discofever

I was preparing for another excursion onto the airwaves Im back with a regular slot, 3 AM to 6 AM, early Friday morning and I remember that I was debating, at 2 AM, inbetween skipping breakfast or indulging in some plain vanilla yogurt, which is a dish I crave for the slightly-powdery texture. And the phone rang.

It was Sarah. She was in a car accident. Yes, she was fine. Shauna was driving. Yes, it was Shaunas fault. She lost her purse in the accident. Her keys were in the bag. She wanted to make sure that she could still get in the apartment. Yes, Ill stay home. Whatever you need.

By the way, where are you?

Trauma.

Slight pause.

Who was hurt?

I was.

Slight pause.

Ill be home in a sec. click

I spent the next ten minutes running through every word she said, every inflection of every word, trying to suss out the severity of her injuries. It was fruitless. She sounded a bit chipper through the cell-phone haze, happy that she caught me in time. Happy to be going home. That was about it.

I heard the square echo of a car door slamming. On walking out the front door, I saw Sarah, surrounded by a posse, walking in a puffy blue hospital ensemble, stiff but sterile plastic fabric. I wondered briefly where her clothes were and then I noticed her face swollen and bruised with the sort of marks you only see on mug shots. She had her right arm in a sling. I guessed that Id be doing the dishes for the next few weeks.

She was chipper. It was the morphine. She was having poppy dreams.





(to be continued after I sober up. McEwan's India Pale Ale in the fuckin' hizzzle! Whatever that means.)