Paging Doctor Baxter Huntley — Part I
I’m Henry James and I’m a writer for Dark Sides of the Truth Magazine.
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Conclusion
There are days my friends when it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. Not to say I was having that kind of day when I got up, but it sure as hell ended up that way.
After finishing the Tooth Fairy I needed to find another story quick. Especially after what I heard that night at Resting Oaks cemetery.
The quicker I got away from that story the better.
Before I left town I stopped at a local drive through, picked up a cup of coffee and a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit then took farm road 105 on my way back to Round Rock.
No, I’m not a main highway kind of guy. Never have been. It’s what I do; travel the back roads of Americana searching for stories.
When I reached a town split in the middle by FM 105 called Cut and Shoot Texas things got a bit squirrely.
Check that.
Things got big time squirrely.
I was tooling along, minding my sandwich and coffee when I heard a blast of an air horn, a long, consistent wail which in turn ruined my tranquil moment with my sandwich.
Interesting thing about that air horn folks.
If I’d been paying more attention to it than the damned breakfast sandwich I would have seen the eighteen wheel beast as it squirted out a side road hurtling in my direction.
I’m certainly no genius, but allow me an opportunity to offer you folks a little physics lesson.
According to Pauli, two electrons can’t occupy the same location at the same time.
And, according to Henry James, my car and the eighteen wheeler which hit me couldn’t either.
The last thing I remember was the impact.
Oh, and wishing I’d taken one more bite of that damned sandwich.
Then everything went dark on me.
When I did come around to visiting the more conscious side of things I realized I wasn’t in my car, and I sure as hell didn’t have my coffee and breakfast sandwich.
What I had was a monstrous headache and my left arm and shoulder was throbbing like a mother fu…
Sorry about that, but hell, it was hurting big time.
I tried to raise my head, then realized somebody had immobilized my happy ass.
Well, at least the head part. I raised my left arm, surprised to see a glistening cast of white plaster from just beneath my arm pit all the way down to my knuckles. I tried to move my fingers, which were almost blue by the way. Although I could move the purplish-blue looking digits the pain was telling me I really didn’t want to do that.
I’ve never been involved in a serious wreck before, but I’ve read about the disorientation and confusion a survivor experiences afterward.
How was this possible? How the hell did I get here?
Why was I was trussed up in a hospital bed, my head strapped to the mattress, my left arm in a plaster suitcase?
I was afraid to look beneath the sheets at my legs. Then I told myself I needed to look beneath the sheets at my legs.
Those legs of mine still needed to be attached to my body.
After struggling to see because I couldn’t move my freaking head, I stared for the longest time at my spindly, hairy legs. Then I moved my seemingly unscathed toes and feet attached to them.
“Thank you Jesus,” I breathed aloud.
“Oh you’re finally awake,” a man’s voice issued from the darkened corner of the room. I tried to turn my head, but the harness of course wouldn’t allow it.
I guessed from the white coat he was wearing and stethoscope hanging around his neck he was a doctor but I’ve learned not to make stereotypical assumptions about anything or anybody.
This so called doctor could have been a modern day serial killer for all I know. Another “Angel of Death” about to put me out of what he thought was misery.
When he stepped from the shadows I saw he was an elderly man. Despite his tall stature his pale face, stark white hair and fair share of sagging skin around his jaw lines left no doubt he’d done a lot of living in his day.
Still, his eyes seemed to dance and sparkle even though the only light in the room was a dim canister light above my bed.
He smiled at me, withdrew a small penlight from his pocket and leaned in close.
As he shined the light into my eyes he murmured, “you took a nasty bump on the old noggin there son, but I think you’re going to be right as rain in a day or two.”
“What the hell happened?” I said, then winced as I tried to get my brand new cast in a better position.
“Seems like Terry’s brake lines on that old piece of crap rock hauler of his finally gave up the ghost. That’s why he was blasting away with his air horn.”
“Oh yeah, I heard that,” I said. “Then he plowed into me. My car…”
The elderly doctor grinned at me. Then he stepped back into the shadows and retrieved my laptop bag, my satchel and more importantly my cell phone.
He propped everything on the table beside the hospital bed then turned to face me.
“The folks at Rob’s Towing were able to retrieve your things. Don’t worry about your car. You just need to worry about getting better son. Well, I’ve got rounds to make so I’d better get going. I’ll check in on you later. How about that?”
I tried to nod my head, rolled my eyes in frustration and said, “sure. I don’t think I’m going anywhere for a bit. So Doc, I didn’t get your name.”
“Well where the hell are my manners son? The name’s Baxter Huntley, Doctor Baxter Huntley. Nice to meet you Mr. James.”
I scowled at him suspiciously.
“How…”
Baxter chuckled and pointed to my wallet resting beside my phone.
“Would you prefer we called you John Doe? See you later Mr. James.”
With that, he was gone.
Seconds later, a short man, replete with white jacket, dark hair, mocha brown skin and brown eyes walked into my room.
“Ah, good you’re awake Mr. James. I’m doctor Ramero Suripurith. I was the attending when they brought you in this morning. Seems as if you had a nasty bump on your head. I had you restrained, but we’ll get that off straight away. Your left arm suffered three fractures so we…”
“Whoa, hang on just a minute, stop. I already had a doctor see me just minutes ago.”
“Really, and did this doctor have a name?”
“Baxter Huntley. Doctor Baxter Huntley. He said he’d check on me later.”
The man’s eyes widened. In fact, I think his dark chocolate face paled a shade closer to that of a latte cappuccino.
“I, um, I don’t really see how that is possible Mr. James. I think you may be mistaken.”
“Nope, I usually don’t forget shit like that.”
“Perhaps the blow you received on the head has brought on a bout of momentary delusion. I’m sure it will pass within the next few hours.”
“Doc, I know what I saw and heard. The man was standing right there, right where you’re standing.”
“Again, Mr. James, I don’t believe that could have happened.”
“And why the hell not?”
“Doctor Huntley has been dead for almost twenty five years.”
“What?”
The doctor nodded then wrote something in a chart he was holding.
“Yes, I’ve been here at County Medical for almost ten years and he died fifteen years before I arrived. It is highly unlikely you had a conversation with a dead person.”
I knew what I’d seen. Doc Huntley had shined that penlight in my eyes. He’d moved my stuff from the chair to the nightstand.
It was highly unlikely I had a conversation with a dead man? Even though I just did?
Oh holy shit. I’ve spent years roaming this country searching for stories.
Now look at me.
I’m the freaking story.
I knew I should have stayed in bed this morning.
READ ON — PAGING DOCTOR BAXTER HUNTLEY PART II
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