Thread: Ken, the Pig, and I

After giving me honourable mention in the last writing competition, the Wesport Arts Center has invited me to submit an essay to a new contest. I think it's a good story. I hope you folks will too.

Ken, the Pig and I
© 2009-B.R. Moroni

There’s a hospital in Harlem that looks like a twenty story grey concrete block with windows. It has no colors, no convolutions, and no details of any interest. In fact this particular building is remarkable simply because it is not at all remarkable. As a Quality Engineer for a Connecticut based manufacturer of medical devices I was sent to this hospital with Ken, a Design Engineer. Unlike the hospital, Ken was remarkable, for many reasons. Ken was colorful. Ken had convolutions. Ken was also a very gifted engineer. It was a new laparoscope of his design we were going to Harlem to test. I was sent with Ken not because he would have any difficulty testing his own instrument but because Ken was also remarkable in his social ineptitude. My assignment was to assist Ken as necessary to get him from our Connecticut office to a lab on the ninth floor of the hospital in Harlem and home again. On the train into New York City Ken told me there would be a live pig in the lab for us, well for him. I had no need of a pig. However, I know my way around New York City and hospitals in general. So I had Ken and Ken would have his pig.

In the course of my medical device career, I had participated in other pig labs so I was okay with the idea. I went once to Kansas City, Missouri to work with doctors and sales representatives in a lab with little baby pigs in a large, clean well lit and ventilated room with sixteen tables. The piglets were put up on the tables by two capable young men from the pig farm. A veterinarian was present, anesthetizing the animals and keeping them under. When the time came, the vet either woke them up or, if the damage was too severe, gave them a shot that stopped the heart instantly. The little pig simply ceased to exist. No struggle. No Squealing. No pain. Although to me it was sad it seemed very humane, well monitored and reasonably civilized. Some things are different in New York City.

When Ken and I got to the hospital in Harlem, we went to the unmarked room on the ninth floor as directed. It seemed like a vast storage closet. There was very expensive looking junk everywhere. As there was no one in the room, we wove our way past empty oxygen tanks, partially dismantled EKG machines, stainless steel carts piled precariously with video equipment, what appeared to be most of a ventilator and stacks of other medical machinery to a door at the back of the room. This door led to another much smaller room which really was nothing more than a large rectangular closet. Along the three walls that had no door were tall, fully cluttered stainless steel shelf units. In the middle of the closet between the shelves was a stainless steel table leaving a space about twelve inches wide to get around the table. On the table was tied a pig. Now, this was no piglet. This was two hundred pounds of bacon, ham, sausage and ribs pig. It was lying on its back, its cloven hooves tied with strips of gauze to the legs of the table. A large syringe two thirds full of liquid was taped to the table beside the pig’s head. A thin plastic tube led from the syringe to a needle in a vein in the pig's left ear. A much larger tube came from the pig’s mouth to an electric air pump, slowly and rhythmically causing the pig’s chest to expand with air and contract as it exhaled. Other than the rise and fall of the pig’s chest, the creature was motionless. My heart was pounding as I looked around for whoever was responsible for this animal. The room was still empty. The entire situation filled me with a distracting apprehension. Conversely, Ken's demeanor was disturbingly nonchalant. He was all set to just start doing what we came to do but I was not. I did not want to touch that pig. I was nearly overcome by an irresistible urge to run out of the hospital as fast as I could and get very drunk. While every cell of my being was really freaking out, Ken was very cool, a fact that freaked me out even more! Ken just opened his briefcase, pulled out some instruments and went about his testing with a frighteningly cold professionalism.

Standing across the table from my unexpectedly ghoulish co-worker, I watched him force a stainless steel cannula with a sharp metal spike about the size of my thumb known as a trocar into the sow's abdomen and replace the trocar with his prototype laparoscope. While he was checking for ease of use and optical image quality I was seriously thinking Ken was insane. My mind leapt from question to question. Who owns this pig? Do all pigs have so many nipples? Where is the person administering the drugs? Is this a New York City pig? Did they bring it up in the same elevator we took? Are there any other pigs around? What happens next? I asked Ken if he thought we should leave. I was suddenly afraid to be seen near this animal. I had the same feeling when I was a kid standing next to a friend who just hit the side of a police cruiser with a snowball. The closet was so small we were literally belly-to-belly with this pig and I wanted out, immediately. Just then, just as Ken said he was done, the pig began to wake up.

