The Burn Journals (24 page)

“No. The Z-shaped excision takes the place of the
expanders.”

He grabs a big section of my right cheek between his thumb and forefinger and pinches it. “Now, unfortunately, we don't have a heck of a lot of play in here, so if you decide to go with the Z-plasty, we'll wind up with, probably, a series of three to five procedures over a number of years.”

The lion isn't going to blink. I know that. But I don't care. It doesn't matter. I'm not giving up.

Now he grabs a big chunk of my left cheek, squeezes it hard, and draws another line across it. He outlines my scars with the pen. “But on the other hand, we can probably excise this side in one or two surgeries and really get rid of a lot of this ugly scar tissue.”

I blinked. Shit. The lion won. I tried. I did pretty well. The lion was better, but I did pretty well. The lion looks a little nicer now than he did when I came in here. I wonder if he feels sorry for me having to go through all of this. Probably not, because he knows it's all my fault.

“So, as you wish, we can go ahead with the first surgery, sometime in the next year, not quite yet, just so we can see how the scarring matures and diminishes over time. How's that sound?”

Is the doctor talking to me? I don't know what to say. I wish the lion would help me.

Mom meets us in the waiting room. Now we're going down to the Burn Unit to see everybody. I wonder who's working. I'd love to see Tina, and Barbara, and the other Barbara, and Lisa. I'd love to see everybody.

We walk past my old room. Who's in there now? Some baby in a crib. I don't see any nurses or anybody I recognize. My dad asks at the nurses' station if we can go back into Intensive Care and say hello. They say it's okay.

We go back through the double doors. All that alcohol and cleaning solution, it makes me feel like I just got a shot of morphine.

“Hey, Brent!”

It's Tina, she's wearing scrubs and her hair is back in a ponytail. She's so beautiful. “Hi, Tina!” She gives me a big hug.

“How are you?” I'd forgotten how high pitched her voice was.

“Great.”

“God, you look great. You got so strong.”

“I did?”

“How's everything? Are you back in school?”

“No, not yet.”

“Oh, how's your skin?” She reaches out and touches the scar on my cheek.

“All right, it itches.”

“Yeah, well, it's supposed to, but is it healing properly?”

“I guess.”

“Jeez, if we had our way, we'd bring you into one of these rooms and strip you down naked.”

I laugh. “Well, maybe some other time.”

“It's so good to see you, Brent. I'm glad you're doing so well. Okay, keep up the good work and come back and see us more often.” She hugs me.

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

She turns away, puts on a nurse's smock, and goes into someone else's room.

I don't belong here. It's not the same. I don't think I will be coming back.

I'm playing
Super Mario
in the basement. I warped to level eight because I wanted to try and beat the guy, but I didn't get enough lives on the earlier levels to beat him. So now I'm screwed. Mom calls from the top of the stairs, “Brent, your tutor is here.” Oh shit, I completely forgot that the tutor was coming today. I was hoping I was going to get out of school for the rest of my life, but apparently not.

I come up the stairs. She's a nice-enough-looking woman, wearing a red coat and a funny little red beret. She says, “Hi, Brent, nice to meet you. My name's Maureen.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Mom says, “Is the living room okay for you, Maureen?”

“Yes, that's great, thanks.”

“Okay. I'll leave you two alone, then.”

Last year I had to go to a tutor's house to help me with algebra, right after I got caught for stealing school supplies. He had a lot of cats and his house always smelled like Indian food or something.

“So, Brent, we've got a lot of things to work on to get you caught up with your studies. I see that you've completed the eighth grade at, was it, the duPont Institute?”

“Yes.”

“All right, so we've got the normal array of ninth-grade classes. Earth science, history, English, and algebra.”

“I hate algebra.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, I'm assuming that you would like to begin with something other than algebra? Is that a correct assumption?”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions?”

“No, what do they say about assumptions?”

“They make an ass out of you and umptions.” I laugh at my stupid joke. She doesn't laugh.

“So, how does history sound?”

“Sounds like history.” I'm cracking myself up.

“Let's read the first chapter in the history book and then talk about it.”

