Happy Birthday, Twiggy

“Twiggs? Where are you?”
He pulled open the curtain to each bunk, but Twiggy wasn’t in any of the beds. Finally, he decided that if he wanted to be alone, he could do so. He didn’t need to know where he was. Besides, he was tired, and just wanted to get some sleep.
“Marilyn?” The voice was not Twiggy’s. It was Pogo’s.
He opened his eyes. “What, Pogs?”
“You need to come out to the kitchen.”
“Why?”
“Just…come.”
Marilyn sighed. “Can’t I just sleep? I don’t want to get up right now.”
“You need to come. Please?”
“Fine.” He sat up, crawled out of the bed, and stuffed his feet into the boots he’d left by the bed.
In the tiny kitchenette, John was holding a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and Ginger was attempting to wrap white gauze around Twiggy’s left wrist.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Twiggy said emotionlessly as Ginger taped the gauze and began to wrap a second piece over the first.
Marilyn’s eyes darted to the razorblade sitting on the counter beside John. It was stained with blood. Twiggy’s blood. “What the Hell did you do?”
“It was an accident,” Twiggy said simply as Ginger taped the second piece.
“You took a razorblade to your wrist, and it was an accident?”
“It’s not his veins,” Ginger explained. “It’s just a small flesh wound.”
“This is why we don’t play with razors,” Pogo said firmly.
“I didn’t mean to,” John said tiredly.
“You did this?” Marilyn asked in shock.
“We were just goofing off. I never meant to hurt him. My hand slipped, and the blade nicked him. That’s all.”
Marilyn looked at Pogo. “What happened to the game?”
“Pogo took over. I came out here to get a snack for me and Ginger, and Twiggy was using the razor to cut that.” John stopped to gesture to a piece of large black fabric. “So, I told him it was dangerous, that he’d get cut. I went to take the blade away, and when I grabbed it, I guess I pressed down, and it sliced right into the top of his wrist.”
Marilyn looked at the gauze on Twiggy’s wrist, already stained through with blood. “Damn it, John, look at what you did!”
John looked, his eyes darkening. He was about to cry. He really hadn’t meant to hurt the bassist, he’d been trying to keep him from harm.
“Let me see, okay? You might need stitches.” Marilyn slowly, carefully removed the bloody bandages. “Bring me water in a bowl, some paper towels, the alcohol, and the gauze.”
Everyone bustled around, lying the things on the table for Marilyn. If there was one thing he was good at besides entertaining, it was dealing with injuries.
“Ginger, when I clean this, I need you to keep pressure on it for me for a couple of minutes. If it doesn’t stop bleeding, or if it turns out to be deeper than it looks, I’m going to need the first aid kit so I can stitch it.”
Ginger moved into position while Marilyn finished dousing the wound with water, and then alcohol, and then water again.
Twiggy tried to keep from hissing in pain, putting his head down on the table.
“Now, Ginger,” Marilyn instructed, pressing Ginger’s fingers to the wad of gauze on Twiggy’s wrist. “I’m going to get the medical kit.”
By the time Marilyn had returned, Pogo had left the kitchen, and John was rummaging through drawers looking for something that he wasn’t finding.
“Okay, let’s see,” he said gently, pulling the gauze back. The cut was no longer bleeding. “Good news. You won’t need stitches after all.”
Twiggy sighed.
“Does it hurt much?” John asked dumbly, holding a bottle of pills in his hand.
“What are those?” Marilyn asked. “Are you trying to drug him?”
John swiftly shook his head. “It’s just Tylenol. I promise.”
Marilyn sighed. “Twiggs? You want some Tylenol?”
The bassist nodded. He didn’t really want to feel drugged out, but he knew that he needed the pills.
Marilyn shook two pills from the bottle, and inspected them carefully. Luckily, they were name brand, so he knew that John wasn’t trying to substitute strong narcotics for harmless painkillers. He handed Twiggy the pills to swallow while he carefully bound and wrapped the cut.
Twiggy was already sleepy from loss of blood and the Tylenol, and had laid his head down on the table again.
“You can all go,” Marilyn said gently. “Thank you for your help. And John, I believe you that it was an accident, so don’t worry, all right?”
John nodded, and gently laid a hand on Twiggy’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry, buddy. Forgive me?”
Twiggy smiled tiredly. “It’s okay, John. Just go sit with Ginger for awhile, okay? Cheer up.”
John removed his hand, gently tugging on a few of Twiggy’s long dreadlocks. He disappeared from the room, and it was just the two of them, alone.
“Sorry about this,” Twiggy murmured, his face pressed against his arm.
“It’s fine. What were you doing, anyway?”
“Making something.”
Marilyn looked at the wad of fabric. “What, exactly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” He picked up the fabric, and looked at it intently. He could see that it had once been a pair of black cotton pants. Now, though, one leg had been slit up to the crotch, and the other sawed off around the knee.
“I want to go to bed,” Twiggy murmured.
“Were you making a skirt? This is just odd,” Marilyn mumbled, dropping the fabric back onto the table.
“Yeah, I guess. Will you take me to bed?”
Marilyn nodded, and walked around the table, easily scooping Twiggy into his arms. He was careful not to disturb the wrapped arm, and held him close to his chest so that he’d feel secure. “I’m going to sleep with you in your bed tonight.”
Twiggy nodded as they passed through the living room.
“I know that we normally sleep together anyway, but I was going to give you space tonight, because we’re both so tired. Since you got hurt, though, I want to be right there in case you need something.”
“Okay.”
Marilyn gently placed Twiggy on the bed, and tugged off his boots. “Can you sleep in your dress?”
“Fine.”
“Okay. I gotta go take a leak, and I’ll be right back. You stay put.”
By the time he had returned just a few minutes later, Twiggy was already sound asleep.