blog #9

I’ve been to the bins a few times in my life. Sometimes I go with my girlfriend, who has a space at the “House of Vintage” on Hawthorne in southeast Portland, where she sells her finds at a marked up price. She has amazing patience, and can spend hours wading through the piles of clothing in the bins, besides other customers looking for a find. One time she found an old oil painting of two naked children facing a fire, their bare butts facing outwards. She thought it was cute and kitschy, and I thought it was creepy. I advised her against buying it, but she disregarded my thoughts and purchased it for five dollars. It sold a couple weeks later in her space at House of Vintage for thirty dollars. She was right. On those occasions I accompany her, I get bored easily, and look in the bins most people leave alone. Occasionally, I find old photographs and photo albums, hidden beneath the rubble.

One time, I found a photo album completely filled with photographs, from beginning to end. It seemed to chronicle the life of one lady in her late forties to fifties. She had black hair, and a face made for radio. I feel bad saying that, but she definitely was not a looker. I felt amazed that a complete photo album could be found buried in the bins. What could cause a person to give away their memories so cheaply? I imagine a few scenarios, the most obvious being death. I flipped through the pages, seeing birthday parties and graduations, wondering if this person had died, without anyone who would care enough about the album to save it, instead sending it along with some other junk to Goodwill. Looking through all the pages, I found one picture that stood out from the others. In the picture was a man, looking away from the camera. He had a mullet stretching down to his shoulders. He wore dark sunglasses and was shirtless, with a chest so hairy it would make Robin Williams jealous. He wasn’t fat, but definitely wouldn’t be on the cover of any fitness magazines. I pulled that picture out of the album, and on the back of it was surprised to find two words inscribed: Love, Dale. I have no idea what this man’s relation was to the lady who haunted all the other pictures in the album. He could have been a lover or a relative, or just some acquaintance who happened to think enough of his bare chested physique to give her a picture memorializing it, in all his glory. Whatever the intentions were behind the photo, I now own it. I took that photo out of the album, slid it into a simple wooden frame, and bought it for twenty-five cents. I show that picture to friends who come over, and we laugh at it ironically, which now that I think about it, make me feel like a bit of jerk. Yes, this picture is incredibly funny, but at the same time it was a real person, caught in a moment. I’m sure he never imagined the picture would get in the hands of a person like me, who would show it off to others as something to laugh at, something to amuse ourselves with as we reaffirm our own superiority to those without class or taste. He gave it to that woman, and she thought enough of it to slip it into her photo album, between other fond memories.

There's One in Every Crowd

I am not good at eavesdropping. I know we’re supposed to set up some sort of scene for this blog, but that didn’t really happen for me. I take the bus quite often; enough that I wouldn’t ride it just for the sake of trying to listen in on others’ conversations. It’s too bad, because I’ve heard some interesting ones in my day.

Bus 57 from Forest Grove to Hillsboro is a great route for eavesdropping. You get a lot of ex-cons out on parole, talking to each other, especially if you sit in the back of the bus. If the seat’s available, I like to sit in the very back, on the far left. I’ve heard young men discussing the merits of beating their wives and girlfriends, one guy saying he choked his girl until she passed out.

One time, while waiting for a bus, a huge drunk Hispanic man was hassling an old homeless lady. He had to be 6 ft 5, 300 pounds. He was telling her things like he was an X-Man and that he had pure evil inside of him, and he could do anything he wanted to her. She must have been used to dealing with situations like that, as she just shrugged it off and smiled, deflecting his drunken weirdness with kind indifference.

I wish I would have been taking notes the time two young white trash girls were arguing at Hillsboro Transit Center, as 57 was getting ready to depart. I can’t remember what they said, but it was pretty much exactly what you see on the Jerry Springer show. Horrifying, yet hard to turn away from.

Anyway, this was supposed to be about dialogue, and I tried to listen in on some old ladies at Maggie’s Buns while drinking coffee at a table next to them, but I couldn’t hear them very clearly. I’ve listened to way too much loud music over the years, and when I’m in a room with a lot of people talking, it’s hard for me to make out words. It sounds like a bunch of seagulls at the beach. And if I can hear a few phrases, I can’t write fast enough to keep up with the conversation. So here’s what I could make out:

“But you know what he was saying…”

The whole table breaks out in laughter.

“A lot of people know what he was trying to say.”

They laugh again, louder this time.

“But he did his route the other day. Somebody rode with him.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.”

“He sets goals for himself”

“Well, you know he does.”

