LoBD

Sick with an ear infection, mucus spins its trail downward, pooling in my throat when I lay to sleep. A pitcher of chamomile tea, pour and nuke, a bottle of Tylenol, two tablets every four hours. Crumpled urchins of tissue crowd my bed side. With my eyes restless, I'm forced to lay and think. My mind is stuck in a sort of limbo between the subconscious and awareness. It creates a semi sweet haze, a sign that recalling the thoughts much later would be an impossibility. For now though, only for now, I analyze abstractly or, at least, differently. Somehow even more clearly. Maybe it's because it's hindsight. I like to think my mind is thriving on the cocktail of illness, medication, sleep deprivation and a small library of recent memory.

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I feel weightless. Drifting slowly around bends, taking care to sync my steps over the cracks in the sidewalk. This is my second day in a row of walking the commute to work. Note; bring water next time. I keep my head down partly to avoid the chilled needles in the air, mostly to look at the graffiti approaching on the ground. White spray paint denotes shadows, of all things, in a portrait. It's repeated with each step for a time. Portrait, portrait, portrait. I recognize the template from a graffiti starter kit, this was the stencil that came included. A moment later "ROBOT" is neatly written under my feet. No artistic license taken with the figures, I assume it's someone's first tag. The same white paint was used. To this, I feel like I've found an Easter egg to life. If only the people in their passing cars knew what they were missing, here, on a sidewalk.

My wonderment is torn, skinned from me really, when a truck passes. The woman in the passenger seat suggests that I put my hood up. I would, but my hood has an eye on it. The sclera and iris seem more like a target. This day I want to be an observer, not a point of interest despite the cold. Crossing the street, hood decidedly down, I see a beagle scavenging in the treeline. It approaches me and I pet at his brow gently. My attention draws up to the building seen through a few trunks and a curtain of spruce needles. "The Pipe Man" a sign says. The building is the design of a hangar shop, big enough for working on a small Toyota truck I guess. A damp, rusty camper trailer is unhitched out front. I want to adventure in more. "Why else would this beagle stop me here," I ask no one. My watch interrupts. I'm going to be late if I wander. Still, I stand there. Just at the treeline, looking for The Pipe Man, arguing with my own consciousness to stay or go for little less than the time required to have gone in.

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My chamomile tea needs refilling. Walking to the fridge, mucus doubles over and nests against new passages upon standing. It knots against a tender spot under my palette. The tea feels like drain clog remover. The aroma, the heat, my cocktail haze ripples softly.

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A bottle of whiskey drums at my calf. A small collection of shake is rolled and stored in the door. She is in the passenger seat, her friend is in the back. We're driving into a field. The moon is low and jaundiced. I can't see where this field ends. I'm told this is Greenwood. A winding trail carves loosely in my lights, supposedly to a bon fire. Rising and falling to sound a rough grind in this narrow path, my vehicle spots an exit now. Arriving, I see a small crowd and a fire in a clearance. She says we should leave. Her friend agrees. A parallel car agrees. I agree. We move on to another place, she tells me some he knows where to go. The bottle of whiskey shudders, the shake is diminished slightly now.

Like static the drive scratches forgettably and the moon is high with faded ribbon clouds fleeing from its now white intensity. She looks out for him, but I've already got a bead on him. Upon sighting, I can't believe how much I already hate him. Judgments aside, I bring us and him to an apartment, previously parallel car in tow. He says they won't miss him at the party he's leaving. I silently agree. He says it will be until they need someone to make a beer pong shot. I want to tell him that I'm sure they'll, against all odds, find a way to cope. But tonight it appears I am the observer and he is the point of interest so not a word escapes me. He brags of his accomplishments at drinking, name dropping Caribou Lou and Irish Bombs. My whiskey, my ally here, it tugs at my leg. A child wanting to be held.

We are in his apartment. All lucky seven of us, I think sarcastically. I want out. He starts mixing shots. One shot, the first, goes to a friend who cringes at the concoction. He mixes a new one, for himself. Holding it, he prefaces it with a speech to inform us that he's demonstrating how a man takes this shot. She looks at him, falling for it. I seethe. From a culinary perspective, I wonder what would happen if one were to serve a burnt steak and call the recipient out for not consuming it "like a man". Would she find it so impressive a gesture then? With this, I prepare a convenient escape route. My farewell to them is sloppy and tainted with daggers, but it's a fast track out. I tell her I'll see her later, on another day, but have no intention in doing so.

I drive home, alone. The whiskey caresses my calf and I laugh unexplainably.

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Light invites itself in, through the cracks of my blinds. Thoughts unravel and my awareness wants to play again. The pleasant haze breaks away like being woken from a dream. My mind returns to its linear comforts, molding thoughts haphazardly in concrete. Again, nothing fits as it should.