You’ve got a date with your childhood crush, Sandie; it’s great, you swipe on your phone and confirm a reservation for Saturday night at the Rusty Truck. On shift the following morning, you daydream about rollerblading with her, about ripping a bong together behind the bowling alley, about making out on the couch while Marvin Gaye, or perhaps Fergie, plays on the stereo.
You’re squirting extra mayo onto a turkey club, consumed by these fantasies, when a tiny Danny DeVito wriggles out from under the veggie bain and sinks its teeth into your ankle. You kick and yelp, but the DeVito scrambles away, squeezes under the walk-in door. You’d go after it, but Milton is taking a piss and you can’t leave customers alone out front, so you turn back to the assembly line.
A plump woman in amber-gradient sunglasses is standing there, hands clasped over her daughter’s ears, glaring. She chews out Reggie, your shift manager, then leaves in pursuit of the nearest Little Caesar’s, smirking at you on her way out. That’s when you’re summoned to the arena of your reaming: the back office. When you’re released, the lunch rush is in full swing. Booths are packed, the line wraps from the till to the front door, and no one will make eye contact with you.
A little after four-thirty you clock out and catch the bus to the Buena Vista walk-in.
Your last Danny DeVito booster shot was in grade seven and you can’t remember what diseases the school nurse said they carry. Rabies? Gingivitis? AIDS?
“If you don’t tell me, I can’t help,” the intake nurse says, finally looking up from her monitor. Intake is a counter and plexiglass window in the west wall of the waiting room.
“What’s that matter?”
“Tells me whether you need a therapeutic or prophylactic” “The fuck is that?
“You already been bitten, or is this a preventative measure?”
You swing your leg up on the patient chair and ease your sock down to a ragged bitemark. She leans in, examines the wound, and settles back into her chair.
“How you feel?”
“What do you think? Like shit.”
She shoots a glare at you. “Honey, you’ll sweeten up real quick unless you want George to straighten your ass out.” She nods to the round and pale security guard doing rounds outside the clinic. “Now. You got fever, cough? Anything like the flu?”
“No.”
She clacks her keyboard. “A physician’s approval is required to receive a DeVito shot.” There’s a long pause.
“But?”
“But it don’t matter because there’s a statewide shortage. Supplies always run low in the summer – nesting season and Hollywood. Folks’ll do anything to lose weight except diet and go for a fuckin’ walk.” She peeks over the top of her monitor. “Go home, get some shut eye, sterilize it if you haven’t already.”
“How?”
“Reduces appetite, slows digestion.” “No. How do I clean the bite?”
“Hydrogen peroxide. Try Smith’s or Walgreens.”
The day is fading. You stumble into your basement flat, sweat drenched and shivering, and fall onto your living room air mattress. The aches have migrated from your ankle to your thigh. You rip your chinos and sneakers off, flip the TV to the cartoon network, and take a lung-rasping hit off an apple bong.
This wasn’t the way life was supposed to go. You wanted to be a veterinarian but it’s probably too late. Once high school ended the days blurred together – bus rides, Subway, TV,
pot, sleep. No graduations, no holidays, no promotions. That sad, looming fate of waking up one day and realizing you’re a loser never crossed your mind because life always seemed to work out, until it didn’t. And yet, the universe has extended a hand. Against all laws of nature, Sandie, the sweetest, funniest girl in central-Wyoming has walked back into your life, and you, lowly Sandwich Artist, as unlikely as it seems, have a date with her before she drives back to Portland for the fall semester.
In the dark, ripping. Tearing. Mouth opens to scream but all that comes out is gurgling spit. Thumping in the ceiling, in the walls, far off voices shouting to “shut the fuck up, or else…”. Bone splits skin like a werewolf’s spine splits a letter jacket and denim. Hair sheds in clumps, in the dark.
A long time later. Light leaking in through the blinds. You’re on the carpet, naked and drooling. You hobble to the bathroom for a morning piss and when you go to wash your hands, the countertop presses well above your bellybutton, which is odd, because just yesterday it was waist high. It’s not just the sink though – the whole bathroom feels bigger, and your reflection is blurry, smeared. Your hand nudges a pair of glasses and as you put them on a short, old, vaguely Italian man pulls into focus. You stumble forward, catch yourself against the sink. Go to the hospital. Frizzy cul-de-sac hair. You’re obviously dying. Pulling at the skin below your eyes. Go, now. Thick, saggy. Jesus Christ, you’re a Danny DeVito.