“Just doing twenty stops or so.”

“You know him so well.”

“I do. I do.”

“You do.”

“I do, I do, I do, I do.”

“You know, Pam comes in from Seattle, it’s the old neighborhood up there.”

“Just as long as that cranky woman…”

“There’s always one in a crowd.”

The table erupts in laughter.

And scene. That’s all I could make out in about twenty minutes of listening. I’m not sure who the guy making the routes was. Probably her husband who is old and has to take it easy, or possibly some handicapped friend. But it’s important to make goals for one’s self. I know that now. I do, I do, I do.

Sampson

It was little after 2:30 in the morning on a Friday night, and I couldn’t sleep. I’d had a few beers, and was watching “The Wire” on my computer upstairs in my duplex, when I heard a commotion through the window, out on the street. I was bored, so I went out on my front porch to investigate and smoke a cigarette.

“Why don’t you say that to my face instead of walking away!”

“Just go and leave us alone. Quit following us. We’ll kick your ass.”

My neighbors across the street, who often annoy the neighborhood by rolling into their driveway in a large truck blaring rap music at all hours, were heading into their house, trailed by a stumbling man shouting at them. They went inside and closed the door, leaving the stumbling man on the street, still yelling.

“You don’t know me! You don’t know who I am!”

My porch light was off, and I tried to remain hidden in the shadows of my entryway, but the glowing cherry of my cigarette gave me away.

“Hey man, you have an extra cigarette? Can I have one?’

I knew it was probably a bad idea to invite the intoxicated shouter to smoke with me on my porch, but like I said before, I was bored, and usually can’t refuse someone a cigarette if they ask. I nodded my head, and went inside to get my pack.

“Oh fine, just ignore me. Yeah, go back in your house, I don’t matter anyway,” he shouted.

I reemerged from inside, and handed him a cigarette. I gave him my lighter, but after several attempts, he couldn’t get it to work.

“They don’t know who I am, you know what I’m saying? I’m for real. I keep it real. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I told him my lighter seemed to have died, and gave him my cigarette to light his. He held it up for a second, then put his hand back down, the cigarette still unlit in his mouth.

“I work hard. I’m twenty-one years old, and I know things. They can’t just walk away like that. I keep it real.”

He stepped back for a second, near the split in the doorways between my neighbors’ and me, and laughed.

“Although if that girl wasn’t with them, they probably would have beat my ass.”
He laughed, and I laughed, although I’m not sure why. I was just trying to keep him at ease. When he talked, he emphatically ended his statements by yelling, tilting his head back and proclaiming it to the night, and I was worried he’d wake the neighbors.

“My name is Sampson”

I told him that was a strong biblical name, although he should be worried about women who wanted to cut his hair, but he didn’t get it.

“You know Jesus? He came to earth and died for the white people of the world. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, you understand?”

I nodded my head, weighing the value of telling this surly, intoxicated youth the historical inaccuracy of his statement. He probably wouldn’t remember any of this anyway, and I wanted to keep the shouting and disturbance to a minimum.

“I don’t know though. Sometimes I just hate everybody. Whites, blacks, Mexicans, it doesn’t matter, they’re all assholes.”

I nodded my head again, and said I understood. Maybe he was making some progress. Is it really being racist if you hate everybody equally?”

My cigarette had nearly gone out, and I told him he better light his before it extinguished. He lit it and handed mine back. I told him I had to go to sleep, because I had to wake up early the next day, which was a lie. He thanked me, and stumbled out across my lawn, disappearing in the night.

Hi, I'm Self-Conscious

A few years ago, I was taking the bus to work. I’d just started a summer job at Frito Lay in Beaverton, where I’d stand in front of a conveyor belt and box pretzels as they came out of the packaging machine. As temporary seasonal help, I had to work whatever shift they needed me on, and occasionally I’d have to go from graveyard to swing shift, swing shift to day shift, with only eight hours off in between. I’d be pretty out of it after a “double back,” as the employees called it.

Anyway, I was exhausted and unfamiliar with the surrounding area. I pulled the cord signaling the driver to pull over a few stops before the one nearest to Frito Lay. It was about a twenty minute walk from the stop to the warehouse, and I knew I’d probably be late because of it, but it didn’t matter. I had to get off. I couldn’t admit to the driver and other passengers that I was mistaken. I sheepishly got off the bus, thanked the driver, and walked the extra blocks to work, arriving a good five minutes late.