“All right.” We both read from our matching history books. It's about how the Greeks created democracy.

When we're done reading, she quizzes me with a bunch of questions and I get them all right. I wish regular school was this easy. If I got to do homeschooling all of the time, I'd get straight A's. I liked it better when I didn't have to do any schoolwork. Now I have to sit here with Maureen for a couple of hours three times a week. This sucks.

I'm naked, lying on the massage table at Children's, with a little towel covering my penis. There's a curtain pulled around me, but I can hear all the noises of the kids being worked over on the other side. Today's my first day with my new PT, her name's Nancy. She peeks her head through the curtain.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. How are you?” She comes in and closes the
curtain.

“Fine.” She opens a jar of Eucerin cream. She's got big wide thumbs that look like she smashed them with a hammer about a million times. She starts down at my feet.

I don't have much to say. I just stare up at the ceiling and wonder why I did this. I can't even really remember anymore. I know I was sad or something, but what was I so sad about? School and girls? Megan and Stephen? Setting fire to that locker? None of it seems like a big deal anymore.

She's up to my thigh. When she rubs the top of my thigh, her hand goes in between my legs and rubs the inside of my leg. God, that feels good. Jesus. God, I'm getting a giant boner. I hope the towel isn't sticking straight up. Is it sticking straight up? Jesus, it is.

Nancy says, “You all right?”

“Yup.” Is she trying to rub my balls? It really feels like it. It really feels like it. It feels like she's trying to rub my balls. Jesus.

“You can roll over now.”

“Okay.” I roll over with my hand over my penis so she can't see what a big boner I have. Now my butt is completely exposed. Now she's rubbing my butt. That feels good too. God, everything feels so good.

I'm going to ask her if she'll rub the inside of my thigh. I'm going to say that the skin is really tight between my legs, which it is, and I'm going to ask her if she'll rub it. That's what I'm going to do, and she's going to start rubbing it and maybe she'll see my big boner and she'll want to start rubbing it and touching it. Jesus.

“Okay, Brent, I'm done. Put on your Jobst and your clothes and we'll do some exercises.” I sit up. I'm going to ask her, I really am.

“Um, Nancy?”

“Yes.”

“I've got this really tight band that I was wondering if you could work on?”

“Where is it?”

“Um, it's sort of between my legs.”

“Where?”

“Right here.” She looks down and sort of raises an eyebrow.

“There?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that's a very sensitive area, maybe you could work on it when you're at home.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Get dressed and come out, okay?”

“Yeah.”

She leaves. What's wrong with me? I feel stupid.

Mom and Dad and I are going to go see Dennis Miller at George Washington University. Since Dad works there, we've got really good seats. I'm so psyched. Ever since Dennis Miller left
Saturday Night Live
last season, I've been wondering what he'd do next. He's the funniest guy who ever did Weekend Update. Some people think Chevy Chase is the funniest, but they're wrong.

He walks on the stage like such a normal guy. How can he be so smart and so funny and still be so relaxed? I mean, he doesn't even look like he knows where he is. He says he's tired because he just flew in from Paris. I wonder what he was doing in Paris.

It's not just the things he says that are funny, it's the way he says them. The rhythm. I could be funny like that if I really tried. Life would be easier if I was funny. It's easier to get through life.

The whole drive home I keep thinking about how funny he was. God, that was funny. Wasn't that funny? He's such a funny guy. Dad says, “I'm sorry I couldn't get us backstage to meet Dennis.”

I say, “That's okay, Dad. It's no big deal.”

When we get home, there are two messages on the answering machine. I press play.

The weird computer voice says, “Message received at 10:21
P.M.
”

Then somebody's voice I kind of recognize, but not really. “Brent! Hey, what's up, babe, listen, I'm sorry I couldn't meet you after the show, but I was totally vamped from the flight in from Paris. Anyway, maybe I could meet you tomorrow, I've got some time to kill before my plane leaves. I could come out to your house, or school, or whatever. Anyway, catch you later, cat. Uh, call me at the Four Seasons, room . . . Christ, what is the room . . . room 402. All right, hope you liked the show. Bye-bye.”

