Closed

There used to be people to help.

They were squeezed out of business.

It’s funny when people you hate

have to suffer your mindless ridicule.

Until, of course, you need them

and they would gladly have helped you,

even though you resented them.

____________________________________________________

“Closed.” No explanation, no further directions—just the one word, taped to the glass, flapping in the wind.

____________________________________________________

Closed

Randy Bell wore his patriot cap like a soldier's helmet, even at the diner where Ellen worked mornings. He liked to repeat last night’s lines from his favorite talk show, word for word, to the men in the booths around him. “CDC’s a racket,” he’d bark between sips of coffee. “Science is just opinion in a necktie and white coat.” The others laughed, and Randy laughed loudest, slapping the table so the silverware jumped.

When Ellen told him to cut it out — “Folks come here to eat, not listen to your TV routine” — Randy winked at the others and said, “See? Even my wife thinks I’m dangerous.” He liked the sound of it, the little victory. She had saved him from his own foolishness so often in the past that he felt bad taking these little wins. But he just couldn’t resist.

That night, his pundit was booming again on the TV, jabbing the air, thumping his chest with conviction. Randy sat in his recliner, belly propped against a plate of fries. When the fact-checker offered her charts, Randy jeered at the screen: “Stick your graphs where the sun don’t shine.” He roared with laughter, imagining all the pointy-headed liberals crumpling at his jibes and sputtering out academic jargon.

Ellen started hacking in the kitchen—a cough like gravel in a tin pail. Wiping her mouth, she called to Randy, her voice cracking, “Turn that fool off! He’s giving me a headache.”

“Drink some water,” he shouted back, still laughing at his pundit’s angry diatribe.

By midnight Ellen was wheezing in her sleep. Her breathing was shallow, her skin damp, and she was barely conscious. Randy hoisted her out of bed, threw a coat over her, and bundled her into the truck. He drove fast through the black fields toward the county hospital.

But when he got there, the parking lot was empty and the building was dark. A paper notice fluttered on the locked doors. Closed. No explanation, no further directions—just the one word, taped to the glass, flapping in the wind.

He pounded the glass a few times, then ran back to the truck. Ellen was half-conscious, but she clutched his arm. Her breath came short and her eyes were wide. “There’s another place,” he said. “They can’t stop us. We’ll find it.” But it was an hour down the highway.

He drove with both hands locked on the wheel, knuckles white. The rerun of his show was now blaring on the radio, the pundit’s voice booming about freedom, about dominating so-called experts. Randy looked at Ellen’s hand on his arm. Her grip was loosening. Randy put his fingers up to the radio control. He paused a few seconds to hear the end of the sentence. Then, wondering if the last statement were really true, he turned it off. “Giving me a headache,” he thought.

At last the glow of the regional hospital came into view. He pulled up to the door, shouting Ellen’s name. Orderlies rushed up with a gurney and pulled her limp from the truck. One of her slippers fell off and got trampled by the gurney. Randy climbed out of the cab, legs numb, and saw out of the corner of his eye one nurse signaling to another with a small, decisive shake of her head. For an instant her gaze met his, and he caught a glint of pity there before she turned away.

They wheeled Ellen into the building. From the waiting room a burst of canned laughter exploded from a TV no one was watching. It followed Randy into the bay, echoing hard off the walls and tiles.