Kaufman, Andrew.

 

That night Tom started having pains in his chest. The first one came at ten in the evening. It was sharp and enduring. He doubled over but it passed. The next came two hours later; by morning they came every ten minutes. The Perfectionist was sleeping and he knew not to touch her. He called the Amphibian.
‘Hey,’ said Tom.
‘Hey,’ said the Amphibian.
‘Ahhhh,’ said Tom. A pain shot through his heart.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Pain in my chest.’
‘Sharp and enduring?’
‘Yes.’
‘But recurring?’
‘Yes!’
‘In greater frequency?’
‘Less than ten minutes now.’
‘I’m sending over a doctor.’
‘What is it?’
‘He’s the best there is.’
‘Tell me what it is!’
‘Your heart is breaking,’ the Amphibian said.
It took Ambrose, the Amphibian’s doctor, ten minutes to arrive at Tom’s door.
Ambrose’s hands were thick. His fingers were muscular and the knuckles bulbous, well oiled. He pulled a red rag from his back pocket and mopped his face. ‘You the guy with the heart?’ he asked Tom.
‘Yes.’
Ambrose took off his baseball cap. He put it back on his head. He raised his eyebrows. ‘I ain’t got all day… ’
Tom backed out of the doorway.
‘Where’s the kitchen?’ Ambrose asked.
Tom led Ambrose through the living room into the kitchen. Ambrose’s eyes went to the kitchen table.
‘This sturdy?’ Ambrose inquired, leaning all his weight on the corner of the table. He kneeled and inspected the joints underneath. ‘It’ll have to do,’ he said and started clearing the breakfast dishes and newspapers. ‘Strip,’ he commanded.
Tom started unbuttoning.
Ambrose pointed to the kitchen table. ‘Face down,’ he said.
Tom climbed onto the kitchen table. He was naked. The linoleum tabletop was cold on his cheek.
Ambrose snapped a rubber glove over his right hand. He put one finger up Tom’s anus. Tom gasped. Ambrose pulled up and Tom felt a pop in his chest. Ambrose turned him over and Tom saw how his chest had released, come open like the hood of a car. Ambrose raised Tom’s chest, propping it open with a rib bone at a forty-five-degree angle. He started poking around in there.
‘Think about your girlfriend,’ Ambrose commanded.
‘My wife,’ Tom said.
‘Whatever, just picture her face.’
Tom pictured the Perfectionist’s face.
‘Now picture her best feature,’ Ambrose instructed.
Tom pictured the Perfectionist’s nose. He felt Ambrose’s hand on his heart. Tom took shallow breaths. Ambrose reached behind his heart. He squeezed from underneath and a quick line of blood squirted up, hitting Ambrose in the face.
‘That might be it,’ Ambrose said, reaching to his back pocket, grabbing the rag and wiping off his face.
‘What? What is it?’
‘When’s the last time you had this cleaned?’
‘I’ve never had it cleaned.’
‘Exactly,’ Ambrose said. ‘I’ll need the Stewart for this.’
The Stewart was a long, unwieldy tool Ambrose rarely used and kept in the back of his truck. Leaving Tom naked on the kitchen table, Ambrose left the room.
Tom listened to the apartment door open and close. Ambrose was gone for fifteen minutes. Tom lay naked on the kitchen table. He craned his neck down and to the right and watched his heart beating.
Ambrose returned carrying a long metal toolbox. He took out an instrument that was long and sharp and made of thin stainless steel. This was the Stewart. Ambrose used two hands to hold it.
‘Take a deep breath,’ Ambrose instructed. ‘And think of the first time you kissed her.’
Tom pictured the horrible basement apartment he used to live in. The worst thing was the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Boot scuffs and cigarette burns covered it. No longer white, it was a grey that always looked dirty.
The Perfectionist couldn’t stand it. One Wednesday, five days after their first official date, she showed up with two buckets of bright blue floor paint and two paint rollers.
‘Great idea,’ Tom said.
They set to painting the floor. They started where the carpet hit the linoleum. They worked backwards at a furious pace. They’d paint what was in front of them, then shuffle back a few feet and paint that. In no time at all their feet hit the back wall of the kitchen. They’d painted themselves into a corner. Tom looked up and the Perfectionist was smiling.
‘What the hell do we do now?’ Tom asked her.
The Perfectionist kissed him (perfectly).