Bedside manner, p.1
Bedside Manner, page 1
Bedside Manner
David J Winters
Contents
Also by David J. Winters
1. Means of Production
2. I Know How You Feel
3. Home is Where the Heart Is
4. Hostile Takeover
5. Carpetbaggers
6. Union Ain’t the Same as Solidarity
7. The Principal’s Office
8. Information Technology
9. The World Changes the Story, the Story Doesn’t Change the World
10. Neighborhood Watch
11. You may Have Already Won
12. -5
13. Give up the Ghost
14. Solidarity
15. “If I had Just Worked with You from the Beginning, Things Would be Different…”
Notes
Also by David J. Winters
Interventionism
Roger Jech doesn’t have any superpowers, but he has a super ability: harm him, harm yourself in equal measure. Hit him with a right hook, your jaw breaks. Shoot him in the head, your brains blow out the back of you. Drop him in a war zone, your enemies kill themselves killing him. Jech's a weapon to the wrong people and a saviour to the right, but before he can become the former, he must learn to harness his gift before it becomes his curse.
Bedside Manner
Copyright © 2023 by David J. Winters
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
And now for the biggest lie in fiction…
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this work are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance between elements of this work and elements of the real world is purely coicidental.
ISBN 9780991680368 (paperback) | ISBN 9780991680375 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780991680351 (electronic book)
Cover Font is ‘Dirty Seven’. License Number 4697. Licensor: Flawless and Co.
{SubGenre : Publishers}
www.subgenrepublishers.com
For mom, for inspiring the nurse in Eminance Gray
For Clint Eastwood, for inspiring the cop
Chapter 1
Means of Production
The four sit in conversation. They sit in those wide, high-backed, plush chairs that make a person look like a fingernail of a fingertip of a velveteen Kong. They can’t be all that comfortable though, not in those suits. Might also be the stage they’re on, their fingertippy perches arced in a bone-breaking semicircle to face a crowd of hundreds where, of our conversationalists, no more than two are wired for the grandstanding the night requires. There isn’t a single value shared between the four either, at least the four as depicted. This is a debate you see, framed as a conversation between the representatives of a grade-schooler’s binary, but one thus far consisting mostly of filibuster.
The event crowd sits in much less comfortable chairs, demonstrably so, vinyl-thicker-than-cushion uncomfortable. They’re packed into that twenty-five-hundred-seat amphitheater too. Knees fused to knees, elbows fused to elbows. Crowd may still win the night’s comfort game however, as the aesthetic pleasures born of an enlightenment, hopefully to come, serve as analgesic. Individuals of all walks of life, identities, and socio-economic backgrounds constitute the crowd, where the only tie binding them outside of standard human universals is an intense interest in the subject at hand.
Despite the unwavering interests of the audience, a large LED array beams the night’s theme at them from the back of the stage. It beams in an ironical manner, evidently, featuring an animated Amerikan flag with the following words across it (waving in rhythm to the flag):
Unionization and The Market.
Of the four on the stage, Nina Burgess speaks, directing her attention to event moderator Diane Saint. Periodically, between the default image of the LED flag waving, a low-framerate video of the speakers plays for audience members in the back. Naturally, Burgess is featured. The chyron under her stilted LED representation reads:
Janine Burgess
President of the United Parcel Workers Union (UPWU)
“It’s true, you see,” Burgess insists to the moderator. “It really is. It’s no platitude. The worker is the lifeblood of industry... of society. But the worker has had their spirit of solidarity stripped from them by certain… machinations, you might say... of The West. This so-called virtue of individualism that has convinced folks to only ever ‘go it alone’. As though the greatest impropriety in the world is cooperation. It’s denied the workers their greatest tool: collective action.” Burgess turns to the audience. “But, like a single wayward blood cell cannot nourish our vital organs, a single worker cannot ensure society the resources it needs to survive. What’s good for the blood is good for the body as a whole. The brain of the body understands this. It doesn’t starve our cells of oxygen just because they function collectively.” Burgess pauses a second, then leans closer toward the audience like she’s sharing an aside just for them. “For-profit executives, on the other hand...”
A few in the crowd chuckle.
“Blood also clots…” says Charlie Reime, not as hushed as intended. He’s caught Saint’s attention and caused the background video to focus on him.
Charles Reime
CEO of Park-Mart Department Stores
“What was that Mr. Reime?”
He waves away any further attention.
Saint returns to Burgess. “And so, what’s your secret, Ms. Burgess? In just 18 months the yoo-pee-triple-yoo has collectivized the entire of the warehouse and courier services workforce for both Alom and EchoNet, the two largest online distributors in the country. How’d you do it?”
Burgess looks contemplative a second, then… “I don’t want to sound fatalistic, but I think the reason for the success of these unions has to do with the fact that... it’s time. Late-stage capitalists, with their regimentation and their hierarchies of control, have managed to delay the return of the social instinct in us, an instinct for the good of all of us, but these functionaries still constitute a late stage, a finite stage therefore, a stage that has to come to an end. If I deserve credit for anything, it’s for merely maintaining morale - merely handing the worker a life-preserver with which to keep their head above the waves of history.”
