Monthly Archives: April 2014

Stories

Slaying the Decaf Dragon

Leave a comment

Outside your comfort zone…that is where adventure lies. Where your mettle is tested. Where that which is alien to you provides the challenge to grow, be it through victory or defeat.

Whenever Kev exits the comfort zone of the expressway and winds through the sprawling, residential neighborhoods of Chicago, he gets uneasy. The clusters of ethnicity make him feel like an outsider, a throwback to the tribal code imprinted on his DNA. Doesn’t matter if the neighborhood is predominantly Greek, black, Mexican, Russian, Chinese, Irish, Puerto Rican, or German, if it isn’t populated with folks of protestant Norwegian descent, he feels out of place. Not scared, exactly, but more cautious. Wary not to offend the local populace.

Maybe a little scared.

The small, mid-western Illinois farming community where Kev grew up had very little diversity. The most ethnic people in town were the Moranos. They were Italian. And Catholic.

Kev married into a family of Polish immigrants from the south side of Chicago. He was terrified on his first trip to the “old neighborhood.” They drove through a sea of ever-changing cultures, thousands of tiny houses crammed next to each other, the streets lined with cars, bars and words in languages he couldn’t decipher. After decades of visiting, Kev grew comfortable with the old neighborhood. He didn’t feel like he belonged, but he felt welcome.

Anchored by a Catholic church and a locals-only tavern, just a short walk from Comiskey Park where da White Sox play, the old neighborhood is made up of row upon row of single story brick bungalows with just enough room between them to run a sidewalk. Narrow streets lined with trees and cars. Old folding chairs sit in parking spaces “reserved” for residents. Front porches and stoops alive with people watching their kids run and play while they gossip and share cold beers or hot coffee. Dogs bark and barbeques smoke in tiny, well-manicured back yards, filling the air with the aroma of grilled sausages, fish, steaks and whole turkeys. Garages are at the back of each lot opening onto the alley. This is where the men live, the buildings converted into man-caves, where they drink, smoke, watch sports on TV and play cards or darts while keeping an eye on the grill and just a shout away from home.

Kev had never eaten better than at holiday gatherings and celebrations in the old neighborhood. Nor danced more, often to the point of exhaustion, usually in the company of a great aunt or grandmother more than twice his age, barely breaking a sweat and drinking him under the table. But sometime the music has to end.

They were on our way home from a wake of one such beloved great aunt. While Kev had become used to the destination and even the route there, the exotic locales surrounding the old neighborhood still put his nerves on heightened alert. It was about quarter of nine in the evening, when his wife, Jess, wanted some decaf coffee for the forty minute return trip to the Western suburbs.  Kev caught sight of a Starbucks, a recognizable icon in this sea of cultural cacophony. It seemed a safe haven. He pulled their minivan into the parking lot.

“Oh, drive-thru,” he said. That would be the safest option. No reason to get out of the car, even to take it out of gear.

There was no line at the drive-thru at eight forty-five at night. Kev surveyed the surroundings, checked the mirrors, then lowered his window and waited. Nothing. He pressed the call button. Still nothing. No sound but the Barney DVD playing in the back of the van, entertaining their seven- and two-year old daughters.

“Are they closed?” Jess asked.

“I dunno,” Kev said. He checked the mirrors again, then searched for a sign stating the hours of operation. He tried the button again.

Nothing.

“I really wanted some coffee,” Jess said. She used the voice. Kev recognized it immediately. It was the same inflection she had used when she’d been pregnant to send him out for ice cream in the middle of the night. Not guilt, exactly, more a plea from a helpless damsel to her suitor, to her shining knight. A quest! Was Kev worthy of the task? Could he overcome his unwarranted, borderline racist fears to sate his lover’s desire? Kev thought how our modern age has reduced dragon slaying to decaf coffee runs in unfamiliar neighborhoods.

