Tricks of the Trade

I'm falling through days.

I'm literally losing track of time. The days are bleeding together. I wake up and look around. I wake up when I want to. It's a strange feeling. What's even more stranger is that I'm tired more. I spend more time in bed, sleeping.

And at last, both strange and frightening, is that my left leg is starting to swell at the ankle.

I took a shower Monday night. I used the bathroom on my right, because the one on the left is the one where the people who live across the hall from it act as if it belongs to them. I steer clear of any confrontation with the people here, simply because I'm the newboy on the block and don't really need to fuck things up for myself right off the bat. There are way too many toilets on the floor to be bothered. The first thing that I notice when I get into the bathroom is that there is no bathtub. There is a drain in the center of the floor, another drain under the shower head. That's about it. I mean, there's a toilet, sink, towel rungs, mirror, you know, all the things that you would find in a bathroom, just no tub. I turn on the shower and the water strikes the plastic curtain, then runs down and goes to both drains. I jump around because it's filling the entire floor of the bathroom. I turn off the shower, afraid that the collecting water would run under the door and out into the hall. But no, instead it went down the drain in the center of the floor. It was then that I noticed the bars around the toilet, and against the wall where the tub should be.

This was the wheelchair accessible shower. WoW.

I thought people in wheelchairs just took baths. Little did I know. I shrug and step into the shower, getting cleaned up and then stepping out refreshed and ready for the day. I shave and head back to my room, getting dressed for work.

Afterward, I went to the Saturn Series reading at the Nightingale with my brother. At one time it used to be our Monday night thing, but they went up on the drink minimum which made it damn near impossible for us to make it there every Monday. But this Monday I had an interview with the two hosts of the Saturn Series, Sweet Su and Davy Dave for my upcoming article. The minute I get in, I start to hit on my two drink minimum. I got a shot of Jack Daniels just to remember the taste of my once vehicle of destruction. It was harsher than I remembered, meaner. Our parting from an intense romance had cooled in my heart. She was no longer my lover. No longer my friend. I walked off and associated with the poets.

Like a dunce I had left my poems home, so I booted up my laptop and scribbled two on a piece of paper and prepared to read. I was dead last so I knew it would be some time before I would get my chance. Which, honestly, I didn't care. I was there to hear the poets more than to read before them. I always found it hard to read in public and this was no different. I struggled with the idea, but pushed it far from my mind. I would concentrate on the paper as usual.

I went back for another glass of Jack Daniels, trying to rekindle my flame. My brother laughed at me. "I remember you saying that when you got out of the shelter that you were going to buy a quart bottle of Jack Daniels and stay in your room and finish it all off with nothing but your computer and a jar of Vaseline. You are nothing but a big liar. A hypocrite."

I had to agree. It was hard even drinking these two small rock glasses of hooch. Still, I did feel good about NOT doing these things. I had attained something that I was told that I could never have again. I had achieved CONTROL. I finished my drink, satisfied that I had covered my two drink minimum and sat listening to the show. Afterwards, I interviewed my two willing interviewees and snapped pictures for the magazine. It was over in no time. My brother was too hammered to move. He was staggering from leg to leg and knowing him, even in this fairly inebriated condition, that the night was not over yet.

It was for me. I hopped trains all over town. Too many trains were not running, too many trains were either running local or redirected at 1:00AM. I just wanted to go home. My pack was getting heavier and heavier, signaling that I was growing weaker. I finally made it to the vestibule of my apartment building and confronted the guard. "Where are you going," she asks. I take out my key and press it against the glass of her window. I live upstairs. "What Room?" I tell her. "Do you have ID?" I whip out some, press that shit against the glass. She consults a chart with the names and apartments of the tenants in the building. "OK." The buzzer rings me in.

And then I was free to go upstairs into my comfortable bed. I was tired. While climbing in I noticed that I was busy scratching my left leg, just above the ankle. I had scratched the skin raw. I took alcohol to it, enjoying in its burn. A welcome change from all of the itching. It was then that I noticed that my calf, just above my ankle, had swollen considerably. Translation. The left side of my heart was not pumping like it should. Again.

I smirk. I take care of myself, make sure I keep my pressure down, and my injection quotient is still low. Heart healthy this and blood healthy that, and the prognosis is still bleak. Fuck it. I had a nice day today, and that's what really counts.

It's not just enough to pass through life. Everyone does that.

The real trick is to live it.

Hobobob