The examination room is at the back of the clinic. White fluorescents and a mint green table wrapped in wax paper. You Google things like: turned into Danny DeVito why? and Danny DeVito cure for weekend. Articles on the rash of Danny DeVito infestations across North Dakota and Wyoming and gossip pieces about Danny DeVito’s newest movie, a live action remake of
Hercules, are all that pop up. No solutions. When the doctor slips in you see recognition in her eyes. “You’re a fan?”
“It’s probably unprofessional for me to say this, but your performance in Batman Returns
saved my life. I watch it every Christmas to see you and that delightful monkey.”
You nod. “That monkey bit my penis.” This just comes out, and when it does it knocks you off-balance. A visceral, real feeling. A totally alien scenario staking claim in your memory and sending a woozy feeling through your gut. “Help me, please.”
She takes a clipboard from under her arm and consults your chart. “You woke up like this and… you would like to not be like this?”
“I’ve got an allergy, I think.”
Scribbles. She wheels over and snaps on latex gloves. “Remove your shirt. Any abnormal breathing? No?” She pulls a penlight from her breast pocket, clicks it on right in your eyes, and tells you not to blink. Afterwards, she instructs you to strip off your chinos, then grabs you by the balls. “Cough. Okay. Again. Good. One more time.” Gloves balled into the waste bin. “Are you on any medication?”
“Just pot.”
“And you haven’t noticed any other side effects?” “Can there be more?”
She sets the clipboard flat on her lap. “It’s a severe reaction, Mr. DeVito.” “That’s not my name.”
“Of course. But this? It’s nothing that will impact long-term health. Cases like these, not uncommon, typically sort themselves out within four to eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks?!” “Sometimes longer.”
“Please. Can’t you just give me a shot? I’ve got a date.” “With whom? Rhea Perlman?”
“No.”
She rises out of her caster chair and smooths the front of her skirt. “Medical therapeutics typically don’t help severe cases of ADT.” She pauses. “I think you don’t know what that means.”
“I do not.”
“Acute DeVitotosis Transformation. It’s an infection caused by the bacteria in a rabid DeVito’s saliva. Fairly common in semi-arid and continental climates.” She pauses again. “Places that are dry and windy. But the thing with ADT is that it’s a progressive condition, and by the time someone’s diagnosed they’ve become treatment resistant.”
You could just wait this out, but then Sandie will go back to Portland, and you’ll be spinning your wheels for another year. Besides, what good ever came to someone that lets a problem “sort itself out”? You would’ve never gotten One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest without deliberate action, a bit of God-given talent, and some cocky swings.
The first you hear of it is through a Tweet with #doctorshatehim and #oneweirdtrick tagged at the end, and the next thing you know you’re on a Greyhound to Cheyenne.
You’re in the Princess Room of the Holiday Inn Conference Centre with about fifty other people. A spray-tanned man with pearl-white veneers bounds up on stage and begins a presentation that everyone coos and awes and nods at like they understand everything he says. They checked his work beforehand and found it agreeable, and soon you’re nodding along with them.
“What ‘Big Pharma’ doesn’t want you to know is that Nosodes are equally effective as vaccines against diseases like measles, polio, chlamydia, without the adverse side effects of an mRNA vaccination. No cardiovascular disease, no autism.”
“Regular ‘doctors’ don’t want this getting out. That’s why they publish all those bogus studies,” a woman next to you mutters to a friend.
“The solution is found in the cured tissue, or excretions, from a person that has survived an illness. Tissue, like all cells, contain memories, and the memory of being cured is enough to teach your body how to cure itself. AIDS, Whooping Cough, Rhea Perlman, they all come from the same place, just with a strand of RNA changed here, a block of DNA there…”
“The tissue remembers…” you mutter. Your heart’s beating faster now. When it’s all over you’re the first to line up at the side table where they’re selling a whole galaxy of Nosodes, supplements, and healing crystals. The wellness consultant frowns at the request for Danny DeVito tissue memories, says they don’t stock those yet. On your way out the guy behind you in line stops you and tells you to wait out back until the conference clears out. He meets you at his Mazda some twenty minutes later and asks for three hundred dollars.
