Lee Fallon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lee_fallon) wrote2015-11-29 07:43 pm
lee_fallon) wrote2015-11-29 07:43 pm
Entry tags:
PSL - Private Debut
As a city at its core, Minneapolis isn't all that different from Atlanta or Boston or Denver. The sizes of the buildings aren't the same, the placement of the parks are varied, but a busy street is a busy street, and Lee doesn't feel any more or less at home here than he has anywhere else he's lived.
The clinical trial he's in started yesterday. It was the standard affair: fill out forms, sign consents, meet with nurses, get jabbed by needles. The IV catheter is the same generic style they use in every hospital and outpatient facility Lee's ever been to, the chairs just as uncomfortable. It's another beige room in a long line of beige rooms, permeated with the smell of antiseptics, occupied by empty-eyed, grey-skinned people staring through each other, everybody with one foot in the grave.
There's one woman who wears pastels and laughs too loudly at everything, but at least she seems happy. She's also young, younger than Lee, and he feels a sharp twist of sympathy for her. She's latched onto an older gentleman whose wife drops him off in a black Town Car with a brown bag lunch and a thermos. There's an investment banker who comes in his business suits, a carpenter who was a roofer before his diagnosis, an aging former model, and an angry blonde woman who nearly hit Lee with her car in the parking lot yesterday morning. These are his classmates; they'll see each other two hours a day, five days a week for three months, and then probably never speak to each other again.
Lee walks to the clinic today, rather than running in. He hates admitting defeat, especially with only two months of training left before the New Year's Eve Marathon, but the drugs he got yesterday seem to have sapped some of his energy, made him jittery enough that he hardly slept. After he's done today he plans to go visit the acupuncturist he found nearby, get a treatment and see about acquiring some Chinese herbs to help him sleep.
After signing in, Lee's lead to his chair, settled, and plugged into his IV. It's old hat at this point, his veins ready for the needle, his brain prepared to gear down while he sits through the session. Leaning back, he pulls his iPod from his pocket and slips the earbuds in, finding his playlist of modern violin tracks. As soon as the music starts, he lets his eyes fall closed, focusing on his breathing – in through his nose, out through his mouth – bringing his heart rate down and his focus into his breath.
He's lost track of time when his music stops playing. It doesn't feel like he fell asleep, but it's odd that he hasn't heard from a nurse, or had anyone come to check on him. Opening his eyes, he finds he's no longer in the clinic. Instead he's seated on a bench out front of what appears, upon quick investigation, to be some kind of public ice rink. His IV has been removed, but otherwise he has everything he should have on him: his keys, his wallet, and his mp3 player.
It's chilly out, mid forties maybe, and goosebumps rise on Lee's arms immediately, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He rubs at his forearms as he stands, looking around, heading toward the first person he sees, a boy who is exiting the building behind him.
"Excuse me," he says to them, holding up a hand. "Can you tell me where I can catch a cab?"
The clinical trial he's in started yesterday. It was the standard affair: fill out forms, sign consents, meet with nurses, get jabbed by needles. The IV catheter is the same generic style they use in every hospital and outpatient facility Lee's ever been to, the chairs just as uncomfortable. It's another beige room in a long line of beige rooms, permeated with the smell of antiseptics, occupied by empty-eyed, grey-skinned people staring through each other, everybody with one foot in the grave.
There's one woman who wears pastels and laughs too loudly at everything, but at least she seems happy. She's also young, younger than Lee, and he feels a sharp twist of sympathy for her. She's latched onto an older gentleman whose wife drops him off in a black Town Car with a brown bag lunch and a thermos. There's an investment banker who comes in his business suits, a carpenter who was a roofer before his diagnosis, an aging former model, and an angry blonde woman who nearly hit Lee with her car in the parking lot yesterday morning. These are his classmates; they'll see each other two hours a day, five days a week for three months, and then probably never speak to each other again.
Lee walks to the clinic today, rather than running in. He hates admitting defeat, especially with only two months of training left before the New Year's Eve Marathon, but the drugs he got yesterday seem to have sapped some of his energy, made him jittery enough that he hardly slept. After he's done today he plans to go visit the acupuncturist he found nearby, get a treatment and see about acquiring some Chinese herbs to help him sleep.
After signing in, Lee's lead to his chair, settled, and plugged into his IV. It's old hat at this point, his veins ready for the needle, his brain prepared to gear down while he sits through the session. Leaning back, he pulls his iPod from his pocket and slips the earbuds in, finding his playlist of modern violin tracks. As soon as the music starts, he lets his eyes fall closed, focusing on his breathing – in through his nose, out through his mouth – bringing his heart rate down and his focus into his breath.
