Aspirin

The easiest thing in the world to do this sticky, wet Labor Day weekend at Key West, all things considered. It's like telling your lover you've drained the joint savings account to pay back the loan shark. Couldn't help it, you know. Had to pay for the coke, crystal meth, and heroine. You should've seen Marty's face, too. He turned purple, pursed his lips, and exploded in an unending chorus of four-letter words, accusations, curses. He javelined his muscle-bound left arm to my right cheek, the fist breaking my jawline and sending me careening into the refrigerator. Not like the slaps and punches when we fucked; this really hurt this time. Yup, we were in the kitchen, as always. He'd be concocting his protein milkshakes before going to the gym (God, his farts always slid down the walls) and I'd be putting together a batch of margaritas or martinis. Dry: extra dry with olives. Or dirty martinis, long as the olive juice held out. Always Belvedere vodka -- my favorite. Margaritas were Saturday afternoons. Martinis were every other afternoon of the week. Evenings, they were CCH. Coke, crystal meth, heroine. Mornings I'd smoke.

Marty disappeared after that. Haven't seen him in six weeks. It's getting harder, you know, living off your party friends' drugs. They stop sharing after a while. And I got to have some more ... but I don't have the money. I lost my job back at the beginning of August. I worked at a Pottery Barn outlet up the island. Kept showing up late for work, finally one day I was an hour late and Matilda the Supervisor fired me on the spot. Well, good riddance. Very next day the landlord kicked me out. He found my supplier giving the pool boy a blow job behind the generator.


So what's a boy to do? My new roommates, they're all sleeping tonight. I've got a headache and can't get to sleep. I'll take some -- oh, wait a minute, no Tylenol. All that's in the moldy house is Rod's bottle of Aspirin. I can't take that. I haven't taken aspirin since '72 back in Indianapolis. I turned bright red, started to breathe hard, told them my heartbeat was racing a million beats a minute. All while Mark Spitz won a seventh gold medal, that one for the 200 meter butterfly. Mommy and Daddy rushed me to the hospital where I puked out my guts.


Rod's medicine cabinet taunted me with daggers behind my eyes. I'm staring at the cokehead in the mirror. What'd I become? Red eyes, thin hair, gray face. Chapped, dry lips, withering nose -- nothing left of my septum but a translucent membrane. Can't breathe too hard. It'll blow wide open if I do.


The easiest thing in the world to do this sticky, wet Labor Day weekend at Key West, all things considered. Maybe it's time. Maybe all my options have run out. Marty's gone. The job's gone. Apartment's gone. All the money's gone. My parents both buried at Our Lady of Peace Cemetery in Indianapolis. Maybe, just maybe -- it's time to join Mommy and Daddy.