PSL - Private Debut

[lee_fallon]

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?"

Comments

[puckandpie]

I'd decided to slip in some puck handling work in my practice today and, while I've taken to storing my skates, helmet, and gloves at the rink, my stick won't quite fit in the small locker I'm renting. Plus, it's in desperate need of re-taping.

So it and my backpack of sweaty clothes clothes are all I'm carrying as I step out into the cool November air. My cheeks are still flushed from skating and I nuzzle down into the collar of my coat as the door closes behind me. Funny how the chill never really bothers me when I'm on the ice, but the second I step outside, I suddenly can't help missing Georgian winters.

With my earbuds stuck firmly in my ears and Nicki Minaj filling my eardrums, I nearly miss the guy trying to get my attention as I start heading for my apartment.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry," I tell him, pulling one free. I recognize his face immediately from the fall festival. And from the internet, of course. He looks a little different than the last time I saw him, though, his hair much shorter and face a good deal more gaunt. Immediately, I wonder if he got stuck in that other Darrow as well with much, much worse results.

Frowning at his question, I shake my head. "Uhm... probably just about anywhere, I'd imagine," I tell him. If I'm honest, I've only seen a cab in Darrow once or twice, the city not exactly big enough to warrant a need for very many. "Are you lost? I can try to help you find where you need to go if you want. Goodness, aren't you cold?"