35

Luckily a cab had just driven up to leave off some
people. ‘Hurry,” I said, ‘the nearest emergency
hospital.’

“The driver risked a half dozen tickets to get me
there. Some clerk tried to pin me down to all sorts
of information before I could get treatment. A doc-
tor, passing by, seeing the state I was in, stopped
her, hauled me into his room and administered
emergency treatment. The expression on his face
showed his worry.

“We have to get you to a hospital pronto. Got
medical insurance?

Thank God, I'd been working.

“I was admitted. Again I went through the nasty
business of avoiding an explanation of what had
happened. A doctor I could see was gay took things
over. ‘Some guy, huh?’ I nodded. ‘Okeh, no need to
get worried. I’ll write some gibberish down here. The
main thing is that hand—not this sort of claptrap.

“That’s your story, Mr. Antony, of one ‘kept boy.’
I went through four operations to save the hand.
It’s saved all right. I can play the piano—pieces like
Pop Goes the Weasel—and make them sound good.
But there’s not enough strength in it to do anything
else. The nerves were shattered to ribbons. This
finger won’t even move. This one here is shorter.