infection. I saw him once before I left the hospital. His room looked like a suite at a fancy hotel and there was a man in a suit sitting in the corner typing on a computer. A lawyer of some kind, I imagine. I just sat in my wheelchair in the doorway looking at the bed. It didn't look like Ryan at all. The body was a vegetable with tubes. Drugs going in every tube. I didn't say anything. The lawyer looked up at me, then back to his screen, so I nodded my head at the orderly to wheel me away.

The drug company sent a nurse home with us for awhile and then another one would show up a few hours later. They had to help me dress and shower until I got stronger. A bed pan in front of a stranger is bad, but it would be worse if it were Ma. She didn't ask for any of this. The drug company keeps saying I got a placebo, not the real drug. Fuckin' look at me? Does this look like I took a placebo? I look like a skeleton. My hair is gone. If I try to do anything, put on my shirt, walk to the toilet, anything, I'm so tired I can't say anything. Once I could walk a little the nurses just sat on the sofa watching soaps with Ma until I finally called our lawyer and told him to send the nurses away.

"Whatever you want, Jeffrey," he said. "Whatever you want. You just say the word." Our lawyer is always saying stuff like that. He tells us how sorry he is in the same breath that he talks about money. I think he thinks it makes me feel better but it doesn't. He comes over and sits on Ma's couch and has us sign documents that I don't even read. I don't even remember the guy's name some days. Ma says I should read the stuff and not just sign it, but what am I going to do about it? It just doesn't matter anymore. Now I have to sit around all day watching Ma watch me. It's just no way to live.

Right now I don't want to think about it. So I take another pill. And then another. And another. I think about the poor bastard who must have tested my pills. I think about the guinea pigs and their pink eyes. And then I just want to stop thinking.