Ring the bell when the flies come.

It tasted like a shot of sulfur.
As horrible as it was I had to take it
three or four times a day for the week
I was there, even at ungodly hours of the night.
The nurse would wake me
out of my tossing half-sleep
balancing a tray like some life-saving waitress
with the miniature can of ginger ale
and shot glass of rotten eggs
reflecting the dull light of the television
that the thirty-something-year-old Hispanic male
diabetes patient in the bed bed next to mine
refused to turn off at night.
He'd recently had a leg amputated so I let him
have his solace in possession of the remote control.

"Sorry I had to wake you," the nurse would say.
"You didn't," and it wasn't a lie.
I'd wager my pension that it's harder to sleep
in a hospital than it is in a pinned-down foxhole.
She'd pass me the cure
which tasted more like a punishment
and disappear back into the bright anesthetic hallway
of that fifth-floor wing of Albany Med.
I'd roll back over and try to get some shut-eye
but it never amounted to much
with the thoughts of repercussions
racing through my head
and the dull ache of the I.V. in my arm
reminding me that it was not just another bad dream
from which I'd wake still drunk off whiskey
in the sweaty sheets
of that twin-sized bed
in that collapsing dorm room
where I chose to fall apart
despite the full scholarship
and abandoned earning potential.

The next day in the hospital was always a new adventure
a new lease on a life I thought
would cease to exist on March 27th
of the Two Thousand Fourth Year of Your Lord.
I'd even have a new lady-friend sitting next to me
furnished by the hospital's list of stand-ins
to make sure I didn't get any more funny ideas.
It took me a couple hours to figure out
this woman's true purpose was at first
but cut me some slack-- it's hard to think straight.
with that kind of buzz.
I realized their role when I noticed how official
the changing of the guard was once their shifts had ended.
She'd gather the books, magazines, and snacks
she'd brought to pass the time while watching over me
like some sort of sad guardian angel, sign a sheet on my chart
and relinquish her chair to the next person.
Most of them were middle-aged African American women
in pant suits and heelless dress shoes
who smiled wide enough for the both of us.
They'd wonder how such a pleasant young man
could have done such a thing
while I'd wonder how the hell one goes about
applying for such a morbid job.
But they weren't always such pearly-toothed mothers
who looked like they belonged on a pancake syrup bottle.

There was one babysitter who stands out in my mind now
as I sit here regurgitating this embarrassing time, mostly
naked and wrapped in a blanket
with fingernails a touch too long to type comfortably
on this brisk November morning.
She was also black, but much younger than the others
and had a vastly different demeanor.
Her clothes were too tight to adequately contain or conceal
her incredibly round body parts and it made her look like
a grape whose skin was about to burst.
The tight curls in her hair hung from her enormous round head
like tendrils from a rotten pumpkin
and she seemed more concerned
with her professor's homework assignments
than paying any attention to me.
Sometimes I'd try to break the awkward tension by making small-talk
with these people, but this one wanted no part in it
so I gave up trying. I quit my gracious attempt at contrived levity
I arranged the tubes connected to my arm in a manner
that would not allow them to pull out with any sudden movement
and pretended to sleep. I thought it would be easier
to keep my eyes closed for her six- or eight-hour shift
than to consciously tolerate her obvious distaste.
This one wasn't going to make it that easy on me, though.
For the second time in a week I was about to learn
that tuning the world out will not get a female out of your head.

That obnoxious sulfur shot intended to save my liver
that I mentioned before had certain side effects
mainly of the olfactory variety.
After drinking my dose of that elixir
the stench would seep through my pores
and out of my body in gaseous form
from both ends.
It didn't help that they wouldn't let me shower often
since someone would have to watch me.
I knew it wasn't a pleasant aroma
but none of my previous surrogate mothers
had made me notice their disgust.
This girl was different, though.
As soon as she thought I'd dosed off
she reached into her bag of tricks
pulled out a can of air-freshener
and started spraying it in my general direction.
I felt the fine mist of citrus-scented liquid
fall to my face and tried my hardest not to
rip out the needle, spring to my feet
and run out of that place.
My muscles tensed up as I laid there and took it.
I accept it now as a brutally honest moment
that shouldn't be taken for granted:
I stunk to her, the World stunk to me
and neither of us wanted to be there.

She repeated the spraying process a few times
during the course of her sentence in that chair
next to my bed, but it bothered me less and less.
It was still hard to contain myself, but for different reasons.
I fantasized about ripping the can from her hands
lighting a match, and using it as a blowtorch
to singe off those awful curls of hers
or maybe just incinerate her precious college textbook
that was sitting on her inflated lap.
Like so many other things that could've stumped another
it all became a game to me.
I had to try not to laugh as I laid there in a fake sleep state
for fear of seeming quite the lunatic
and being transferred to a "different wing" by those in charge
of my immediate fate.
She gathered her things when her shift ended
and as she wobbled towards the door
it took all of my composure not to mutter something
derogatory under my breath while still pretending to be asleep.
But I didn't want her to turn around.

I wanted her out of my life for good, and she has been
until this day when it's suddenly appropriate to bring her up;
or maybe not appropriate, though necessary
for my current sanity which hangs in the balance daily.
Ah, catharsis, old friend...

Anyway, she left. My roommate with the bandaged stump
where his leg had once been
didn't wait two minutes before pulling back the curtain
and filling me in on what a rude so-and-so she was.
"Man, you won't believe this. That girl
was spraying air-freshener over your bed while you slept."
Again, it was hard not to laugh.
"Yeah? I thought it smelled better in here."
He wasn't such a bad guy, despite his television addiction.
"I know how bad that medicine smells, but I know that it tastes
even worse. I did something stupid when I was a kid, too.
It gets better..."
Then he whipped the curtain around again.
That last confession was his attempt
at a masculine consolation and it drained him.
I appreciated it for what it was and felt bad
when the doctor came in that evening
to inform him and his wife
that the other leg would have to be
cut off as well.

He lied, though.
"It" doesn't get better.
In these four years
the world has gotten no less cruel--
I've just found better ways to manage.

All this must be hard to take
coming from a man who still believes
he can cause objects to levitate
by holding out his open hand
and concentrating very hard.
It's all in the wrist.
Try it sometime.




Currently reading:
"Portions From a Wine-Stained Notebook" by Charles Bukowski.