Mercy

DOB: February 17, 1948.

The simple date scrawled onto Billie Joe Armstrong’s chart didn’t catch my eye until the second day, and even then, it was by pure coincidence. Rarely was it necessary for a nurse to know a patient’s exact date of birth or age, seeing as all the important medical decisions are up to the doctors to decipher. It turned the majority of them into control addicts with arrogance and narcissism issues, but their supposed genius and ability to save a person’s life made their socially unacceptable behaviors acceptable. Surprisingly, I was one of the few who couldn’t care less. I was only a nurse, an assistant of sorts, and that never bothered me. I knew my place at the bottom of the medical chain and was quite comfortable there. It was safe. What did bother me, however, were the nurses who would persistently bitch and moan about being treated as subhuman yet did nothing to change their lowly positions. I would just stand there, shaking my head, as they rambled on about a particular decision a doctor had made which was contrary to what they believed was necessary. Rarely would I agree with the outraged nurse, so very quickly I became unpopular amongst my fellow nurses.

I remained unaffected by their rejection, for I had no intentions on being friendly with the staff. I was simply there to make the money necessary to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. Medicine wasn’t a fucking popularity contest, but the nurses at the hospital seemed to treat it as such.

Naturally, the doctors appeared to have a strange sense of attachment to me. It didn’t surprise me in the least. I knew my place and didn’t question their authority. I knew when to bite my tongue and fall back in line. Everyone else was so wrapped up in their own self-important, ego-tripping bullshit to realize they were digging their own graves.

Or maybe I was the damned one for being so easily broken.

Either way, my uncommon bond with the doctor I was teamed with to treat the old cancer-stricken bastard led my eyes to gawk at the simple date. Some quick math skills that would be the envy of any teenaged cashier sent my mind reeling with questions as to why a fifty one year old man’s health deteriorated so rapidly to that of a man nearly two to three decades older. In fact, Billie Joe looked much older than I had previously assumed. Driven by curiosity rather than my professional knowledge, I simply had to demand the old man of the legitimacy of his birth date.

“Ooo, what’s the matter, Fairy? Find something gruesome on my chart?” Billie Joe mocked, having studied my face for the full two minutes I gawked at his chart.

“It…it says you were born in ’48. That would only make you 51,” I stammered, finally tearing my eyes away from the chart to meet the bright eyes of my patient.

“Congratulations, you passed second grade math. Thank God they put me under your care. I was worried about being treated by an imbecile, but apparently you got a damn good handle on them numbers,” the old man scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking at me with obvious mischief.

I merely blinked at him, obviously having not received the answer I was searching for. What I needed was an explanation, but the crazy bastard seemed content with evading my every question with insults laced within his sarcastic remarks. He shifted under my gaze, and my eyes landed upon forearms that were littered with symbols and lettering that most likely made sense to him at some point in his life but were utterly meaningless to me. The tattoos that wrapped around his arms like tasteless graffiti justified a decision I had made long ago to never allow that ink filled needle anywhere near my body. Mr. Armstrong was a prime example of a senior citizen who looked ridiculous tattooed, and would fuel the parental con-argument towards any teenager who felt the need to have a symbol or a phrase permanently etched into their skin. Something in his ridiculousness made Billie Joe seem less like a callous jackass, and I would later grow to marvel over each and every picture that fit his arms like sleeves, but in that moment all I saw was a fool.

“I’m sorry, did I talk too fast for that insult to sink in? Need me to go back and go over it with pictures and flashcards?” Billie Joe snorted.

I snapped out of my daze to glare at the old man, hating myself for even bothering to bring up the conversation in the first place.

“You just…don’t look that young is all. I just wanted to make sure the Date of Birth listed here is correct,” I mumbled, sifting blindly through the pages in the clipboard to make it look like I was accomplishing something other than accusing him of fabricating his age.

“You saying I look old?” he demanded.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” I snapped. I could feel my face growing red with embarrassment and anger in seconds. This man, this terminal cancer patient, was getting his rocks off just by making everyone around him feel insignificant and pathetic. Right then and there I wished his lungs would fail, ending his miserable run as the most incredible jackass I had ever met and leaving me in peace to treat patients who were actually grateful for me care. I wanted him dead so badly it hurt.

“Hot damn, Fairy, what the hell’s your problem? Did your little boyfriend refuse to blow your fagpipe last night?”

I gave up. With my face searing scarlet and my jaw clenched tight, I set the chart down for Dr. Shaw to retrieve later and proceeded to exit the room. Looking over my shoulder, I could see the old man staring at me with great interest…longing, even. I was torn between abandoning my patient or sticking it out a while longer to possibly receive the explanation I was craving. Hesitantly, I chose to hover near the door.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I whispered. “Now please, it’s a simple question: Did you or did you not give the wrong Date of Birth?”

“Forty years of smoking, drinking, and living on the streets will do that to you. Premature aging or whatever the fuck you pansies wanna call it, so I guess now I look older than God,” he retorted gruffly, spiraling into a coughing fit the minute he finished. I had to look away as he spat the blood into his tissue.

“Well, not older than God. Just…old,” I murmured.

“No bullshit, Fairy, I like it. Guess I ain’t ever gonna get laid again,” the crazy bastard chuckled, shaking his head remorsefully.

“Hey, you never know. You might get lucky with some psycho necrophiliac who digs the whole corpse-y thing you’ve got going on there.”

“No bullshit and a snarky comeback! I’m proud of you, Fairy. You got potential.”

The fact that I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not bothered me, as did his insistence upon calling me Fairy. Not once did I or any of my co-workers announce to this man that I was gay, and I certainly didn’t act as if I was. I simply did my job, spoke when necessary, and left the fucking hospital feeling worse about myself than I did the day before. Nothing in my routine screamed flaming homosexual, yet Billie Joe picked up on it right away. I wanted to know why…other than the fact that I was the only male nurse in the entire facility.

“Why do you keep calling me ‘Fairy’?” I questioned. Billie’s smirk flickered and nearly disappeared, giving his expression a much softer, more approachable demeanor. Despite his apparent reasoning behind the demeaning nickname, he refused to answer. Instead, he slowly shook his head.

“You ask too many goddamn questions. Get the fuck out,” he growled.

Scowling, I left the bitter old man to remove the pole shoved up his ass and wondered why his expression had softened. Was the nickname honestly meant to mock me, or was there something deeper than that veiled behind those sparkling green eyes?

Oh, knock it off. Shit like this is why I call you Fairy.

My scowl deepened as I realized his disembodied voice was right. Once again, I assumed I was overanalyzing a situation that was exactly as it seemed. The old man despised me because, by some impressive intuitive stunt, he was able to figure out I was gay. At that moment, I didn’t think it was possible to have been anything more.

But I didn’t know Billie Joe Armstrong.

Not yet.