Page 44 of Back Room Host

“No,” he contradicted. “We wouldn’t be sitting here if you hadn’t thrown me down the stairs.”

He had let out a scream of agony, but by now, I wasn’t so sure if he was still suffering. He had blatantly admitted to consuming drugs, which surely affected his pain perception. I didn’t know what to make of it. All it triggered in me was worry, which was a nuisance.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” he replied bluntly. “But as long as I don’t move, it’s bearable.”

Ultimately, we only waited for thirty minutes, but it felt like an eternity to me. I accompanied Juri into the examination room and explained to the doctor what had happened. She asked more questions and filled out a few forms.

“I’ll take you to get an X-ray now, Mr. Vinzens,” the doctor said, then turned to me. “Please wait outside.”

I left him alone reluctantly and pondered my limited options. Returning to the waiting area, I sought solace in a cup of coffee from the vending machine. The day seemed determined to end as poorly as it had begun—utterly shitty.

At the meeting with my mentor, Verena mercilessly dismantled my concept, staunchly refusing to sign off on it. In her eyes, the potential it harbored far surpassed what I had originally presented to her.

“You’re trying to kill two birds with one stone here,” were her words, dripping with so much sympathy that I felt almost sick. “What I have here is a piece of work that you couldn’t possibly fit into fifteen minutes. As I said before. It’s not about winning the Oscar here, but merely about a final film project. As I can see, you’ve rewritten the treatment. It takes a completely different direction. It would be better if we take the time to look at the new direction you’ve taken.”

She hadn’t rejected it because it was bad, but still, that feeling lingered in me after that conversation. Despite my efforts during training, it was killing me that I still hadn’t gotten her signature.

I should not have gone to work at the bar. It would have saved me a lot of trouble. I was already feeling tense. The loud music, crowds, and flickering lights only made it worse, causing me to weigh every word from Daniel’s mouth. The anger had been unstoppable. My head throbbed, and I still felt overstimulated. Even in the waiting room, everything was too much.

The LED lights above me flickered. The old man in the chair in the corner kept sniffing. And when a woman with a crying girl came in through the door, I fled into the corridor. While waiting there, Juri and a nurse were headed toward my direction. Juri was still in the wheelchair, pale and looking pretty beat up.

“We were just about to get you,” the nurse said. “The results are in now.”

Shortly afterward, we were back in the examination room, and the doctor scribbled something in the file.

“I can reassure you, nothing is broken. You have a classic torn ligament in your foot. Your hand is sprained. We will splint the joints and I recommend at least two weeks of absolute rest. In addition to the bruises, you may have a headache for a few days, but you'll be fine. I’ll prescribe painkillers for you.”

“Two weeks?” he asked incredulously. “No, that’s not possible. I have to work.”

“I’ll write you off work,” the doctor said, making a note. “Take advantage of the holidays to rest. Recover from this fall.” She turned to her computer and clicked a few times on the mouse. “With New Year’s in between, I suggest we meet again on January 4th. I’m sure by then, you can switch to a walking boot. That way, you’ll be more mobile again.”

Juri lived on the fourth floor of a building that didn’t even have an elevator. Was that Noé still with him? Even if he was, he had been a disaster. How was he supposed to take care of Juri?

“Do you live alone? Or in a shared apartment?” the doctor asked.

“Alone,” Juri replied.

“Due to your injured hand, you won’t be able to use crutches, so I advise you to stay with someone. With your family or something.”

Juri’s face froze, and I could tell something wasn’t right. I had already noticed that the topic of family wasn’t his thing during our first beer. It had been enough to ask him where he had grown up. The speed and grace with which he diverted the question to me made it clear that there was no family to help him in this situation. So that left his friends.

“What about Clé?” I asked cautiously.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Not possible. He’s going to Zermatt for Christmas … and he also doesn’t have a lift.”

“And Noé?”

“Moved in with the photographer.”

“And the other two … This Sandro guy?”

“Forget it,” he muttered, massaging his temples. “I’ll manage. Romero is still around.”

I hesitated.That slimy landlord? Even if he paid him, he would never really take care of him.But who was I to judge? I was the one who had gotten Juri into this situation in the first place.

Fuck! Why does this situation feel so familiar?

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