InsideEvesHead

Death By Nyquil

          It’s 10 O’clock on a Wednesday night, and I am trying desperately not to think about the pain in my face. My fever is 102 and I am in bed, where Max has piled me up with blankets. I am shaking so much even the cats have left their favorite nook behind my knees and abandoned me for the stillness of the couch. Max turns the light down low, and gently closes the door behind him, and I am left alone with my burning flesh and a head full of mucous.

          Half an hour earlier, Max had brought me a cup of hot tea, a box of Kleenex and a dose of Nyquil. Any minute now, I say to myself, that Nyquil will kick in. My packed sinuses will open and flow freely, my fever will reduce, I will drift off to that lovely place where Nyquil guides you and then releases you, oh so tenderly, into the arms of Morpheus. I pull the mountain of blankets to my ears and I attempt to forcibly inhale through my cemented shut nose, to no avail. Any minute now, any minute now.

 I close my eyes and breathe through my open mouth. Soon, I feel my body start to relax a bit, my thoughts become soft and blurry. The shaking is not so bad now. The pulsing in my face has subsided, and a trickle of air is getting through the blockade. Oh, yes, I am so ready…

But just as I start to drift off, I notice classical music coming from somewhere close by. Maybe it will stop soon, I think. I try to ignore it, but it’s so familiar, I can’t stop focusing on it. I listen for a couple of minutes, feeling annoyed that I can’t identify the melody. I decide to let it go and just give in to the cold medicine.  I pull the blankets up over my ears, but now the music is even louder, demanding my attention. I throw the blankets back and sit up. Where the hell is it coming from? I turn my head to the left, then the right, but it seems to be omnipresent, filling my head. I feel my nose start to trickle, so I reach over, grab a Kleenex and give a good blow. Suddenly the music is louder, clearer, and I recognize it instantly. Die Valkerie, of course! I lay back down, relieved, hoping I can fall asleep now, despite the epic Wagnerian masterpiece playing all around me. But my nose starts to run more profusely, and I grab a wad of tissues and blow with more gusto. Now the music is louder than ever. What the hell? I sit up again, angry and annoyed, and this time my sinuses release their full tsunami. I blow and blow, the symphony swells in volume and intensity, and with one final push, my clogged nasal passages empty and the music comes to a glorious crescendo.  And then, all is quiet.

I cock my head, wondering if there’s more to come, but the room is silent. Breathing a sigh of relief, I gather up the snotty tissues that have accumulated on the bed, pile them on my night stand and snuggle back down under the comforters. I close my eyes once more, thankful for the peace and quiet, and eager to slip into oblivion. But just as I begin to doze off, a new sound catches my ear. I turn my head, and this time I am sure it is coming from the night stand. I turn away and pull the covers over my head, but I can still hear them, their tiny screams, the pitiful lamentations of entire generation laid to waste.

Adventures With George Clooney, Part 2

            It’s a particularly hectic Monday afternoon at work when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it out and check to see who’s calling.

            “Crap. It’s the high school. I gotta take this” I say to my coworker. It’s the school nurse, calling to let me know that Zoe is not feeling well and would like to go home. I check the time. We are smack in the middle of the lunch rush, and it’s way too early to leave, so I call George Clooney and ask if he wouldn’t mind picking Zoe up.

            “Sure” he says. “Be there in a jiff.”

George Clooney arrives at the school and parks in the visitor’s lot. He goes in through the front door and heads to the guard, who asks the purpose of his visit.

            “I’m here to pick up a student from the nurses office” George Clooney says.

            “Are you the father?” asks the guard.

            “No” says George Clooney.

            “Ok. Who are you then?”

            “I’m George Clooney.”

The Guard flips through the pages on his clipboard, perhaps thinking that George Clooney might be somewhere on the list. He sucks on his teeth and runs his hand through his thinning hair. He lets out an expulsion of air, and says “I don’t see you here.” George Clooney waits patiently as the guard rechecks the list. Finally, with a sigh of exasperation, he says, “Well, I guess you’re ok. Go ahead” and points in the direction of the nurses’ office. George Clooney heads down the hallway, his expensive Italian shoes clacking and echoing off the walls.

            Once in the nurses’ office, he can see Zoe lying down in a small darkened cubicle. She is on her side, knees drawn up to her chest. The nurse hands George Clooney a sign out sheet, and he puts his signature on it.

            “What’s wrong with her?” he asks.

The nurse takes the sheet from George Clooney and frowns.

            “Tummy trouble. You aren’t her dad, are you?”

            “No, I’m not” says George Clooney.

            “Who are you then?”

            “I’m George Clooney” he says.

The nurse stares at his face, then at his signature. She is obviously annoyed as she drops the sheet on her desk and tells Zoe it’s time to go. Zoe grabs her book bag and heads for the door. George Clooney offers to carry the bag for her, but she says she’s alright. They walk to the car, where Zoe drops onto the seat, and slumps against the window.  George Clooney asks how she is feeling, and Zoe says she is ok as she stares at the passing scenery. George Clooney is too tactful to pry any further.

