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Back by seven； back by seven。 It's still the afternoon； maybe； or early evening； but black in here； black as your hat； black as a woodchucks asshole； black as midnight in Persia； and what's going on？ Where have I been？ What have I been doing？ Why haven't I been manning the phones？
Because it's Saturday； a voice from far down murmurs。 You were 。 。 。 were 。 。 。
A sound： WHOCK！ A sound I love。 A sound I more or less live for。 The sound of 。 。 。 what？ The head of a golf club； of course。 Hitting a ball off the tee。 I stand； watching it fly off into the blue 。 。 。
I'm grabbed； shoulders and calves； and lifted。 It startles me terribly； and I try to scream。 No sound es out 。 。 。 or perhaps one does； a tiny squeak； much tinier than the one produced by the wheel below me。 Probably not even that。 Probably it's just my imagination。
I'm swung through the air in an envelope of blackness…Hey； don't drop me； I've got a bad back！ I try to say； and again there's no movement of the lips or teeth； my tongue goes on lying on the floor of my mouth； the mole maybe not just stunned but dead； and now I have a terrible thought； one that spikes fright a degree closer to panic： What if they put me down the wrong way and my tongue slides backward and blocks my windpipe？ I won't be able to breathe！ That's what people mean when they say someone 'swallowed his tongue'； isn't it？
Second voice （Rusty）： 'You'll like this one； doc； he looks like Michael Bolton。'
Female doc： 'Who's that？'
Third voice…sounds like a young man； not much more than a teenager： 'He's this white lounge…singer who wants to be black。 I don't think this is him。'
There's laughter at that； the female voice joining in （a little doubtfully）； and as I am set down on what feels like a padded table； Rusty starts some new crack…he's got a whole standup routine； it seems。 I lose this bit of hilarity in a burst of sudden horror。 I won't be able to breathe if my tongue blocks my windpipe； that's the thought that has just gone through my mind； but what if I'm not breathing now？
What if I'm dead？ What if this is what death is like？
It fits。 It fits everything with a horrid prophylactic snugness。 The dark。 The rubbery smell。 Nowadays I am Howard the Conqueror； stock broker extraordinaire； terror of Derry Municipal Country Club； frequent habitué of what is known at golf courses all over the world as the Nineteenth Hole； but in '71 I was part of a medical assistance team in the Mekong Delta； a scared kid who sometimes woke up wet…eyed from dreams of the family dog； and all at once I know this feel； this smell。
Dear God； I'm in a body bag。
First voice： 'Want to sign this； doc？ Remember to bear down hard…it's three copies。'
Sound of a pen； scraping away on paper。 I imagine the owner of the first voice holding out a clipboard to the woman doctor。
Oh dear Jesus let me not be dead！ I try to scream； and nothing es out。
I'm breathing； though 。 。 。 aren't I？ I mean； I can't feel myself doing it； but my lungs seem okay； they're not throbbing or yelling for air the way they do when you've swum too far underwater； so I must be okay； right？
Except if you're dead； the deep voice murmurs； they wouldn't be crying out for air； would they？ No…because dead lungs don't need to breathe。 Dead lungs can just kind of。 。 。 take it easy。
Rusty： 'What are you doing next Saturday night； doc？'
But if I'm dead； how can I feel？ How can I smell the bag I'm in？ How can I hear these voices； the doc now saying that next Saturday night she's going to be shampooing her dog； which is named Rusty； what a coincidence； and all of them laughing？ If I'm dead； why aren't I either gone or in the white light they're always talking about on Oprah？
There's a harsh ripping sound and all at once I am in white light； it is blinding； like the sun breaking through a scrim of clouds on a winter day。 I try to squint my eyes shut against it； but nothing happens。 My eyelids are like blinds on broken rollers。
A face bends over me； blocking off part of the glare； which es not from some dazzling astral plane but from a bank of overhead fluorescents。 The face belongs to a young； conventionally handsome man of about twenty…five； he looks like one of those beach beefcakes on Baywatch or Melrose Place。 Marginally smarter； though。 He's got a lot of black hair under a carelessly worn surgical greens cap。 He's wearing the tunic； too。 His eyes are cobalt blue； the sort of eyes girls reputedly die for。 There are dusty arcs of freckles high up on his cheekbones。
'Hey； gosh；' he says。 It's the third voice。 'This guy does look like Michael Bolton！ A little long in the old tootharoo； maybe 。 。 。 ' He leans closer。 One of the flat tie…ribbons at the neck of his green tunic tickles against my forehead。 ' 。 。 。 But yeah。 I see it。 Hey； Michael； sing something。'
Help me！ is what I'm trying to sing； but I can only look up into his dark blue eyes with my frozen dead man's stare； I can only wonder if I am a dead man； if this is how it happens； if this is what everyone goes through after the pump quits。 If I'm still alive； how e he hasn't seen my pupils contract when the light hit them？ But I know the answer to that 。 。 。 or I think I do。 They didn't contract。 That's why the glare from the fluorescents is so painful。
The tie； tickling across my forehead like a feather。
Help me！ I scream up at the Baywatch beefcake； who is probably an intern or maybe just a med school brat。 Help me； please！
My lips don't even quiver。
The face moves back； the tie stops tickling； and all that white light streams through my helpless…to…look…away eyes and into my brain。 It's a hellish feeling； a kind of rape。 I'll go blind if I have to stare into it for long； I think； and blindness will be a relief。
WHOCK！ The sound of the driver hitting the ball； but a little flat this time； and the feeling in the hands is bad。 The ball's up 。 。 。 but veering 。 。 。 veering off 。 。 。 veering toward 。 。 。
Shit。
I'm in the rough。
Now another face bends into my field of vision。 A white tunic instead of a green one below it； a great untidy mop of orange hair above it。 Distress…sale IQ is my first impression。 It can only be Rusty。 He's wearing a big dumb grin that I think of as a high…school grin； the grin of a kid who should have a tattoo reading 'BORN TO SNAP BRA STRAPS' on one wasted bicep。
'Michael！' Rusty exclaims。 'Jeez； ya lookin' gooood！ This'z an honor！ Sing for us； big boy！ Sing your dead ass off！'
From somewhere behind me es the doc's voice； cool； no longer even pretending to be amused by these antics。 'Quit it； Rusty。' Then； in a slightly new direction： 'What's the story； Mike？'
Mike's voice is the first voice…Rusty's partner。 He sounds slightly embarrassed to be working with a guy who wants to be Andrew Dice Clay when he grows up。 'Found him on the fourteenth hole at Derry Muni。 Off the course； actually； in the rough。 If he hadn't just played through the foursome behind him； and if they hadn't seen one of his legs stickin' out of the puckerbrush； he'd be an ant farm by now。'
I hear that sound in my head again…WHOCK！…only this time it is followed