Monday, May 14, 2012

27- Contemptable Delinquent


Autumn 2011 


 It has always been my opinion that any one who might be dying at any moment would be concerned with that misfortune, and nothing else.  However, I still don't see this as a life or death situation, and I have errands to run.  I have to get some things done, or I am going to have a financial mess on my hands when they set me free from my tiny hospital bed.

Its the either the end of October, or the beginning of November.  Either way, I need to pay my rent.  I was counting on working this week, so I am going to miss out on that cash.  My mom tells me not to worry about it, but I can't help it.  I will need to send my mother and step-dad to the bar to get my paycheck.
The moment I speak of sending them on this run, someone reminds me that it is Sunday morning.
"You're going to send them to the bar?  Right now, DWT?  Its brunch, bro."
"Oh yeah.  I guess so," I say.
Crap.  That's right.
 Mom and Ed have never been in the joint.  Plus, Sunday morning always seems to be a continuation of Saturday night.



It is usually the same people, and if they have slept, its two winks, max.  You know the one's.  They still have on their clothes they wore the night before, and need sunglasses to shield the blinding Sunday morning light.  If you've seen me on a Sunday morning, its kind of like that.  My excuse is that we don't leave the bar until 5a.m.
Its a lame excuse, I know.

The imbibers who had no sleep at all will most likely not eat.  They are not hungry, but they sure do need some booze.  They probably ran out 2 hours ago.  Slugging beer down, and solving the world's problems while passing a soggy-tipped 20 dollar bill around. The toughest part is getting back to the bar.  Sometimes, it takes motivation to stay drunk.  After that, whatever happens, happens.   Mimosas, Bloody Mary's, and cold beer.
Sunday Fun-day.

Mom and Ed will be OK.  My coworkers will take care of them.  Its just not a scene that they would ever head into, day or night.  Mom agrees to go, and I think she does it so that I will stop pestering her about it.

With that taken care of, and ignoring the shape I am in once more, I begin to sweat about the items I've pawned.  Everything is due for a payment, or it will be put on the sales floor.  My supercharged  camera that my mother gave me for my birthday is due first.  Followed quickly by, an acoustic guitar that Ed gave me with the words, "Just don't sell it."  The worst item to lose would be the computer monitor.  Not because its an expensive monitor, but because it is not mine.  It is my roommate's.
I truly feel worthless in this moment.  Helpless, and despicable.

Somehow, with the help of my friends and family, I am in the clear for a couple of months.  One of my greatest friends made some payments on the pawned items, and Mom is here with the paycheck.
She tells me again, "Stop worrying about this stuff.  Just get some rest."
"I'm sorry," I tell her.  "I'm just..."

For the second time, I am reminded that today is a Sunday.  No banks are open, and I don't know where my license is.  All that remains of me is just a pissing, shitting, demanding shell.  I would not be surprised if everyone is pretty well disgusted with me right now.  The self-deprecating, anxiety-riddled rants that I am spitting right now are only making things more complicated.

I am pretty sure that I have heard talk of "time frames", and "how long" questions.  I just tell myself that they are talking about my next check-up, or lab-work, or stomach draining, or anything else that is due to be poked.

They couldn't be talking about how long I have left in this body.  Not while I can hear them.  Arrangements need to be made?  For what?  That must mean arrangements at mom's house.  I will be having some serious eating, hygiene, and mobility issues without help.

I am not dying.
I don't want to hear it.
True or False.
I don't want to know.

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