Vague Outline

Jersey Shorr story # 9

 

     “Regurgitated leftovers from last night’s dinner; the so-called ‘painter’ has created this bile-churner to make everyone who has the misfortune of viewing this ‘painting’ sick right along with him!”  There, that rank ought to crack up his followers.  Jersey Shorr, art critic for Art From Around the Globe magazine, smiled to himself; he really couldn’t see what the hell the painting he was reviewing was of, because all he saw was a vague outline, but that didn’t really matter.  His followers expected him to come up with a devastating, hilarious review, not an actual critique. 

 

     Jersey was sitting in his office, trying to think of ways to appear busy, because he had been given the whole month to write his review, and claimed he was busy writing, but after 10 minutes of the first day, he was done, and he didn’t want to do anything else today.  He’d recently served a sentence in jail for inciting a riot, after details of his actions before he was attacked came out, his being charged, the judge saying he didn’t blame the attacker, and he wanted to savor his freedom.  The other inmates, once they found out he was an art critic, had been merciless, telling him his job was,

     “A limp-wristed job for a limp-wristed man!”  It hadn’t improved their impression of him when he’d responded,

     “You guys are just mean; mean, mean, mean!”

     He could feel their impression on his ribs; he was so glad to be out!  Whenever someone stuck their head in his office, he was typing, typing, typing, but as soon as the door closed behind them, he returned to staring out the window, with his feet propped up on his desk and his hands behind his head.

 

     As Jersey sat staring out the window, pretending to enjoy, or see, the view, his office door was flung open, and slammed the far wall.  and an extremely angry-looking, large, guy stood in his doorway.

     “Shorr, what’s this s**t?” he yelled, slapping a copy of Art From Around the Globe magazine he held in his trembling hands. 

     This month’s addition had just been released today, and Shorr replied, “It’s a copy of Art From Around the Globe magazine, duh!”

     

     The angry man turned even redder in the face and answered, “Note this pile of s**t magazine, this s**t review!”

     Jersey had known all along what the man meant, but was just yanking the guy’s chain.  “Why, it’s my honest review of the goiter you call ‘art’.”

    

     “Paging Doctor Phillips, paging Doctor Phillips, please line 9 for your wife.”

     Jersey blinked at the harsh light beating down on his eyes, in an unsuccessful attempt to escape from the blinding rays.  Once again, he didn’t have a clue as to where he was, or even who he was.  Then, a man wearing a white smock pushed through the door.

     “Ah, I see you’re awake.”

     “Yes, where am I?”

     “Well sir, your name is Jersey Shorr, and you’ve been in Mercy General Hospital for the last two weeks, in a coma.  We wern’t sure if you’d come out of it.”

     What?  The name Jersey Shorr didn’t ring any bells.  “Why was I in a coma?”

     “Well sir, you angered a artist with your review of his ‘Still-Water’.  He took exception, and beat you into a coma.  Like I said, we weren’t sure of your coming out of it, until we saw you making purposeful movements.”

     Suddenly, it all came back. 

 

     He’d been stuck here for two weeks, and had test after test run on him, and he was sick of being here, and sick of eating the reheated crap they served as food.  What, did they have a catering contract with My Friend Flicka Horse Farms, or something?, because everything tasted like old, sickly horses.  He wanted out!  The Doctor, whom Jersey had learned was named Dr. Phillips, came through the door.

     “And how are we feeling this morning, Mr. Shorr?”

     “WE”RE feeling fine; how much longer am I going to be here?”

     “Oh, until we’re satisfied with your condition; are you ready for a cognitive test?”

     Jersey’s anger boiled over.  “You know, you once mentioned waiting to see if I made any purposeful movements,” and he stuck his middle finger into Dr. Phillips’s face, and waved it back and forth.  “Is that ‘purposeful’ enough of a movement for you?”

 

     Jersey once again was sitting at his desk, in his own office, staring at the vague outline of the out-of-doors.  He was glad to finally have been released from that hell-hole horsemeat hospital!

 

                                   The End