She’s Got Everything

She’s Got Everything

 

 

There was a bunch of guys sitting around and getting drunk. It was like a party. Two of these guys get to roughhousing in the yard. One of the men falls and hits his head on a cinder block. He won’t wake up. The men on the porch tell the one guy, the one who was roughhousing, to call an ambulance. The roughhouse makes a phone call, but he orders a pizza.

“Give me a large pizza with only pepperoni,” he said.

“Ok,” said a voice from the pizza joint.

A few minutes later, the deliveryman arrives. He looks around, holding up the pizza like a trophy.

The roughhouse waves at the deliveryman, then takes the pizza.

“Twelve-fifty,” says the driver.

The roughhouse opens the pizza, looks at it and frowns.

“This ain’t my pizza,” he says. “She’s got everything on it.”

The deliveryman and the roughhouse get to arguing. The deliveryman doesn’t want to return the pizza because it will come out of his check. The roughhouse doesn’t want to pay, because he’s going to have to pick off all those onions. The argument escalates. The roughhouse raises his hand to slap the deliveryman but the guys on the porch shout, “Whoa, there!”

The roughhouse agrees to pay if the deliveryman takes his buddy to the emergency room. The deliveryman nods and sets the pizza on the porch. The two men load the unconscious man into the back of the pizza-delivery car. The roughhouse pays, but he doesn’t tip.

When the deliveryman pulls up at the hospital, two doctors are standing around smoking cigarettes, wearing latex gloves. One doctor has a half-eaten chicken leg in his hand.

“Is that the woman?” a doctor asks the deliveryman.

“No, it’s a man. He hit his head. He may be drunk,” said the deliveryman.

“Oh, we’re waiting for a woman,” said the doctor, taking a bite of chicken.

“Can you help this man?” asked the deliveryman.

“No,” said the doctor with the chicken. “We’re specialists, you see. We’re waiting for a woman who was stabbed or shot. She’s got some disease in her blood, and it’s all complicated by a pregnancy.”

“She may have leukemia,” the other doctor piped in.

“I heard it might be hepatitis, but it’s too soon to tell,” said the first doctor.

“Well, what about this man?” asked the deliveryman.

“That man has only minor wounds. There‚Äôs not much wrong with that man. Anything and everything is wrong with this woman. That’s why we’re here. We’re specialists. We get all the tough cases.”

“Can anyone help this man?”

“If you take him inside, I’m sure someone will patch him up. We can’t. We have to wait for this woman. I’m sorry, our hands are tied.”

The deliveryman dragged the unconscious guy through the automatic doors. The doctors looked on, still smoking their cigarettes. The one doctor kept on eating his chicken. The other doctor stared off into traffic, and after a few seconds, he checked his watch.

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About the Author

Josh Peterson has published short stories in over a dozen literary journals. Over the years, he's found work as an environmental writer, a medical writer, a comedy writer and a new-media journalist. He's currently working on a novel.