Whatever Works
Mr. BC recently scored a zero on his test. What a loser. The test had a scoring range from zero to four hundred and Mr. BC scored a zero, what a loser. Did I already say that? It was a heart disease test and zero was the best score. So BC is not a loser. He wins with a zero. No plaque on his heart. Mr. BC is the Tiger Woods of the heart disease game. When I do BC residential duty at the home between Langley and Great Falls, VA., I sometimes look in on the one goldfish living in his bathroom and while there count the valium in BC's medicine cabinet to make sure he's not doing too many of them. I can't see that he's doing any at all but I don't like to take chances with his health so I pop a couple myself because friends look after friends. I don't mess with his Lipitor. Is that like cheating taking Lipitor and then scoring a zero on your heart test? Doesn't matter. It is good to rule out heart disease as the life squelcher of a friend. Mr. BC said I should have some medical tests too because I am an old crusty caretaker. He said have the company which is him pay for it. He later went on to say that he would sometime this year be having a colonoscopy. I said have one for me while he was there. He said he wasn't looking forward to having a Sony up his Guadalcanal. But that's how it goes. You start out with a simple 20 minute check up and the next thing you know you are being made love to in a non traditional way by a sexless recording device that assures you cooingly that this is for your own good, sweetcakes. But don't think any of the nurses are snickering behind your back even though they are. What does professionalism mean? Well it certainly doesn't mean you lack sense of humor regarding easily made fun of medical procedures. Let's move on, and make fun of me.
Last night I woke feeling parched and went into the kitchen and got a Vitamin Water. It was the opaquely pale yellow citrus flavor. I came back, put the expensive well marketed and designed plastic encased liquid on my bedside table, had a few sips, screwed the white plastic cap back on and laid back. I felt instantly at peace. In a narcotic trance was how I described myself to the me that was drifting away. I drifted away. Some time later I looked up and framed in the doorway was a tall black man dressed in an early 20th century policeman's uniform. I wasn't exactly asleep is the thing. And it is kind of frightening this state of mine not exactly unprecedented but usually suppressed in sleep as a thing leaving behind no picture, only the sensation of being pistol whipped all night, hey good morning. But this imposter for a couple of different reasons has no control over me, this I know so I ordered him away. If you press your tongue tightly against your upper palate and yell at the top of your lungs you will get the auditory sense of how impressively I rule as master of my own universe. The cop moved back into the dark unseen recesses of this place I call a cottage but isn't, really, and I could hear him about the place, touching things, and I got up, but not really up or anywhere did I go, I stayed in bed and transported part of me to the back door and yelled in that aforementioned inimitable fashion, for him to leave, get out, embarrassing myself frankly but unable to stop.. Just listening to this half awake half sleeping mutedly screaming me having no effect on this night's intruder. I was hoping Bernadette could not hear this, hoping that I was not making the noise I know I make. But she did wake up, more or less, long enough to tell me gently and kindly but no kidding around to shut the hell up. I said I was sorry, without my tongue pressed tight against my palate, and the spell was broken. I was so happy to be done with it. Damn ridiculous ghosts in the night. I'm going to lock the doors now. I do that sometimes because it seems to help.
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