she told me. And giggled. Give me three seconds to drop these scrubs and me and my ladyshapes will snuggle the chill right out of you. I heard it clearly, but there were no lips moving, no giggle. And no blood in the vial, either. “This just isn't your day, mister. Maybe we should bring the doctor in now to see what he makes of this… you just sit tight.” She patted my knee too many times, and I flinched, waiting for another creepy come-on and trying to process the fact that I had no blood pressure, no blood flow and no pulse. And apparently I could read minds. When she was out of the room, I grabbed a stethoscope from the counter and listened to my own heartbeat, needing some reassurance that I was still healthy on at least some level. There was nothing. So I moved the scope left and right, and up against my neck. Still nothing.
This made the cat-eating thing look like a hang nail.
Suddenly, I had no desire to share my declining medical state with anyone else. I tore off the gown, untucked my nuts and threw on my clothes while making a dash for my car. Then I sped home and just sat still with my hand on my chest, listening for my heart to beat in my ears like you do sometimes when you’re falling asleep. Just like before, there was no heartbeat. And after that, there was no real falling asleep, either.
I saw Hube that night at band practice. He could tell I was totally shaken up even though I tried to play it off. He asked if I’d seen the doctor. “No, but I saw the nurse… and she sure saw me.” I left out all the disturbing details, about the giggling and the touching. And the missing vital signs. He wasn’t happy to find out I hadn’t accomplished anything. Something about his sideways glance told me he wasn’t going to let this go.
Lazer was his typical asshole self. “You still look like shit.”
“You, too. But I’ve been sick; yours is the unfortunate byproduct of inbreeding.”
“So’s your tiny dick, assface.” Such an enriching experience, being in this band.
Hube broke it up. “Claws in, ladies. Let’s make some music.” So we played. But my mind was elsewhere, and my heart wasn’t really into it, either.
In fact, I had no idea where my heart was at all.
POST 9
Halloweener
Every year at work we have this totally cheesy Halloween costume contest. And every year, I’m stunned at how many adults dress up and parade themselves around like they’re in some sort of Tim Burton fashion show for really tall second graders. On several occasions, I’ve even stunned myself by joining in the mayhem.
What can I say? I’m a second grader at heart.
Some of these folks really take their Halloween shit seriously. They all too eagerly tell you how much time and money they’ve spent putting their get-up together, welding things to wear and practicing a special walk. These people would send Lady Gaga off crying into her meat dress. I know a guy who paid over a thousand dollars for a replica of the sword that Aragorn carried in Return of the King so his Lord of the Rings attire would be nothing less than authentic. He also hand-sewed his tunic from a pattern he made by studying the Blu-Rays, stitching it together with thread he’d spun himself – and he took classes in leather craft so he could make the boots to ensure no detail was left ungeeked. Leather-freaking-craft. I was surprised he didn’t spring for Lasik so he could ditch the horned rims to make the illusion a little more complete.
Some people just don’t know how to commit.
We also have the Gang Bangers, teams of folks in costume that come with a skit or song or some other way-too-rehearsed performance that you know took the better part of the year to coordinate. It’s happened so many times that it’s expected now, like a flash mob that everyone already knows about. You can feel the steamy sigh of disappointment seethe through the office if, for some reason, it doesn’t happen. They’re pretty high concept with it, too. One year everyone in the group dressed as decoy Waldos and hid themselves among the crowd while a shill went looking for the real Waldo. It was quite imaginative. And it would’ve been even cooler if Waldo had actually been in the crowd. But he wasn’t. Turns