Gary Bachman

Work Has Been Murder This Week

Monday:
Old man and old woman, poverty in their hands. They’ve dressed well to meet the doctor.
“Our son is here. The police officer he tells us this, but we have no car. May we be with him? Would that be alright?”

“I’m so sorry. So very sorry. But he’s not here anymore.”

Relief. As if a weight has lifted. “But where has he gone?”
“I’m sorry. So very very sorry. But he was shot you see. And he has passed. I am so sorry.”
“Oh! Oh, oh…. We did not know… The policeman… He told us… We just didn’t know…”

Old man and woman, riches in their faith, dressed up to meet the doctor. The sign of the cross and a single tear winds its way down a deep crevasse through ancient weathered flesh.
“If our son has gone from here, can you tell us where he is now? Please?”

Tuesday:
“Someone knocked, and when daddy opened the door, they threw fire in his face.
Momma says he’s in heaven now with grandma.
They don’t have fire there do they? In heaven?”

Thursday: (one side of a conversation between two patients: overheard through the curtain)
“Hey man, So tell me now. Who shot ya?”
…
“But he’s doin time, huh?
…
Felony assault? Man, he got off easy.
Dude, he killed you. You just ain’t dead yet.
…
So anyway, how much did that fancy wheelchair cost ya? huh?

Friday:
“If that machine is all that’s keeping my son alive, then you can go ahead, and turn it off. But not until you have whatever it is that you need.
He was a mean-spirited boy, and for a long time now, he only took. And hurt. And this here now, is his chance for salvation.
So give me that paper to sign. There’s still some hope in this tragic life you know.
Now we have some miracles to be made.”

“I think he always wanted to be someone else anyway.”