            They arrive at the apartment, and as Zoe is getting out of the car, George Clooney asks if she needs anything before he heads off. She asks if he would buy her a soda, so he parks the car and goes to the pizzeria down the street, where he purchases a liter size bottle of Coke. The pizza guy hands him change from a five.

            “Hey, aren’t you…?” the pizza guy says.

            “George Clooney” says George Clooney.

            “No, no, that other guy…what’s his name…”

George Clooney thanks him and leaves, and heads back to the apartment, where he knocks gently on the door. It is dark and quiet. He places the Coke next to the door mat, tip toes out of the vestibule and gently shuts the door behind him. Zoe watches through the peep hole as he leaves, then puts herself to bed, leaving the tepid soda to sit on the hardwood in a growing pool of condensation.

Uninvited

I am standing in the kitchen at the stove, stirring a pot of Bolognese sauce and sipping a glass of Shiraz when I hear the sound of Max’s footfall on the stairs. Oh, good, just in time, I think to myself. The front door opens and I immediately sense that he is not alone. I turn around to greet him and sure enough, he has brought home an unexpected guest.

            “Who’s your friend?” I say through clenched teeth.

            “Oh, uh…this is…Ferdinand”, he says as he reaches to stroke his upper lip. “I didn’t think you’d mind…”

            “Ferdinand, huh?” I say as I turn back to the bubbling pot. I take a quick gulp of wine. “Will he be joining us for dinner then?” I am trying to hide my irritation, but not really succeeding, and Max apologetically asks if that would be ok. I shrug my shoulders. I don’t really have a choice, do I?

            It’s 7:30, and the three of us sit down to a nice candle lit dinner. I have poured Max a glass of the Shiraz and refilled my own, intentionally ignoring Ferdinand. Max compliments me on the fine looking dish of pasta before him as he rips off a hunk of the fresh Ciabatta. He sops up some of the meat sauce and makes the obligatory yummy sound as he wolfs it down. I must agree, it is quite delicious, and I reach for my glass when I notice that Ferdinand has become smeared with olive oil from the bread and a small blob of meat is stuck in it. I am tempted to say something, but opt instead to ask Max about his day at work. I watch as he describes a particularly difficult customer, gesticulating with his piece of bread in one hand, the glass of wine in the other. I am hoping that he will sip the wine soon and wash the piece of meat away, but he keeps on talking. The blob lingers just over the corner of his mouth. It dislodges slightly and now it is dangling. Dear God, I think, doesn’t he feel that? Max concludes the story, but I have become obsessed with watching the disgusting drama unfold on his face, and missed most of the details of his story. Max returns to his dinner and wipes his plate clean. I have for the most part lost my appetite, and I leave my plate half full.

            It’s 11:00 now, and I am in bed waiting for Max to finish washing up. I hear the sound of running water and hope this means the uninvited guest will be taking his leave. But when Max comes to bed, I see Ferdinand is still hanging around.  Max leans over to gives me a kiss goodnight and I reluctantly oblige. I feel Ferdinand tickle my nostril and I quickly turn away and stifle a sneeze. Max turns off the light and we lay there in the dark, listening to each other breathe. I know Max can sense my annoyance, and after a few minutes, I turn on to my side to face him.

            “Max, how long is Ferdinand planning on staying?” I blurt out.

            “I don’t know. I kind of like him, but I guess you don’t, do you?”

I don’t answer him, and we just lay there, not speaking. I can hear the faint sound of Max’s fingers rubbing the stubbly growth. After a time, he lets his arm drop to his side and he sighs heavily.

            “Fine. He goes” Max says, his voice tight with anger. “But let me be the one to tell him, ok? I don’t want you to hurt his feelings.”

I reach out to touch his hand, but Max has turned away. In the darkness, Ferdinand is softly weeping, and I can hear Max whispering, it’s going to be ok, it’s going to be ok. The rhythmic rasp of Max’s caresses finally lull me to sleep.

The New Guy

            I hired a new worker for the deli, and now I am not so sure he is right for the job. He has lots of experience and his resume looks really good, but I never actually hired an ancient Greek temple before, and I am thinking that the food service industry is not the best career choice for him. First of all, he is really old. I mean, I have nothing against hiring the elderly, but this guy barely moves. I checked back on his application, and sure enough, he was built like 2400 years ago. Everybody warned me against hiring him, but I said, C’mon, he’s The Parthenon! He’s gotta be good!

            Sure, he comes to work early every day, but then he just stands there. I mean, food service is very physical, you gotta move, you gotta get ‘em in, get ‘em out. The Parthenon just doesn’t seem to understand this. Our customers are usually in a big rush, especially at lunchtime. Some folks only have a half hour to eat, so time is of the essence. I can see that many people are starting to avoid having The Parthenon wait on them. I see them hanging back until I, or one of my other deli guys can help them. Quite often they have this look of panic if they get stuck with him. I will usually step in and help to expedite the order, but I can tell The Parthenon gets irritated.