“I only got one, that’s bus fare too.” “Give it here.”
You dig your wad of fives and tens out of your pocket and hold it out. He snatches the whole wad from you and tucks it in his breast pocket. “One’s fine.”
“I need fifty to get home.” “D’you want ‘em or not?” “Yeah, but…”
“But nothing.” He fishes a cloth drawstring baggy out of the trunk and presses it to your palm. “Three with dinner, two with breakfast.” Then he’s in his Mazda, ripping out of the lot towards Main Street.
On your walk up the shoulder of the I-25, your thumb to the wind, Saturday knocks around in your head. Saturday. Grocery store and new bus passes from the mall. There was something else important that day, no? An appointment, maybe. A meeting. Saturday. What the hell was it?
You check your phone and find another missed call from someone called “Subway.” How do you block a phone number again? Next time you see Jake and Lucy, they can show you how, and this time you’ll really listen.
Forty-eight hours later you’re sitting on the toilet taking rips off an apple bong. There’s a little drawstring baggy on the counter with nothing inside. Your algorithm is full of homeopathic posts with teenagers laughing in the comments. Another rip. You feel nothing. This is when your phone buzzes. Different this time. Someone named “Sandie.”
“still good for saturday????”
Saturday. Sandie… Coughing fit.
Sandie. It feels like it’s right there. Then parts come trickling back.
This is where you live. This is your apple bong, your mattress is in the living room, your TV too. You aren’t Danny DeVito. No. You just have a disease, and you can’t show up to a date in this condition. She’ll understand if you say you’ve got food poisoning, or that grandma died. You tap out an excuse, but another text pops up before you can press send.
“cuz it’ll be fun ;-)” There’s a peach emoji at the end.
In that moment, all thought of your appearance flutters away, and you tap out “totally ;)” and tack on a bunch of eggplant emojis. She responds a few seconds later with a laughing face and more peaches, this time with little water droplets beside them. Fuck it. Bitches love famous dudes.
As exciting as it is… Sandie, and Sandie’s face, is still hazy. There’s no way you aren’t
losing it again, so you set an alarm for every hour over the next twenty-four hours: you aren’t Danny DeVito. date with “Sandie” (good to go) at Rusty Truck. 6:30 pm.
Saturday. The foyer of the Rusty Truck is packed. At first, you can’t place why you’re here, but a harp plinks on your phone and reminds you. You push your way through to reception and slap the call bell, startling the hostess. Moments later, a waitress is showing you to a banquette at the front window.
7 pm rolls around and the seat across from you is still empty. Thirty minutes later you’re playing through all the reasons she might be late. By 8 pm you’re almost in tears. Texting Sandie something nonchalant might relieve some of the tension, but you don’t have the heart, so drink heavily until last call, settle your tab, and migrate to the bar.
About 9:30, a Rhea Perlman pulls a barstool up beside you. She’s leaned against the bar, legs crossed, swimming in an iridescent cocktail dress. She glances over at you, smiles before returning to her phone. Your phone buzzes against your thigh. A text from Sandie. A single awkward face emoji.
“I didn’t’ think you’d still be here.”
“What?” You glance to Rhea, then down to your phone, then back to Rhea. “Sandie?” “I know that I’m, like, super late,” she says, inching her stool closer. “I planned to stand
you up after this,” she gestures to herself. “But I hated the thought of you here alone, all bummed out.”
You consider this for a moment, then sip your drink. “You aren’t even that late.”
At the bar, the two of you drink and talk with such ease, it’s like you’re kids again. Time slips by. The rest of the world falls away until the bartender flicks the lights on and off.
“So, what shall we do about this?” She gestures between you with the stem of a maraschino cherry. The corners of her eyes are crinkled from years of smiling – a dusky face framed by a curly bob. She’s fucking glowing, and there’s no one you’d rather be with.
“I have an idea.” You hold out your hand and she takes it without hesitation. The two of you stumble outside and down Madison Boulevard to the Fremont Park bus stop, where you make out until the route 109 bus whisks you back to your apartment.
Here, in the lazy summer evening, tiny Danny DeVitos watch and coo from their alleyways, their garbage bins, their storm drains. They smile, because one day, they know they too will find their Rhea Perlmans, and life will be as it should.