“Here, dump this in the bath,” someone said to Grollman. Two hands gave him a large plastic bag of the type that might contain fertilizer.
“What bath?” No one answered. Left on his own, he eventually noticed a green garden hose filling the dishwasher.
“Are you going to eat it or will you dump it into the bath?” asked a different voice. He tried to tear the bag open, but it stretched without tearing. Yet another hand appeared and grabbed the bag. Grollman involuntarily tightened his grip on the manure sack. The latest hand withdrew into the crowd around the dishwasher the stretched piece of sack slinking after it like an ever narrowing sliver of Turkish toffee. At last the suspense and the bag broke simultaneously followed by a splash.
“God damn it Warren, get your ass out of there.”
Grollman didn’t recognize the voice nor did he know who Warren was. As the manure was potentially out of the bag, he tried to find his way to the bath and carry out his task. But the bag was snatched away. Then he heard what sounded like a giant Alka-Seltzer fizzing in a colossal glass. This effect produced a large wooden oar which passed overhead until it reached the invisible bath. Several hands were visible using it to stir the solution that presumably had been added to the dishwasher. A series of commands followed, none of them directed at Grollman.
“Put this in.”
“Ok.”
“No not there.”
“Where does this go?”
“Ouch! Watch where you put that.”
“Jesus Christ you’re a moron.”
“Does this go on the venous or the arterial side?”
“Does anyone have a hemostat?” Silence. “OK, just crimp it.”
“Where’s the electrical outlet in here.”
“I can’t find the patient.”
“I’m over here.”