Looking back on that experience, I can’t believe how stupid I sound. I’ve ridden the bus quite a bit, and have witnessed many people pull the wrong stop and casually inform the driver they were mistaken. It’s not a big deal. But I know if I happened to do it again, I’d probably react in the same way. I’d have to get off. I’d get that flush of anxiety, almost an adrenaline surge, like blood is rushing to the head. I’d feel like everyone was looking at me. I’d feel exposed, and would do whatever it took to get out of that situation.

It’s strange the way being self-conscious seems to work. Harmless little moments can throw the mind into a spiral of discomfort. I can be having a conversation with someone at a restaurant, but when the server comes up to refill the water or coffee, I clam up, waiting for them to finish before being able to speak again. Sometimes when I’m in class and have a beverage, every little sip feels like it’s making an enormous slurping sound, drawing the attention and annoyance of those around me.

I don’t understand this strange tic in the fight or flight response that flairs up in inopportune times. I’ve played in bands over the years, and being on stage in front of a crowd never bothered me. I rather enjoy it, actually. But admitting to a bus driver that I signaled the wrong stop? I’d rather get off and walk, or if it’s too far away, wait the half hour for the next bus.

On Smoking

Cigarettes are gross. The smoke sticks to your clothes and hair, and it stinks. They’re expensive. When I started smoking I could get a pack for three dollars, and now they’re five dollars and climbing. I guess they’re not exactly good for a person’s health either. I still can’t help loving them. I love cigarettes. They are a dear, dear friend.

During our research excursion in the library yesterday, I came across a book called “The Encyclopedia of Death,” which I had to thumb through. I found a passage about Freud’s “death instinct” which theorizes that humans have an “unconscious desire to return to the inorganic processes of nature.” Smoking was listed among behaviors that fell into that category. It was also mentioned in the section about indirect suicide.

That’s kind of a dark way to view smoking, but then again who knows what’s lurking about in the unconscious mind. I always figured the appeal of smoking to be a simple one. It keeps me busy, gives me something to do with my hands. The quick hit of nicotine is nice and somewhat relaxing, but the physical action of smoking is what draws me in. I love holding a cigarette in my hand, between my fingers, and gently flicking the back end of the filter with my thumb to knock off the ash. I love the way smoke can look on a bright summer day, almost blue in tint as it floats away and dissipates.

Smoking also gives a false sense of having accomplished something, which is nice. It’s like ten little victories a day. It’s also a great way to break up monotonous tasks, or for self-motivation. For instance, I’m thinking to myself at this very moment, “I know this blog is a little weak, and maybe the topic isn’t the best, but it’s all you can think of and the deadline is approaching. Hammer out a few more sentences, and then you can have the first cigarette of the day.”

Another reason I think I come back to smoking (I’ve quit so many times I’ve lost track) are those terrible “The Truth” commercials, with those sassy kids saying sassy things about big tobacco. I’d heard these ads were paid for by the tobacco companies, but their website (ahem, that’s research) has a section in its FAQ about how some of their funding came out of a settlement, but the whole wording is confusing and I’m pretty sure the whole thing is an elaborate plot. Big tobacco knows a certain percentage of the population will be so turned off by the lameness of this advertising campaign that they’ll smoke purely out of spite. Those bastards have thought of everything.

Blog #5

I put off getting a cell phone way longer than most people I know. It seems more like a tether than freedom. Now it’s become part of the pat down routine I do many times a day, often when moving from one place to another. Keys, phone, wallet, in that order. If one of those is missing, I go into a panic.

When out with friends, we coordinate at all times through texts. Constant texting. I was late in that development also, but now it’s another part of the routine. I still have to type every letter out individually. No T9, or whatever it’s called, for me. There’s always that one word it can’t recognize, and I have to switch back and forth anyway, so I’m slow in comparison with a lot of people I know. They send me a text, I monotonously type it out for a few minutes, and they respond within seconds. I still find that amazing.

Often times I’ll be on my way somewhere to meet some people, bar hopping or something else that requires coordination, and I’ll wonder how anyone did anything before cell phones. I know it’s a dumb question, but it’s made things much more casual. Without constant updates on location and status, I’d imagine there’d have to have been more meticulous planning. And breaking plans would have been harder to do without seeming like a dick. You couldn’t send a last minute text saying you’re not going to make it. Maybe I’m over thinking this.

I get made fun of a bit for the cheap phone I have. It seems like everyone has an Iphone, or some equivalent that allows them to browse the internet while we’re out for dinner or drinks. Eight people ignoring each other, staring at their phones, texting others to come join us or writing about what they’re doing on Facebook. I guess there’s no point in face to face conversation anymore, when I can find out all I need to know through a status update.

