No life. No ordinary sounds. Just the infuriating ‘beep beep’ of the impersonal machine monitoring my life signs. Shades of Monty Python and the ‘machine that goes Ping!’. The thought brings a laugh to my throat and finally you notice I am awake. Stupid, flat expression. You’re trying for professional and sympathetic but from this angle you’re more the devil in a white uniform. More white. You are the face to my pain and God is there pain. I try to communicate but I have no voice. You tell me I have a tube in my throat. No shit Sherlock! What, you think perhaps I hadn’t noticed? I cough and it hurts and you rush to my side to suppress the spasms racking my chest. I want to grab you and crush your simpering face but my arms are restrained, strapped to the cold and impersonal rails of the bed. ‘Fuck you!’ I want to scream. Immobile and impotent, helpless to express the anger inside me I see you smile. You are not afraid. You’ve seen me, other me’s, before. Why do you do this job? A. ‘Do you go to church, plumber?’ ‘Maybe I have been too dumb to tell you my name is Marty? And no, I don’t go to church.’ Their hands were soft and calming. ‘Marty is nice name. We will call you Marty when you make love to us, but on playa, you are Plumber.’ I had been captured, I realized. Their sneaky plan was to come to Burning Man, all the way from Brooklyn, planning on finding guys they could have fun with. How come it was Thursday and they only had me cornered so far? What was their Pasha game anyway? It took another hour of biking to see the sights and make our way back to the truck for lunch. The midday sun was cooking us. Katarina started a generator on the ground next to the truck while Elena and I went inside to fix sandwiches. In a few minutes, a portable air conditioner was going, and Katarina closed a transparent curtain across the end of the truck as she climbed in. There was a stack of body wipes, of which many were used to clean only some of the dust from us. I sat in.
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