Me and Mr. Jones

Good Morning.

I can remember still that first taste. The horrible, naseating, sip that caused me to leave the balcony and go in search of something to mix it with. I’m not sure if it was Jim Beam or Southern Comfort, but that taste is still stuck in the back of my throat. And now its echo sounds at the bottom of my glass.

I’ve been drinking whiskey lately. On the rocks or straight, it doesn’t seem to matter.

My glass is usually plastic. Most sips I enjoy…but some remind me of that first time. It was in my 15th year. I was working the spotlight for our summer theatre group’s production of Neil Simon’s _Star Spangled Girl_. At some point I stepped away from my appointed post and went looking. It was a small theatre that used to house the KKK’s meetings. All I found was a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Tonight I’ve had two glasses so far. My head is heavy and sad.

That night I finished off the bottle and left with Frank and Billy to find some more. We ended up in Billy’s house in the wee hours of morning prying open the liquor cabinet. And then outside to prance and play. The policeman who found us didn’t seem to enjoy our fun. Frank told him that he would like to die.

I’m not so sure if I should have another drink or cut myself off. I don’t have much to explain right now, just memories and meanderings. Some of me is content, and some of me is numb.

That night ended in the jailhouse. In the morning I was released.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

I’ve had a very Glam day.

I suppose it is quite the simple template: my body.

Built in the standard way, with the usual systems and cells, skin and bones. It merged to reflect mother and father, and echoes sister and brother, but in the end it is mine and mine alone.

And as such, it bears the burdens of my existence in marks and scars. Chicken pox holes on my forehead, an appendectomy scar on the right side of my stomach/hip, and finally a red sliver scar upon my right nostril. This is the only one I haven’t enjoyed because my vanity won’t allow it. All have several stories attached. All allow me some way to gage the passing years of my life.

I will happily be unable to return my body in the same condition it was issued.

Sometimes I exist beyond my body, others I simply exist because of it. Today is one of those days, and my body is sure making it difficult.

Sorta heavy, defiantly achy, my physical form is trying to keep me locked inside the apartment. It yawns and it grumbles, and I’ve spent several hours just trying to satisfy whim after whim.

I need to leave it behind because I am restless.

Any ideas?

So, this is the second time an experience has lived up to all the hype. The first was after my first year of teaching. People said it got better, felt better, didn’t hurt like it did your first year once you return. But I didn’t really believe until I began my second year and just felt like I knew what the fuck was going on. It was wonderful. And now…today!

People said, “Oh, once they remove the tubes and splints you will feel wonderful!” However, all this week I’d felt nothing but pain and fear and discomfort and so expected that it might lessen but surely it wouldn’t go away completely. Well, it did. I mean, the pressure, the sensitivity, the fear.

This is almost better than pain meds….Almost.