He summoned a modicum of courage and said, “I’ll try the front door,” though he really didn’t want to get out of the car. Kev examined the situation. They were on a major street, lots of traffic. Lighting in the lot was good. No one dangerous-looking was in sight. He pulled to the space closest to the front door.

As he stepped out, Jess said, “Would you get me a cookie or something, too?” Kev nodded.  They had eaten pretty light, no time for dinner, only snacking on fresh, homemade Polish bakery at the wake – kolaczky, chrusciki and nut cups. Delicious! But the coffee had looked older than her deceased great aunt. So they had passed on it.

Kev left the car and the singing dinosaur running.  “Just a small decaf with cream and sugar!” Jess called out as he shut the door.  He nodded to her again.  He’d been making her coffee for seventeen years, he knew how she liked it.  Kev knew how to make it for her better than she did.

He reached the front door of the Starbucks and nearly fell over as the quick jerk he used to open it failed its task.  It was locked.  Kev glanced through the glass and saw three bright-green-apron-clad employees all casually look up at him, then back to their respective coffeehouse duties.  He tried the other door.  It was locked too.  No one looked up this time.  Kev scanned the door and found the posted business hours:  6:00am – 9:00pm.  He checked his watch to confirm that it was in fact fifteen minutes ‘til closing for these guys.  Kev rapped lightly on the door until he got the attention of the guy seated at the table, going over the company’s books.  Kev gestured at his watch, but the employee just returned his attention to his books.  The guy counting out the cashier drawer shook his head and laughed.  The other one kept mopping the floor.

Kev got back in the van and put it in reverse.  “What, are they closed?” Jess asked.

“Not supposed to be for another fifteen minutes,” Kev said, disgusted.  He drove back to the drive-thru and pressed the call button.  Nothing.

“You think this will work?” Jess asked, the subtext clearly This isn’t going to work.

“I dunno,” Kev muttered and pressed the button again. There was a dragon to be slain. He was determined to find a way.

The speaker crackled, then a muffled electronic voice said, “We’re closed.”

Kev flinched at the sound. He hadn’t actually expected an answer. He regained his composure and said, “Your sign says you’re open ‘til nine.”

After a pause, as if inside they had to discuss what response to give, came, “We’re outta coffee.”

Starbucks—out of coffee.  This dragon was wily indeed.

Kev turned to Jess and repeated what she’d already heard, “They’re out of coffee.  And fresh out of apologies, too, apparently.  Along with any concept of customer service.  Did you want me to ask about the cookies?”

“I really wanted some coffee,” Jess sighed. The voice again. A stabbing wound.  A failed quest.

Over the insipid giddiness of the friendly purple dinosaur and his friends, Becca, their oldest daughter piped up from the back seat, “I’m still hungry.”

Kev pulled back onto the street and was stopped at a traffic light.  He took in the local billboards. Most were in Spanish.  At some point, their journey had taken them from old Warsaw to south of the border. The hotels and apartment buildings that lined the busy street were on the lower socio-economic end. Kev’s stomach muscles tightened a bit and he mentally reminded himself not to start any trouble. He was a guest in another tribe’s territory. Perhaps the custom here was to close shop early. Suck it up and move on.

The Fates granted him another chance to fulfill his noble task. The light turned green, and on the opposite corner of the Starbucks was a Dunkin Donuts.

“Oh!” Jess said, also noticing the neon orange and pink logo. She perked up at the renewed possibility of satisfying her coffee fix.  Kev was already pulling into the lot. He looked for a drive-thru. No such luck.

Another car screeched around the corner and into the lot. A late model domestic sedan with a recent custom paint job. It parked next to Jess and Kev’s minivan on the passenger side. The bass from the hip-hop music blared through the closed windows of both vehicles. Barney was bopping to a whole new beat. The windows and Kev’s back teeth began to vibrate in sync.

“Can I go in, too?” asked Becca.

“No,” he snapped, a micro-second after the question left her mouth. Becca looked startled, then sad.

“Oh, take her in, let her get something,” Jess said. Kev glared at her, trying to convey with his eyes the danger that lurked loudly just outside her door. She was oblovious – oblivious to the obvious.