There’s some scattered applause.
The corpse of the young man lies in the park.
They call it a park but it’s really just a tenth of an acre of sod and a single tree plopped down between the monoliths of affordable housing. The intent was to make the space a little less depressing, maybe give the kids a place to play. Or, maybe, they wanted to add a more bucolic feel to the shortcut used exclusively by criminals of whom stray bullets either originate or terminate… because that’s about all they achieved. Might not be a complete waste though. You can’t say there isn’t a world of off the books entrepreneurs taking their shoes off to enjoy a stroll through the Blue Bermuda when the cops aren’t around. Can’t say it now, however, because those cops are around.
Detective Eminence Gray works next to her partner and newbie detective, Jon Bomn. Em’s putting on a latex glove from a rudimentary forensics’ satchel (cops call it a rude bag) hanging off a get-up that isn’t stylish but well put-together and serviceable: a simple pant suit. Bomn forgot his rude bag so there’s nothing to hang from his modern suit that’s a too blue shade of blue atop those tan dress shoes all the 25- to 45-year-old kids are wearing. He looks preppy, looks like Justin Trudeau (but don’t worry, his naïveté is wearing away, fast).
The detectives hunker over the corpse of the man, mid-twenties. The dead man wears jeans and a car-coat over a hoodie. Em puts her latex-gloved hand on the dead man’s midsection, patting it down.
Detective Sergeant, Richard ‘Dickie’ Tesque - crumpled charcoal suit - gets to the scene. He half observes, half participates, half philosophizes. Half, half, and half. That’s the math - the math and unofficial motto of West Brandon Robbery/Homicide. Here’s the theories...
“Terf kill - up and comers making a point.” Tesque asserts, approaching the two investigators.
“Robbery.” Em corrects.
“He’s got a pocket full of patches and his wallet, cash still inside. Am I up to speed?”
Em shakes her head at the superior. “He’s a runner. He’s out here, he’s got a bag of product the size of your head or a few thousand in cash. Always one of the two, never both. Tonight’s neither.”
“Well, if that’s the dilemma, you’ve got your anomaly. You sure?”
Em pulls open the kid’s hoodie. We see he’s got a fanny pack on his hip, front compartment wide open. “See this?”
“Wore one in '91. Mine was fluorescent as hell though. Fuckin' rad.”
Em looks with rebuke at Tesque’s flippancy. Tesque doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just trying to turn it off (third young man dead this week). Not appropriate in front of the newbie though.
The sergeant looks begrudgingly contrite, speaks at Bomn. “Just compartmentalizing newb... learn it.”
Em gets back to the case. “These things were making a comeback among 25s to 45s. Back out of fashion now. The Rock even wear his anymore?” She flips the pack forward a little. “This one comes with a secret money belt. Empty though.”
She takes out some side cutters from her rude bag. She flip s up the seam hiding the zipper to the compartment, clips a little padlock on the zipper tab with the side cutters, and unzips. The compartment is empty of cash, just as Em prognosticated.
Bomn marvels a little. “How?”
Em looks at Tesque, would you like to field this one Sergeant?
“Your derivation, detective.” Tesque insists.
“Dilemma,” Em recommences. “He took the drugs or cash. He gets the cash, no drugs, so he’d hafta bring the fentanyl patches with him to plant.”
Bomn looks like he’s doing a grade school word problem in his head, trying to get Em’s logic.
CLACK!
Em snaps a finger at a wandering Bomn. Keep up rook.
“No way a user this desperate gets his hands on a dozen patches before a robbery. A wallet with 22 bucks in it... not so tough to get. He got to the drugs not the cash. Woulda missed the cash anyways.” Em tosses the broken padlock to Bomn. “Thief pops the kid a couple times in the chest with something low caliber, grabs all but a couple dozen of the patches, leaves them and the wallet, gone.” She takes a foldable card caddy out of the hidden compartment on the fanny pack, looks to Tesque, “Round up the usuals. Eighty/twenty we find the killer dead from the patches or whoever killed him to get to them. I don’t want this shit to go on and on. If we’re quick, we might get lucky and stumble onto the happiest pre-mortem poo-butt in the world.”
“Pre-mortem?” Bomn asks, confused.
Tesque looks a little disappointed by the obtuseness. “Christ newbie! You take the detective’s exam or get a learner’s permit?” He focuses back on the officer of seniority. “Em... Your chain of inference, it’s tight, but not fact...”
“The victim was robbed and robbed for the drugs.” She waves the wallet. “This was a plant and a shit one. He’s not robbing to sell. Patches out there are as good as marked bills. He’d be painting a target on his back if he tried. He took 'em anyway. Nah, personal consumption. He was hoping for powder, something booted. This is his consolation prize.” Em can see Tesque isn’t moving yet. She changes tack. “I’ll take any fall with the higher-ups.”