Anyway, my phone is lame, but I like it. It was free with my contract renewal. I told the lady at the Verizon store I’d take whatever was free, and she looked at me like crazy person. She said something like “You want that phone?” She was probably just trying to goad me into something more expensive for the commission, but I don’t find humiliation to be a good sales incentive. Then she tried to sell me the car charger and Bluetooth ear piece, which I declined. I don’t even have a car.

I liked my old phone better. The battery was messed up after I spilled beer on it, and it couldn’t hold a charge for very long, so when people tried to call or text me and I didn’t feel like responding, I could say my battery was dead. But even then, the smart ones knew that a dead phone goes straight to voicemail instead of ringing a few times first and that really I was ignoring them.

Sometimes I’ll see an old rotary phone on television, hear the violence of the ringing, and it reminds me of when I was younger, in junior high and high school, and a phone call felt new and exciting, like an event (not that we had those kind of phones when I was that age, I’m not that old, although I do remember them as a little kid). Now it happens all the time and at all places. It’s not like I would ever get rid of my cell phone and go back to the ways of yore. Life is a lot easier with them. With that ease and freedom though, something is lost.

I just reread everything I wrote, and realize I sound like an old crank. If Andy Rooney ever dies (he’s got to be what, 109 years old?), maybe I could take his job.

Live Strong

When first diagnosed with leukemia after a blood test, my doctor recommended I should read Lance Armstrong’s biography, which seemed harmless enough at the time. I politely nodded and said I’d look into it, but I had no intention of doing so. I’m not too into reading biographies, and I generally avoid anything which appears to be uplifting or inspiring in an obvious way.

When I was in the hospital at OHSU for six weeks undergoing chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant, I had a strange reaction to compazine, an anti nausea medication. Instead of helping me keep my meals down, it gave me tremendous anxiety. I took it in pill form for about a week, by the end of which I was a nervous wreck. I didn’t think a medication was the culprit, as being confined to a windowless room in the bowels of a hospital and taking “medicine” to kill off my immune system would seem to be enough to give anyone fits. During this spell, I woke up in the middle of the night once and had no idea where I was. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, and had convinced myself I had been in a car accident. I told the nurse about my declining mental state, and she arranged for a doctor who had an interest in helping young adult cancer patients cope to see me. After we met, he gave me a thick, black and yellow binder with the phrase “livestrong” emblazoned across the cover. It didn’t help. It took a direct IV injection of compazine followed by an almost paralytic anxiety attack for the nurses to make the connection. The stay became more tolerable after that.

I eventually was released from the hospital, but still had to go to OHSU nearly every day for careful examination of my blood counts. Some days I had to sit in the transfusion room near the back of the section of the hospital designated “hematological oncology” (which is just fancy talk for blood cancers) for hours. The transfusion room has around thirty reclining chairs, where people with various diseases sit and receive whatever medications or fluids they need intravenously. On any given day there are some seriously sick people there, most of them elderly. You can tell how far along the people are. Some look like any person you might see on the street, others are bald and swollen yet still cheerful and outgoing. Some look like they’re just on this side of dying. I’m fairly certain I fell into each of those categories at one time or another. On the wall where the windows look out across the city, next to the televisions showing some terrible daytime talk show, is a large autographed poster of Lance Armstrong, arms held high as he crosses the finish line on his bicycle. It really pissed me off. For one thing, he raised the bar for cancer survivors. Just getting through it isn’t enough anymore. You have to win the Tour de France afterwards. It was just about the last thing I wanted to see in that moment.

Armstrong is probably an alright guy with good intentions, and it’s not really him that bothers me. Somewhere in that image of him “beating cancer” and regaining his former glory is a rather dark implication. Not long after I was diagnosed, a nurse told me how important is was to be a fighter, which I’ve heard before in regards to illness. It didn’t bother me at the time, but now I can’t help but think what utter bullshit it really is. I never fought anything. I experienced it. It overwhelmed me and consumed my life. I might as well have tried to fight a hurricane. If someone is able to “fight” and “beat” cancer, then a person who dies must be weak or flawed. What generally amounts to a genetic crapshoot becomes the fault of the person for not fighting hard enough.

When I’d sit down across from that giant poster for hours, waiting for the IV drip to finish, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Fuck Lance Armstrong.”