“Look, I’ll go real fast,” Kev said as he jumped out. He double-clicked the door lock on the key fob he’d removed the from the key ring, leaving the keys in the ignition and Barney shucking and jiving while also allowing Kev access to and from a secure vehicle. Jess called out, muffled through the windshield and the music, “Just a small decaf with cream and sugar.”  Kev looked at her with the I know look, and she waved to get his attention and added, “And maybe a donut?”

Kev hit the lock button on the key fob, answering her with a short toot from the horn and walked around the building to the entrance.

The front of the store was literally two feet from the street, which was a six-lane thoroughfare.  The door was filthy.  Kev’s attire was more formal for the wake. The girls all wore dresses and he had a black suit and tie. He was seriously overdressed for Dunkin Donuts. Two guys in factory-worker clothes pushed past him on their way out with large cups of coffee in their hands.

The single clerk was standing behind counter-to-ceiling bullet-proof Plexiglas. It looked like a currency exchange in a bad neighborhood. The Dunkin Donuts in our area must not be victims of armed robbery as often as this one, Kev thought.  The fish out of water sensation in his gut became more pronounced. The scene played into the quest theme with the decaf dragon locked deep within its keep. Kev wanted to slay the beast quickly and get back to the safety of the minivan.

A man in his thirties of Middle-Eastern decent stood behind the glass, wearing an eager smile, ready to take Kev’s order.  There was an older woman behind the clerk, talking on the phone.

“Two small decaf coffees, please,” Kev said. After all this, he wanted some coffee too.  He looked over the donut selection. Pretty sparse at nine PM.

The man picked up two empty coffee cups.  “Cream and sugar?” he asked.

“Two creams, one sugar,” Kev answered, meaning sugar in one of them and cream in both, though that wasn’t clearly communicated.

The bell at the front door chimed and with it came a familiar voice and patter of feet. “Daddy!” Becca said and ran to hug Kev’s leg. His eyes grew wide, or more accurately, wild. Had Jess really let Becca come in here, along that busy street, all by herself in this neighborhood at this time of night?! The door chimed again and two more factory-worker looking men with leathery skin and five o’clock shadows walked in the door and stood behind them in line.

“I want a pink lemonade,” Becca said, pointing to the refrigerated beverages sitting out in front of the counter.  Kev kept one hand on her shoulder and turned back to the clerk who was finishing up adding sugar to one of the coffees, and then he moved on to add sugar to the other too.

“No!!” Kev said, a little more forceful than intended. He startled the clerk and Becca, too. The walls of Kev’s paranoia were closing in on him. His chest tightened to match his clenched abdomen. “No,” Kev repeated, softer this time, “two creams and one sugar.”

The clerk looked at him with a puzzled expression. The woman on the phone brought the receiver to her breast and barked something at the clerk. It was no language Kev knew, but the meaning unnerved the clerk who flinched, then dumped both cups of coffee into the sink to start from scratch.

“Daaadddyy…” Becca said, tugging on Kev’s suit coat.

“Oh, and a pink lemonade,” Kev said. He bent down to kiss Becca and ruffled her hair. No need for her to sense his fear. When he straightened up, Kev was greeted by a key attached to a large, heavy object, dangling from a hand protruding from a small opening in the glass.  He looked back at the drink cooler and saw that it was locked.  It kinda defeats the purpose of locking the drinks up if the procedure to get them was to hand the key to the customer, Kev thought as he took the key.

He stooped down to the display case, turning the object attached to the key over in his hand. It was metal, painted but worn. Some sort of work of art, he supposed, though the detail and symbols seemed utterly foreign. He unlocked the large, steel padlock on the door of the case as he realized the object’s purpose. It was too big, heavy and awkward to easily place into a pocket. Clever, thought Kev, then fumbled and dropped lock along with the key and its decorative anchor on the floor. The clankity-bang caused everyone sitting at the tables a few feet away to look up quickly, apprehensively, perhaps defensively, from their conversations. Kev met their steely glares and started to appreciate the bullet-proof Plexiglas a little more.