He's lost track of time when his music stops playing. It doesn't feel like he fell asleep, but it's odd that he hasn't heard from a nurse, or had anyone come to check on him. Opening his eyes, he finds he's no longer in the clinic. Instead he's seated on a bench out front of what appears, upon quick investigation, to be some kind of public ice rink. His IV has been removed, but otherwise he has everything he should have on him: his keys, his wallet, and his mp3 player.
It's chilly out, mid forties maybe, and goosebumps rise on Lee's arms immediately, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He rubs at his forearms as he stands, looking around, heading toward the first person he sees, a boy who is exiting the building behind him.
"Excuse me," he says to them, holding up a hand. "Can you tell me where I can catch a cab?"
no subject
"Oh wow, that is a lot of practice!" I agree with a nod. "I was on the hockey team back home and we had practice almost every day. Plus, my captain would take me out in the mornings to help me with checking. It could get pretty grueling sometimes. You know, there's a pool at the rink I go to here," I tell him, gesturing back the way we came. "I've never been in myself, but it looks nice from the outside."
no subject
They're really close to Eric's building now; Lee can see the sign from where they are. "A pool," he repeats, following Eric as he turns down the path toward the building's front door. He hasn't swam much (outside dips in the ocean) in several years, but the idea of going here sticks in his head. If he's going to be in this strange place, he's going to need to find things to keep himself busy. He can think of worse things than swimming.
"I might have to give it a look," he says. "Once I get a swimsuit," he adds with a laugh, remembering all he has here is the clothes he's currently wearing and the contents of his creepy envelope.
no subject
That's the day I'd met Derek, actually. He'd been so nice to me right from the start even though I'd just stared at him babbled.
"And a swimsuit won't be hard to find here. There's a sporting good store I can recommend and you can order almost anything you'd like online. Don't ask me how packages get here from the outside world, but they do. Unfortunately, I don't think we can mail anything out. I tried once. The box just came back all busted up. So what is it you were doing in Minnesota? Was it a business trip thing?"
no subject
Lee smiles as Eric chats all the way up to his apartment, giving Lee information but not giving him a moment to comment on any of it. It's cute, and Lee decides he really likes Eric. He sort of reminds Lee of his little brother, but much more southern.
When Eric does stop talking, it's because he's asked Lee a question that's difficult to answer. He doesn't lie as a rule, but being honest here would be exceptionally heavy. Once he'd decided he wasn't going to tell his family he was sick, he's mostly kept it a secret from anyone he meets who isn't also involved in treatment. It's easier that way. And Eric is so sweet, Lee's sure he'll go about trying to do something for him, even though Lee knows there's already nothing that can be done.
"Something like that," Lee answers with a smile, deciding to just to give a vague, non-answer. "Is this your place?" he asked, changing the subject as they stopped at a door with the number 13 on it.
no subject
We're at my door in no time and I nod as I pull out my key to let us in. "If you don't feel comfortable stepping into the home of a complete stranger, I totally understand, but you're definitely welcome. I just need to drop off my stick and grab a coat real quick and we can be off. If you'd like, I can make you a cocoa or some tea, though."
I'm already halfway through my living room, still talking as I rest my stick against the side of the couch and grab my only other jacket from the hall closet. "And I wasn't kidding about those muffins. If you want one, please please have one. I'll never be able to eat them all myself."
no subject
"A cup of tea would be wonderful," Lee says, thinking about how nice the hot mug would feel in his hands. "And I would love a muffin," he goes on. "We could use a few minutes to warm up a little."
no subject
Resting back against the counter, I take a breath then and get a better look at him. He really does look so much like that man I'd met at the festival. I know why now, of course. But I wonder if maybe I should warn him.
"So I feel like I should give you a better explanation of this place, but I'm not too sure where to start," I admit with a soft laugh. "I've only been here a few months myself so I'm definitely not an expert of any sort."
no subject
"It seems like a strange place," Lee says, breaking off a piece of muffin and popping it into his mouth. They taste better than they smell, and Lee hums at how much he likes them. "Based on what I saw in the envelope it looks like I have a bank account. Is that how we pay our rent here?" he asks, licking some crumbs off his thumb.
no subject
"There should be a little over a grand there already," I tell him, resting back against the counter. "Or at least there was when I got here. And every month, we get about that much to pay for rent. I have no idea where the money comes from, but we all get that same amount. For me, that's just enough to make rent with a little bit left over, which is why I decided to get a job on top of it. Well, that and I was getting bored."
no subject
"Where do you work?" Lee asks, curious what sorts of jobs people get when they come here, if they're the normal sort of thing or if there's something specialized for this city and its unique populace.
no subject
It's hard to keep the excitement out of my voice, even now. I've had so long to get used to the idea, but it still floors me for some reason. I'm going to be making a living baking. I still can't really believe that people actually want to pay money for what I make, much less enough to actually sustain me.
"You should swing by there sometime," I tell him, handing over his tea even though it's still steeping. "If you let me know you're in, I'll sneak you a free slice of pie."