"David Eddings - Losers, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

"Quitting, Taylor? I thought you were an athlete. Is this the way you used to win football games?"

"I'm hurting, man. I need a shot."

"Sure you do." Quillian's voice was contemptuous. "But let's not lie to each other. Let's call it by its right name. You need a fix, don't you? You're a junkie, Taylor, and you need a fix."

Raphael spun his chair around angrily and wheeled himself out of the therapy room.

Later, in the hazy euphoria the drug always brought, Raphael lay in his bed and tried to bring his mind to bear on the problem. "Junkie," he said, trying the word out. It sounded funny to him, and he giggled. "Junkie," he said again, and giggled some more.

A day or so later a starched nurse came into his room with a brightly professional smile on her face. "You have a visitor, Mr. Taylor," she said.

Raphael, gritting his teeth at the pain that seemed to have settled in his phantom knee and knowing that it was still hours until they would give him another shot, turned irritably toward her. "Who is it?" he asked harshly.

"A Miss Hamilton."

"No! I don't want to see her. Send her away."

"Oh, come on," she coaxed. "A visit might cheer you up."

"No!" Raphael shouted. "Now get the hell out of here and leave me alone!" He turned his face toward the wall.

After the nurse had left and he was sure that he was alone, he cried.

Her name was Miss Joan Shimp, and Raphael hated her from almost the first moment he laid eyes on her. She was led into the room by the hospital chaplain, who said a few nice things about social workers and then left. Miss Shimp wore a businesslike suit. No starched white uniform for old Shimpsie. Nobody was going to ask her to empty a bedpan by mistake. She was a pear-shaped young woman with enormous hips, narrow shoulders, and no noticeable bosom. Her complexion was acne-ravaged, and she had dun-colored hair, an incipient mustache, a nasal voice, and what might best be described as an attitude problem. "Well now," she started briskly, "how are we doing?" The nurses on the floor had all learned rather early not to say "we" to Raphael.

"I don't know about you, lady," Raphael replied in a flat, unfriendly tone, "but I'm doing lousy."

"Self-pity, Mr. Taylor? We must avoid self-pity."

"Why? It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it."

"This just won't do," she scolded.

"We're not going to get along, lady. Why don't you just go away?"

"We can play this either way, Taylor." Her voice was sharp. "You've been assigned to me, and I am going to do my job. There are programs for people like you, and like it or not, you are going to participate."

"Really? Don't bet the farm on it."

Things deteriorated rapidly from there.

Shimpsie talked about programs as if programs were holy things that could solve all the world's problems. Raphael ignored her. His half-drugged mind was not particularly retentive, but he soon had a pile of books at his bedside, and every time Shimpsie entered his room, he would select a book at random and use it as a barrier. In one of his more outrageous moments Flood had once described social workers as representatives of a generation of bright young ladies who don't know how to type. Raphael clung to that definition. It seemed to help for some reason.

Shimpsie asked probing questions about his background and family. She liked the phrase "dysfunctional family," and she was desperately interested in his "feelings" and "relationships." Shimpsie, he felt, was queer for feelings and relationships. On one occasion she even screamed at him, "Don't think! Feel!"

"And abandon twenty-five thousand years of human development? Not very likely, Shimpsie."

"Miss Shimp!" she snapped.