“That was loud, Daddy,” Becca said.

Kev smiled at her and continued on the lemonade mini-quest. He was juggling more damsels than he could handle. It wasn’t hot, but sweat actively pooled in his armpits and at his temples. He opened the door, removed a pink bottle, shut the door, re-affixed and closed the lock and returned the odd-shaped anchor-laden key to the still protruding, disembodied hand.

Kev stepped closer to the round metal vent mouth-high on the glass and said, “And the two small decaf coffees, please.”

“We are out of decaf,” came the accented response through the vent.

Kev was stunned.

“Can I get a long-john with vanilla frosting?” Becca asked. Her eyes were wide and pleading.  Kev put a hand on her shoulder, acknowledging her request, but non-verbally tabling it for the moment.

“You have no decaf,” Kev said, not a question, but a statement of utter disbelief.

The donut guy smiled and shrugged his shoulders, “I have the regular,” he offered.  The woman behind him had returned to her animated phone conversation in a very foreign language.

“You have no decaf?”  This time it was a question, but kind of a threat, too, like, you’d better be joking about the no decaf buddy, ‘cause my wife really wants some decaf, I’m on this noble errand, see, and it really shouldn’t be that difficult to satisfy such a simple request yet you’re the second coffee house in a hundred yards to deny me this basic dragon to slay and it’s beginning to really piss me off!

The clerk seemed to understand. “I’m just brewing a fresh pot.” He’d thrown out the last two cups after Kev had yelled at him.

“How long will that take?” Kev asked, in a less threatening tone.

The clerk shrugged, guessing, “Two minutes?”

Two minutes?!  Kev thought. Jess and the baby were out in that dark parking lot next to that car full of possible gang-bangers.  Did he really want to wait another two minutes?

“Daddy…” Becca said under her breath, pulling again at his coat, reminding Kev of her wish for the long-john. He could see the decaf pot brewing behind the clerk. Maybe it wouldn’t take two minutes. Besides, he had to get donuts, too.

“Okay, fine,” Kev said. “Can I get a vanilla frosted long-john and a blueberry cake donut, too,” he added. Jess would have eaten any donut but she loved the blueberry cake.

The clerk nodded in acknowledgment of the order, “And two small decaf coffees,” he said.

“Right,” Kev said.  He couldn’t believe how long this quest for a decaf coffee was taking. He was anxious to conclude his business and be on his way. He turned and smiled at the two guys behind him in line. They did not return the gesture.

The clerk bagged the baked goods and shoved them through the hole in the protective glass, next to the lemonade, then picked up two empty coffee cups.  “Cream and sugar?” he asked again.

“Two creams, one sugar,” Kev said, raising two fingers on one hand and one on the other.

“Two creams and one sugar?” the clerk echoed, as if that was not right at all.

“Two creams and one sugar,” Kev confirmed with confidence.

“Two creams and one sugar?” the clerk repeated, still unable to believe that’s what Kev had said.  Kev knew the clerk was speaking English, but what he said seemed as foreign as the conversation the woman was having on the phone behind him.

In his weary, sweaty, stressed out state, Kev couldn’t think of any other way of phrasing the order, so he just kept repeating the same five words, “Two creams and one sugar,” as pleasant as if saying, Yep, and have a great day!

“Two creams and one sugar?”

“Two creams and one sugar.”  It had become their mantra.  On and on they went, neither pausing to rearticulate for clarity, both looking at the other as though he were an idiot.  And both being correct.

“Two creams and one sugar?”

One of the factory guys behind them said something under his breath to the other. “Daddy, I think that man said a bad word,” Becca said. Kev ignored them. He was mired in his own hell of communication breakdown.

“Two creams and one sugar,” Ken assured the frazzled clerk, thinking, Zippedy-doo-dah, this ain’t that tough, donut man! 