I have no idea what a person would do if they awake and find themselves tied to a table in a closet but this pig was not coming out of it in the coolest manner. Its eyes were not yet open but it was definitely coming to. It began to thrash and writhe on the table. The strips of gauze were very tight and getting tighter. As I watched its struggling, I realized that outside of a glass jar, I had never before seen the bottom of pig’s feet. Now here were four pig’s feet, straining against strips of white gauze bandage. I started thinking how an animal this size was probably very strong and could easily break the strips of gauze. I began to envision this partially mutilated animal tearing itself loose and demonstrating its anger, fear and pain fueled strength as it flopped onto the floor in a panic driven rampage through this room and eventually down the hallways of this very large metropolitan hospital. Although I almost laughed out loud as I imagined the reactions of patients and staff suddenly confronted by a large, bleeding, squealing sow as she ran terrified from room to room, a muffled grunt from the pig announced it would not likely be very long at all before it broke free and ran amok. As the pig’s grunting changed into a terrified gargling squeal, a man strode noisily into the outer room from the hallway. I wanted to hide under the table. As he navigated around the junk toward us, it was readily clear the man had been having much more fun than any of us in the closet. The man’s hair was mussed and he had a brilliant red smear all around his mouth which could only have been lipstick. His shirt was buttoned wrong and the hem of his white jacket was partially tucked into his trousers. I was trying to think of some sort of introduction. But what does one say in such a situation? With no formalities of any kind, he shoved his way into the closet with the three of us (Ken, the pig and me), reached across the table and pressed the plunger on the syringe. The pig stopped fussing and, in a few seconds, although the pump kept up its rhymic respirations she stopped living. Without having uttered a single word the man walked back out leaving Ken, the pig and me to fend for ourselves. Moments later, Ken and I left too.

As we walked out of the hospital and down the sidewalk toward the train station, I glanced back at the stark concrete building. I couldn’t help but wonder what else might be happening in there and the questions about the pig came back to mind.

Great story Brad. Well written. Thanks for sharing it with us.

I walked out after a very moving and disturbing French film once in NYC, in a light drizzle. I was with my wife (ex), and the rest of the crowd. We were all still examining the things in our heads and hearts that were our reactions to the film, some positive, most negative, and all a little traumatized. Also, we were all amazed at the power that can be held by a film. No one even opened their umbrella as we staggered out to our cabs, our subways, our mercifully mind-numbing ****tails.

Sometimes a short piece of writing can bring up a little bit of that. Thank you. I miss feeling it. It might not feel "good" exactly, but how glorious it is to feel.

That was a good read, thanks Brad

True story, I presume?
That's a wild story.

I knew you could write, now do some more!

Originally Posted by Oglethorpe

True story, I presume?
That's a wild story.

From what I've come to know of Brad and his life's adventures jsut by reading here, I'd say yes...it's a true story, and not on the top 10 list of the wildest.

Originally Posted by icedog

Picture the scene. Here on the ninth floor of a twenty story hospital in New York City was a deserted roomful of junk and in the back of this uninhabited room was a closet where my unexpectedly ghoulish co-worker was calmly sticking things into the belly of a two hundred pound sow that was tied to a table. I was seriously thinking Ken was insane, or maybe I was. My mind leapt from question to question. Where is the person administering the drugs? Did that pig grow up here? Did they bring it up in the same elevator we took? Where does this pig live? Are there any other pigs around? What happens next? I asked Ken if he thought we should leave. I was suddenly afraid to be seen near this animal. I had the same feeling when I was a kid standing next to a friend who just hit the side of a police cruiser with a snowball. The closet was so small we were literally belly-to-belly with this pig and I wanted out, immediately. Just then, just as Ken said he was done, the pig began to wake up.

As a fellow writer I really enjoyed it. The only criticism of the piece is the first couple of sentences above.

Picture the scene. The reader is already picturing the seen. IMHO the use of this phrase is awkward.Here on the ninth floor of a twenty story hospital in New York City was a deserted roomful of junk and in the back of this uninhabited room was a closet where my unexpectedly ghoulish co-worker was calmly sticking things into the belly of a two hundred pound sow that was tied to a table. Is there a reason to rehash the scene? I could see it if the experience was a dream sequence.

Also you stated that the room was so small that you were belly to belly with the pig, but a guy came out of nowhere?

Also depending on you stomach, it may be worth going into detail about what Ken did specifically to the pig to test the tool.

Good onya. I hope that you win this year.

Originally Posted by Oglethorpe

True story, I presume?
That's a wild story.

Yes Ogie, true story. All my stories are true. There is (what is said to be) an ancient Chinese curse that says, "May you live in interesting times." I have lived cursed so. According to Nietzsche, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." For me what doesn't kill me is just another story. I've got alot of stories.

Singlewedge, thanks for the tips. I agree and made some edits.

I will be submitting the story after I look at for a few more hours. Thank you all for your interest and comments

Brad

Stories are what makes the world go around...this is indeed a good 'un.