Stairway To Nowhere by Luke James

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A SAN FRANCISCO MEDICAL ADVENTURE

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. Sort of.

“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 medical treatment 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 say it’s free?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is it?”