(Side note: this isn’t from a daily observation, but from my experience with illness. I know I’m dipping into that well quite a bit, but what can I say, I’ve got some shit to work out.)

...More Like Didgeridon't

Theresa blows into the didgeridoo, causing a low, droning sound. It blends with the ambient music playing from a CD player in the corner, next to the lit incense and healing crystals. I feel the waves roll over my bare back as I lie face down on a massage table.

“The body is made up of different vibrations,” Theresa said before beginning the session. “When we get sick, it’s because these vibrations are not in the correct tonal relationship. By exposing the body to different sounds and instruments, we can realign the tonal relationship and help the body heal.”

She puts the didgeridoo down and picks up a tuning fork. She strikes it with a little hammer, slowly moving it across my body, inches from my skin. The vibrations drown out the usual chatter in my head, stalling the constant rush of thoughts and feelings, as if my brain waves are cycling at the same frequency as the fork. I forget I am a skeptic.

Before the session began, Theresa asked me if there were any specific problems I wanted to target. I mentioned I was having trouble holding down food, and was constantly nauseous. She seemed confident she could help, and would focus the vibrations on my stomach.

She puts the tuning fork away and places hot stones on my back. The stones burn a little at first, but my skin adjusts and any tension or apprehension I had disappears. She places a Tibetan singing bowl by my side and hits it. The sound seems to move back and forth around the bowl, high pitched and barely audible. She repeats the process several times, and by the end I’m nearly unconscious. Not the fully asleep kind of unconscious, but a half-dream half-waking state. Kind of like the five minutes in between the alarm going off after hitting the snooze. She takes the stones off my back and rubs in some fragrant oil. She tells me to take as much time as I need before getting dressed and leaves the room.

Ten minutes later, Theresa reappears along with my Aunt, who suggested and paid for the session. My Aunt is also a client of Theresa, and firmly believes in tapping into different energies for healing purposes. Like me, she was dealing with cancer. She has tumors in her lungs, and I am recovering from a bone marrow transplant to rid me of leukemia. Unlike her, I am not one to turn to New Age medicine, but at this point I’m open to anything.

“What did you think?” asks Theresa. I can barely keep my eyes open.

I tell her I am relaxed, and that the didgeridoo was the best part. There’s something calming about the low droning sound, as if it envelops you. Theresa gets up and opens a chest against the wall. She pulls out a didgeridoo, smaller than the one she used before. She hands it to me.

“Playing it offers just as many benefits as the sound waves themselves. You can borrow this for awhile, if you want.”

I take the instrument, put it to my lips and blow. Nothing happens. Theresa explains the proper technique, and how the air has to be forced through in a spitting like puff of breath. After a few attempts, I get it going for a few seconds. Theresa is impressed.

“Not many people get it that quickly.”

I thank her for the massage and her generosity, and I leave with my Aunt who drives me home, as I’m too high on oxycodone and marinol to drive myself. My Aunt asks me how I feel, and I tell her I feel pretty good, and that I think my stomach is a little better. We decide on another session in a month, and say our goodbyes. I take the didgeridoo inside and into my room and sit on my bed. I place it up to my lips and blow, but I can’t get it going. The only sound it makes is a quiet gasp of air, the breath dying as it’s forced through the hollowed out hunk of wood. It takes a few minutes for me to catch my breath, and a rumbling starts in my stomach, rising up through my chest and into my throat. I put the didgeridoo down and rush to the bathroom.

Chivalry

“Are you a she male? You know, one of those transvestites or something?”

I pause my iPod and look across the aisle. A scabby faced man had moved from the back of the max to sit next to a young woman wearing too much makeup and not enough skirt. His face is close to hers, dangerously close, and the young woman scoots in her seat, back against the window. She stammers a quiet “no,” her face red, redder than the thick rouge smattered across her cheeks. The man pulls down his black hood and moves in closer.

“Do you still have your cock? You can tell me, I’m not gonna judge.”

I scan the train, hoping to see other passengers with worried looks on their faces, ready to intervene, but they’re all in mass transit mode, heads down, avoiding eye contact.

“I like chicks with dicks. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

I take off my headphones and turn towards the aisle, hands shaking. They shake partly out of fear and adrenaline, but also from the steroids I have to take to keep my immune system from attacking my body. I am almost two years on the other side of a bone marrow transplant, still dealing with the complications, my body weak and atrophied from convalescing. The man is large and unnaturally energetic, head darting from side to side, arms waving emphatically.

“What’s wrong with you? Leave her alone.”

