Page 93 of All That Jazz

“Fuck off, Lowenstein,” I snarl, blindly swatting at anything near me, but connecting with nothing.

“Y’know, you were super combative like this when you were comin’ off anesthesia after the friggin’ shoot-out,” he goes on in his typical casual tone. “It didn’t deter me then, and it won’t now either.”

There’s a scraping sound of wood against wood, and the legs of a chair appear in my line of sight. I perceive Meyer sitting down, and I can feel him leaning toward me.

“I told you to fuck off,” I snap, but it comes out with a loud, adolescent crack in the back of my throat.

“I know. And you can fuck off with that.”

I remove my hand from my eyes only long enough to wipe my face on my sleeve, and then I clutch my forehead with both hands in a way that hides most of my face from Meyer. The stupid fucking tears still won’t stop, and all I can do is make them as quiet as possible.

“Easy there, Vin.” His hand settles on the back of my head and stays there while he firmly scrubs my hair. “Just take it easy now.”

We sit there for a long time, not saying anything; just me trying to quietly rid myself of every last drop of soul-searing pain, and Meyer rubbing my head. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Without even the luxury of marinating in hope because we both already know from the stories of our friends back home that this isn’t going to end well.

He doesn’t insult me by saying bullshit like,it’s okay, Vin, it’s all gonna be fine, just hang in there and it’ll be okay,and I appreciate that more than almost anything.

The only thing I appreciate more is that he’s there. Just like he always has been. And I’m stuck in another miry pit of harsh realities, just like when we were kids on the streets of New York—except these realities smack a lot harder. These realities hit me like a brick to the face as I digest the knowledge that everyone I care about is going to die at some point, some a lot sooner than others, and I should make sure they know they matter to me.

I wipe my sleeve across my face again but keep my head below my shoulders. “Thanks, Meyer.”

“Yep,” is all he says.

It’s all either of us need to say.

* * *

Another week passeswith only text messages from Zoey that Ava’s still heavily sedated, still being pumped full of oxygen, but that she’s not at the point of no return, otherwise known as the ventilator. In pure desperation to distract myself, I throw myself into planning the next virtual concert. I up the frequencies of the piano bar livestreams to every single night and convincingly blame it on total boredom from still being stuck home when the viewers mention it in the chat. Some tiny, internal part of me laughs at the idea that I am a damn good actor, and if my whole life wasn’t crashing and burning right now, I could pursue that. I could be on fucking Broadway, and that would pad my bank account so much that I could get away with wiping my ass with hundred-dollar bills, and once upon a time, that was all I fucking cared about.

I just need enough money to not care about it anymore.

But the truth is, I don’t care about money anymore. And it has nothing to do with a sudden influx of cash.

It has everything to do with the fact that every single day I don’t hear from Zoey that Ava’s finally awake, I believe more and more that the last time I talked to her was the actuallast time I’ll ever talk to her.

It’s been two weeks since I talked to her. And I’m really not trying to think about that too much.

I’m also trying not to let this shit drive me to drink too much. Or hit the cannabis too much. Or do anything else too much that will put my mind in too much of an altered state that I can’t be alert and fully present when and if I actually get the text from Zoey saying Ava’s awake so I can try calling again.

But two weeks is a long time when you’re waiting for something you never know for sure is going to come, and it’s three in the morning, and I just need to sleep. It’s Friday, and I handled all my shit for the week, and I gave the viewers a really friggin’ lively virtual piano bar this evening, and everyone will understand if I take the weekend off. So I’m gonna dose myself with a big ass sleeping pill and just sleep for as long as it’ll let me.

After pulling the heavy drapes closed so the sun doesn’t disturb me in four hours, I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for the bottle of pills. Shaking one into my palm, I stick the tab in my mouth and reach for a glass of water when my phone starts chirping and lighting up.

I freeze and snap my gaze to the nightstand where I left the phone charging.

Ava is calling me.

I immediately spit out the pill and swipe to answer the FaceTime call. I barely have time to process anything before the call connects and her face appears on the screen, and she is amess.

Sobbing and gasping and hiccupping behind the plastic oxygen mask, Ava wails my name before I can even say anything. “Lucky...Lucky, are you there?”

“I’m here...I’m here, baby. I’m right here.” I wipe the grogginess and fatigue out of my eyes. “I’m so glad to see your face right—”

“I’m dying.”

My mouth goes dry. “Ava...what—”

“Help me...Help me...I’m dying...I’m dying, and nobody can do anything, and I don’t know what to do...what do I do...what do I do...what do I do…Help me, Lucky.”

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