Sergeant’s off the hook. He’s lovin' Em’s theory now. “Ballsy. I can’t have the major taking my head off this week. You follow up on this and I’ll flex sack next time.”
“Right, Dickie.”
Tesque gestures to the card caddy Em’s holding. Em gets it. She gives a slight again? grimace. Tesque gives a less slight, your turn shrug. Em relents.
“Newbie and I’ll notify next of kin...”
Saint nods appreciatively at Burgess who’s just finished making her point. It’s customary. Saint turns to management, so to speak. “Mr. Reime, Mr. Park, you are both outspoken critics of unionization. Do you feel-”
“Capitalist pigs!” shouts a protestor from the back.
Saint adjusts accordingly. “Sorry about that… Do you feel your time is coming to an end?”
Neither of the two men are expected to speak first, but it’s Reime who does. “Absolutely not,” he protests. “If Ms. Burgess is so certain a ‘spirit of solidarity’ has overtaken the workers she represents, then ask her why support for unionization only grew after suppression of our secret-ballot voting laws, laws she lobbied so hard to eliminate. Why’s she so afraid to let the workers speak their minds anonymously and free of fear of any coercion or reprisal?” Reime leans backward and cocks his head in order to talk directly to Saint, occluding Burgess from the conversation in the process. “You see Ms. Saint, Marxist dialectics notwithstanding… because they don’t… Our employees, prior to the de facto repeal of those ballot laws, repeatedly and consistently voted against unions…” He leans forward to let Burgess see him again. “How’s that for solidarity?” He goes back to the occlusion. “When given the opportunity to voice their opinions free of repercussions, we see that the workers, time and time again, are against the notion. We at Park-Mart aren’t opposed to unions, Ms. Saint, the people under our employ are, and we respect that.”
A small section of the crowd erupts in boos and jeers. They’re issuing a lot of derisive sloganeering too. They chant things like, “Pock-Mart pigs!” over and over and hold signs that read:
Pock-Mark has got to go!
Exploiters! Propagators of oppressive power structures!
Pock-Mark is a rash on society!
Etc.
Saint looks to the small group of very vocal, surprisingly closer to middle-aged than youthful, protestors. “Please, there will be plenty of time for the voicing of concerns during the Q&A to follow... Please…”
Amidst the protestors’ unremitting clamor, a man in his fifties, wearing a shirt with CONWU on it (not yoo-pee-triple-yoo, but he’s definitely a union man), stands. He’s large, imposing, but the kind of imposing you know isn’t even dialed up to three on a scale of fifty yet. He turns to the protestors and starts eating them up with his eyes. A few more audience members stand to back him up as the protestors back down. They don’t sit down, but they’re hushed. Saint sees the significance of this and gestures for one of the nearby event organizers to give the man a microphone. Then the room goes real silent for a place with 2500 people in it.
The man is at first surprised by the mic issued at him, then reluctant. However, seeing as all eyes are on him, he accepts that he’s obliged to say something to the protestors. He takes the mic in hand and speaks calmly and coolly, like he’s all our dads. “You all…” he waves a wave that encompasses the protestors and no one else. “You all are here from the suburbs and the ivory towers everywhere because you enjoy play acting like you want to tear it all down. Everyone else is here because we’re trying to figure out how to make a living - some just a living, some at least a living – but we all want to make that living in the system you all just take for granted. Please, sit down.”
The crowd applauds. Some cheer.
The protestors are definitely not interested in civility, but the thinning patience of attendees, present to hear good faith dialecticians and not the censoriate, is palpable. The activists cower for the time being.
Saint gets everyone back on track… “Well, I think the people have spoken, and what they’ve said is, we want this conversation to continue. Ms. Burgess, it also looks like our outspoken member of the Construction Workers Union of Amerika could give you a run for your money if he ever got into parcel shipping…”
Burgess smiles at Saint. “Diane, the song of solidarity comes from a chorus of millions… My voice is but one of many.”
“And that provides a perfect segue back to the topic at hand,” Saint acknowledges. “What say you Ms. Burgess? It is true that when given a voice, the average Amerikan worker expresses no desire to unionize...”
Burgess doesn’t miss a beat. “Only because, as I said… and I’m sure our CONWU brother will attest to this… Western society has taught us that anything other than rugged individualism is blasphemy.” Burgess leans forward in her chair in order to talk across Saint and directly to Reime for rebuttal. “It’s merely a coincidence that the Worker Liberation Act passed at the same time working folks realized there’s room for them atop management’s precious hierarchy too. Contrary to what they’ve been conditioned to believe their whole lives, working folks have finally come to understand that they can, and should, lean on each other…”
Reime leans forward too, Mirroring Burgess. “If the people are so lacking in agency and, so, are susceptible to the kinds of indoctrination you speak of... via god knows what societal mechanisms... then the last thing they need is another opportunist telling them how to work and how to earn.”
