Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated.
- G. B. Shaw, British Dramatist, Born in Ireland (1856-1950)
After the sheriffs were kind enough to give me a ride to the emergency room, the nurses drew some blood and I was told I had a respectable .34 blood alcohol level. They had a nice lady posted up to keep her eyes on me at all times and she was very kind, I was dehydrated, thirsty out of my mind, and she kept me supplied with a steady stream of juices, then they switched shifts and a new Mexican lady came in with the look of a cow in her placid eyes and slow, lumbering girth and as she thumbed through her magazines, I began getting unbelievably thirsty again.
I asked her if I could have a juice. She told me in five or ten minutes. I waited patiently and asked again about ten minutes later. Still busily flipping through her magazine, again she told me five or ten more minutes. Fuck that bitch and the dumb bovine look on her face as she sat there, not even reading, but just looking at page after page of pictures. I pulled out the I.V.s from my arms and ripped off the patches and went down that hallway looking for some nurses worth a damn and found three of them congregated in an after hours gab session. I told them I was dying of thirst and this lady just sits there, thumbing through her magazine. One of the male nurses took exception with my suggestion that his coworker was lazy and he told me that’s what she’s paid to do, just sit there and thumb through magazines.
When you’ve drank yourself into a .34 BAL and you got to that level of intoxication all by your own hands, and the back story on how you ended up in the ER is that you’ve threatened to kill yourself, it’s easy to see that some of the nurses working there could range from indifferent to disgusted by your self-inflicted plight, so I kept that in mind. They finally got me some juices again and I’d say 80% of the nurses working there that night and the next day were absolute angels.