Jesus. Was that who I think it was? Was that fucking Dennis Miller on my fucking answering machine? I look at my parents, they're smiling with their eyes open really wide.

I say, “Was that Dennis Miller?”

“I think it was.”

“Did you give him our number?”

“We gave someone our number at the show, but we didn't know if he'd call.”

“Wait, there's another message.”

“Message received at 10:31
P.M.
”

“Brento! It's Dennis, where are you, cat? It's like ten-thirty, and I'm totally vamped, so call me soon, babe, as soon as you get home. All right.”

Jesus, that really is Dennis Miller. I'm feeling a little light-headed. My dad runs and gets the phone book, finds the number, and brings it with the phone over to me in the comfy chair.

Out of habit, I turn on the TV. It's Comedy Central, and there is Dennis Miller doing Weekend Update.

I'm dialing the number.

“Four Seasons, how may I direct your call?”

“Room 402, please.” Jesus, I'm so nervous.

“Just a moment.”

It's ringing. It's fucking ringing.

“Yeah?”

“Um, Dennis?”

“Yeah, who's this?”

“It's, um, Brent, um, Runyon. You called me?”

“Brento! Hey, babe, what's happening?”

“Nothing. Um, you were really funny tonight.”

“Thanks. Hey, so where do you live?”

“Uh, northern Virginia. Falls Church.”

“Where's that.”

“On the Orange Line.”

“Okay, can you give me directions so I can come out and meet you tomorrow? Would that be cool?”

“Yeah, that would be great. Hey, you're on TV right now.”

“What,
SNL
?”

“Yeah.”

“What episode, do you know?”

“I think it's, like, really early. Damon Wayans is on with you.”

“Oh yeah? God, that's like my second show.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, so, can I get those directions from you?”

“Yeah, I'll get my dad. Dad, he wants directions to come out and meet me tomorrow.”

Dad takes the phone and starts explaining how to get here.

Dennis Miller is coming over to my house. He's going to be here in five minutes. Dad's at work and Mom went out to get some groceries so he and I could have the house to ourselves. Christ, what will I talk about? What am I going to say? I've got to be funny. I've got to be funny. I've got to find a way to make him laugh.

There's the limo. The limo is right in my driveway. Oh my God, there's Dennis walking up to my front door. We don't usually use the front door, but that's okay.

I open it and walk out to meet him. He's kind of short, but he looks basically like he does on TV except for more tired and like he didn't shave this morning.

“Hi, I'm Brent.”

“Great to meet you, babe.” We shake hands.

“Your show was great. You were so funny.”

“Thanks, man. Is this the pad? Can we hang inside?”

“Sure, come in.”

“Are your folks here?”

“No, they're at work.” We walk into the living room and he sits in the chair. I sit across from him on the couch. Dennis Miller is sitting in my living room. “Do you want anything to drink or anything?”

“No thanks. So, tell me, what happened?”

“What?”

“What happened to you?”

“Oh, um, you mean, like, the fire?” I didn't know he was going to ask anything like that. “Um, I was . . .” I point upstairs to the bathroom. “I was up there, and I had some matches. . . .” I can't say it. I don't know what to say. I look down at my hands and then up the stairs at the bathroom.

“That's okay, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want.”

“Okay.”

“So you want to go for a ride in a limo?”

“Sure.”

There's a big fat Italian guy driving the car. He opens our door for us and we slide in. Dennis says, “Why don't you take us for a spin around town.”

What should I say? Should I ask about
Saturday Night Live
? Should I ask what he's going to do now? Celebrities like to talk about themselves, I think. I should ask him something where he can be funny and tell a lot of jokes or something. If I was a talk show host, I would already know what to ask him, but I'm not sure.

I'm still trying to think of something to say when Dennis says, “I was talking to Franken, you know, Al Franken. He's got balls, man. We had Oprah on the show one time, and in the pitch meeting he asked her if she was willing to play Aunt Jemima.” He laughs just like he does on TV. “That crazy motherfucker.”

“Yeah, he's funny. Did she do it?”