The little thief slithered in.
Disharmony on a thin wind, and I should have known better. But the day had started wrong; it broke badly when I drank Drano. I know, I know, no matter what I say, you’ll think it was part of the grand scheme. Just because I had the note written doesn’t mean shit. It means I’m a planner. The jug of Drano was coffee in my mind, and the drain needed a little love from a year's worth of bacon drippings and shaving. Yes, I shave in the kitchen sink. I piss off my back deck after dark, too. I’m considerate of the neighbors like that, which begs the question: what do you do when you’re invisible, wearing midnight’s mask? When no one is watching. When your fall from grace is so bad, you can't even look? Would you make a movie out of your day? How much would you charge to let strangers watch your vile and disgusting private habits? We all have a price. I do. I am reality TV, and I know it, except I've seen too much of me. I'm a voyeur in my own life, and enough is enough. Somedays, I want to staple my eyes shut because there’s nothing left to see here.
Drano is no joke; believe me, and I was out of toothpaste, Listerine, and mints. I favor oral hygiene.
My throat, lips, and gums were on fire, blistering. It did not go further than my gullet, so the doctor is optimistic. There goes my opera career, Doc. He didn't smile—not a bit. No bedside manner. All clammy and pale, he was. Smelled like stainless steel, eyes like globes, orbiting me, a worldly man, my take, him seeing me as an unmapped off-ramp, lost on his way to The Hamptons. He was definitely wondering if I had insurance. I don't look like a guy who does, but I do. I work full-time, exceptin' when I daydream. I daydream a lot—anything to escape.
That thief I was talking about stole my car. He said he was going to the store to buy smokes and beer, and I needed bread and butter pickles. He never came back. My brother is like that—a liar. My car and him are likely in a ditch.
So, I took the bus to the hospital, spitting and hacking into a white handkerchief, the cotton kind that gentlemen used to carry. I got this one from my Dad—he had style, and then he died. I don't connect those thoughts much, but I did sittin’ on that greasy bus, looking pitiful. I thanked my Dad for his kindness. I wish I was kinder to him—and a bunch of other people, too. The old man beside me heard me talkin' to myself and showed me a picture of his grandson. The kid looked like a baked potato, but I kept it to myself. The kid’s name is Chip. No lie.
I'll do more of that, be nice to people after I heal up. It's not hard, but sometimes you just gotta lie to their face. Lies are Vaseline for chafed-up people.
Something to look forward to, being nicer.
I'll start with that girl at the coffee shop. I called her a bitch the other day. For no reason other than she reminded me of my ex. She had her hair the same way: short in the back and bangs in the front. It brought out the beast in me. That’s never good. I'll start with her for sure.
That's what I'll do.
After I heal up.