The voice comes not from me, but a teenager sitting with several of her friends a few rows back. The man in the black hood gets up and walks over to the girl, inches from her face.

“Fuck you, you little bitch. I’ll make you suck my dick.”

“Fuck you too asshole, you can eat my pussy.”

She gives it back as good as she gets, although I can’t help but think the oral sex insults don’t carry the same weight cross gender. The man gets off at the next stop, flustered and fuming at being shown up by a teenage girl, and I feel a little embarrassed as well, too caught up in my own insecurities to do what I should have done. I think to myself, “If he had touched either of those girls, I’d have done something. I’d have done something.”

I step off the train and start walking. The man in the black hood turns the corner heading towards me from his stop a few blocks back. His hood is up, his scabby face dark under the streetlamp’s light.

“What are you looking at faggot?”

I stop walking, pause my iPod, and take off my headphones. I say nothing. He gets right in my face.

“What are you gonna do fag? I could fuck you up and steal your shit, you faggot motherfucker.”

I am quiet and still, completely frozen. He seems large, immeasurably large, and I’m swallowed up in his shadow. I stare at his face, at his scabbed and pocked cheeks. In these kind of moments the fight or flight instinct is supposed to kick in, but I have neither. He clears his throat and spits in my face. It is hot and thick and pungent. He walks off, muttering “fucking faggot.”

I wipe the spittle from my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. People walk by me, heads down, striding confidently to wherever they’re headed. I take a few deep breaths and walk to a nearby pub to find a bathroom. I turn the faucet for the hot water, let it run until it’s steaming, and scrub my face raw.

My First Time I Ate Too Many Cough Drops and Threw Up in the School Nurse’s Office and got to go Home

I was in the second grade at Line Creek Elementary school in Kansas City, Missouri and had a nagging loud cough. My teacher, Mrs. Dunning, found my cough to be a bit disruptive, and allowed me to take a Jolly Rancher from the jar of candy she kept on her desk that she gave out occasionally as a reward. She explained to me that a Jolly Rancher was basically the same thing as a cough drop, and as a seven-year-old kid I wasn’t going to argue with that logic. My cough persisted, and my parents allowed me to pick out some cough drops to take to school with me the next day. I’d heard stories from other kids about the deliciousness of Luden’s cherry cough drops, and convinced my parents to buy me a pack. Luden’s cherry cough drops were a deep red color, and even though its packaging claimed it as a reliever of coughs and sore throats, it tasted like any other cherry hard candy.

As soon as I was outside of my parent’s immediate attention, I started popping the cough drops, one after another, savoring the sweetness. I chewed them, a few at a time, not waiting for them to dissolve in my mouth as directed. I had finished off the entire box well before lunch time, and before too long a deep pain started throbbing in my stomach. I told Mrs. Dunning about my discomfort, and she gave me the laminated nurse’s pass she kept at her desk. I went to the nurse’s office, where there was a girl sitting on a vinyl bench that was covered with a strip of paper. The nurse told me to sit down next to the girl, and that she would get to me as soon as she could. I made my way over to the bench, but before I could take my seat, I felt my tongue grow large in the back of my throat. I tried to tell the nurse that something was wrong, but as I opened my mouth a torrent of deep red liquid poured out and landed on the paper on the bench, right next to the waiting girl. She screamed a loud and piercing scream as the regurgitated Ludens puddled up next to her, and the nurse rushed over from behind her desk. She cleaned up the mess, which fortunately had kept to the strip of paper, and arranged to call my parents to come and take me home.

My parents were both working and couldn’t come to pick me up, but a friend of the family was reached, and was able to take me over to his house until my parents could get me. His name was Doug, and he worked with my Dad and attended the same church as my family. Funny enough, he always had Jolly Ranchers in his pockets on Sundays at church, and he would throw them at the kids. I got to hang out at his house for a few hours, where I watched Nickelodeon on his cable television, (which my family didn’t have) and drank Coca Cola (which my parents never let me drink). This wasn’t the Nickelodeon of today, this was the mid-eighties Nickelodeon with shows like “Pinwheel” and “Today’s Special,” which was a terrifying show about a department store with mannequins that came to life at night when nobody was around. Eventually, my parents came and took me home, and I got over my cough, but not before my young mind made a few connections as to how the world could work given the right circumstances. Eating too many Luden’s cherry cough drops could give you a stomach ache and cause you to throw up in the nurse’s office at school, but that momentary discomfort could lead to an afternoon of creepy cable children’s programming and all the forbidden Coke you could drink.