Extraction
I surface from a snooze sunk in a faux white leather recliner, which hugs my sides like a child hugs their mother on the first day of school. I examine my elevated legs. Dark blue Levi’s lead to icy bunion sandpaper feet wrapped in sweat soaked white gym socks buried in brown rubberized loafers. My pupils bounce like they belong on a muppet. The white room is a merry-go round. Light from a circular metal three bulb fixture fragments and reflects off walls while stabbing my retinas. Symphony Number Nine stuffs my ears as I shiatsu my temples.
Where am I? How did I get here? And where the hell is here? Any moment now an old bearded white man in a glowing bath robe should appear in front of these pristine white granite countertops. I taste iron or..metal…rust, maybe. I stare at the hanging light fixture. I’m better off staring into the sun. Is this really Heaven? I never thought Saint Peter would part the pearly gates for my arrival. My head pounds. My skull is Neil Peart’s new studio space. Did I give Mike Tyson cut-eye walking down Ocean Avenue? Did he respond with a Hangover right hand? That would explain why I’m dead, but if I’m dead, Mike Tyson inflicted pain should cease to surge through my jaw. Not heavenly.
My skeleton arms dangle from the recliner’s sides. Muffled mumbles interrupt Symphony Number Nine. Chatter oozes through drywall, while Purell scented air tickles my nose hair. I notice a white tray offering a buffet of blood caked steel surgical equipment. Crumpled red spotted gauze rests beside the pointed tools. My mind’s TV set scrambles through images of car accidents, emergency surgeries…Hostel….Dexter. My eyes pull focus but a white haze coats the lens. I see it…
A tall twisted shadow in the distance grows larger sliding across the wall. I fill a mental checklist on the shadow: Hands, check. Arms, check. Legs, check. Nosferatu? Maybe. The shadow halts, looking down while a hand reaches its face. My cheeks burn and sweat is no longer restricted to my socks. The figure stumbles toward me. Not as slender as the shadow conveyed, this guy is a Dunkin Doughnuts regular, not Nosferatu. Buttons from a white lab coat struggle to hold back his Santa Claus midsection. A surgical mask covers half his face. Clear goggles expose my soul to his ocean eyes. He pulls down the white surgical mask revealing a Great White smile. I can’t talk. Rays of light burst behind his head. His piercing eyes burn me more than the blaring fixture.
“James..” he whispers in a velvet voice. “I know you’re in a fog. The extraction was a success.”
Extraction? What the hell did he take from me!?
“It should take a week to recover, we’re going to let you go soon. We just want to give you some more time to come to your senses”
The pastry muncher slides his head out of site and strolls into the distance. Questions race through my head, forcing it against the recliner. How many people are in on this? Does anyone know where I am? Blue Eyes pauses in the distance and turns.
“The good news is, your wife is here to drive you home, and she’s got your souvenirs!”
A familiar face enters the room. I glance at my wife’s hand clutching a Ziploc bag containing four human molars. My tongue slides around new spacious gaps between my teeth. Suddenly… everything becomes clear.