I have also seen him blatantly ignore customers. Most people are pretty understanding. They feel bad for him. “It’s such a shame”, they say, “having to still work at that age. I should only look so good at 2400!”

Sometimes I catch The Parthenon sleeping at the counter. My heart breaks, but I do have a deli to run, so I “accidentally” bump into him. He acts like nothing happened, and I don’t want to embarrass him, so I let it go.

            The other day, a customer complained about him. “He gave me a container of potato salad, and on my first bite, I almost broke my tooth on a piece of marble!” they said. The Parthenon has been warned before to wear a hat, but he just doesn’t listen. I think I may have to let him go.

Olive

            It’s still dark and Olive is following me around the house, screaming at the top of her lungs. She darts in front of me, then doubles back and snakes through my legs, demanding and demanding. I trip a little over her boney seven pound frame and she hollers in indignation.

            “Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?” I mutter.

            “Don’t be ridiculous. Without you my life is forfeit” she answers.

            I feel my way along the counter, open the cabinet and pull the pop top on the can. Olive is impatient and circles the little kitchen like a caged lion. Her eyes are fixed on the ceramic bowl as I smash the bits of fish. She rubs her body against my leg.

            “Who’s my sweet girl?” I say, and she rolls her eyes.

            I sit on the couch and enjoy the quiet. Soon, Olive shows up, her little belly bloated from the pile of tuna she has consumed. Olive demands LAP. I accommodate her, placing my legs together. She kneads and kneads, and I have a rear view of her skinny, naked thighs, a result of food allergies which cause her to loose great patches of fur. She smells a bit like rotten peaches, her happy smell. Olive renders my quadriceps muscles fit for her leisure, which takes some doing. After a few more minutes of tenderizing she eases herself down, a look of peaceful calm on her tiny alien face. But I am not fooled by this. I know what’s coming.

            Before long, Olive starts to scratch at her ears. She scratches and scratches, and soon, small wet particles and bits of wax are being flung violently about the room.

            “That’s it” I say, and I remove Olive from my lap. She stares at me with indignation. She jumps up to the back of the couch and perches behind my head. More scratching and vigorous washing ensues. I turn around and Olive is spread eagle, her scrawny chicken legs flung wide. She is attending her unmentionables.

            “Olive! Must you?” I say.

            “Lacking opposable thumbs, this is my only recourse” she replies.               

Not wanting to be pulled into a pointless argument, I get up and move to the other side of the couch.

Adventures With George Clooney

It’s 5:30 in the morning. I’m sitting here in the dark, curled up in my usual spot on the couch with the 2 cats, waiting for the sun to come up. Max and Zoe are still sleeping, of course,

as I fumble with the remote, looking for the morning news. I can hear George Clooney fussing about in the kitchen, making coffee. He is shirtless. I didn’t actually see him shirtless, and I just don’t have the energy right now to go and check if he is. I just know. The coffee maker is singing its gurgly song, and I can smell the dark aromatic brew now. George Clooney asks if there are clean cups in the dishwasher, and I say, Yes, I’ll take the big green one, please.

            Some people might say, Really, Eve? George Clooney? Isn’t that guy like fifty- something? I say, you know, I’m no spring chicken either. Besides, he really is a nice guy. And so funny. C’mon. He’s a catch.

            George Clooney is trying his best to be quiet, but his shoes are loud on the kitchen tile. He brings me a cup of coffee, and I look up as he hands it over to me in the semi darkness. Sure enough, he is shirtless, but he is wearing a nice pair of trousers and very expensive Italian shoes. I thank him for the coffee.  He makes it just right, one heaping teaspoon of sugar, half and half, a little on the dark side. I ask him if he would like a cup, but he declines, saying he got a cup from Dunkin’ Donuts on the way over.

            George Clooney and I sit in front of the television for a while, watching Darlene Rodriguez report on the local news. The weather calls for some light rain later that afternoon. George Clooney says, Thank goodness, it has been such a dry winter. Yes, I agree, we really could use some rain. Outside, I can see the sky start to turn a pale violet, the low clouds streaked with magenta. A beautiful morning, you would never know rain was in the forecast.

 I finish my cup of coffee and check the time. 6:20, time to get Zoe up for school. From the bedroom, I hear Max shifting in his sleep. Soon, the house will be abuzz with activity. I look over at George Clooney sitting in the big chair. He is smiling at something the traffic woman just said about the BQE. I stand up and, rubbing my sore lower back, I take my empty cup into the kitchen.  I put up water for Zoe’s tea, and put some bread in the toaster.  I am going to wake Zoe and Max up now, I tell George Clooney, so I guess you should put your shirt on. Although he doesn’t acknowledge this, I can hear the sound of rustling fabric against skin, and I am reminded of why I like him so very much.