“Two creams and one sugar,” this time the clerk was saying it to himself, shaking his head slightly in disbelief or confusion.  The two minutes were not quite up and the entire 120 seconds had revolved around the two of them repeating the same phrase to each other.  The clerk noticed the other customers and said to them, “May I help you?”

The first man looked at Kev, acknowledging that he was behind him in line and not sure what to make of the situation.  “We’re waiting for the decaf to brew,” Kev told him.

The man nodded, understanding, then ordered a large coffee – black. The other guy ordered a large coffee with cream and sugar.  The clerk filled the orders. Kev thought he would try to ease the tension with the factory guys, make a little joke. So he turned to the second one and asked, “Only one cream one sugar?”

The man just stared at Kev without expression. If Becca had not been there, Kev thought he might have been physically injured. There was something going on between Kev and the donut guy involving two creams and one sugar, but the factory dude didn’t want to find out.  Kev looked away awkwardly, at the ceiling and then the floor.

The men paid for their drinks and left.  The clerk grabbed the two small coffee cups and dumped a bunch of sugar into each one.  Kev couldn’t believe it.  “Uhh, I don’t want sugar in one of those,” he said. This dragon would not die!

The clerk looked at Kev like he was pulling his leg.  “One sugar only,” Kev said, referring him back to the insane verbal exchange they’d had just moments ago, “But cream in both.”

The clerk was frustrated, that much was clear.  Kev didn’t think the clerk thought he was screwing around with him, but he couldn’t be sure.  The woman set the phone down long enough to ask the clerk something like, what the hell is going on?  He told her he was waiting on the decaf to brew, pointing at the nearly full pot.

He took a cup in each hand, tossed the sugar out of them both, held only one up to the glass and said, “Sugar?”

“Yes,” Kev replied.  Now we were getting somewhere.

The clerk held up the other cup, “Sugar?”

“No,” Kev said.  There, that was easy.

The clerk shook his head, finally understanding, “No sugar. Regular.”  And he went for the coffee pot.

“Yes,” Kev said. “Well, decaf.” He was pretty sure the clerk knew that, but wasn’t taking any chances. “I do want cream in both of them,” Kev reminded him quickly, before he filled the cups.

The clerk stopped, placed the carafe back on the burner and picked up the first cup again, “Cream?” he asked, gesturing with the cup.  Kev nodded.  He added cream to the sugar, then filled it with decaf coffee.  Then he held up the second cup and repeated, “Cream?”  Kev nodded again.  In the midst of filling that cup with coffee, the realization dawned on him like a spotlight in his mind.  The clerk’s eyes lit up and he started to smile, “Ahhh…two creams, one sugar!”

Good lord, what a moron, Kev thought, but smiled politely. Then it hit him. The clerk thought he wanted sugar and extra cream in both coffees. It seemed so obvious. Kev shook his head at himself, Good lord, what a moron.

The clerk passed one cup through the Plexiglas, tapped its cover and said, “Cream and sugar.”  He passed the second, identical cup through and tapped it, saying, “Cream,” then tapped the first one again and said, “Cream and sugar,” in case Kev had forgotten from when he’d told him eight seconds earlier.

Kev paid him, Becca grabbed her drink and the bag of donuts and they headed for the parking lot.  Jess was staring through the windshield, her eyes saying What took you so long? And Kev just shook his head. He was carrying both very hot cups of coffee. He asked Jess to open her window and take a cup so he could help Becca get in the van. She complied, but gave him a nervous turn around and look! non-verbal shifting of her eyes. The decaf dragon had been slain, but Kev was not yet out of danger.

As he assisted Becca, Kev looked over at the car parked next to them. Three young men under twenty-five sat smoking inside, staring in his direction through dark sunglasses. It was pushing nine-thirty. Any nervousness or heightened sensitivity to the surroundings seemed totally justified in the presence of these gangsta-types, their rap music still thumping loudly as they stared in their sinister demeanor at his Barney watching, minivan driving, suburban family. Were they carjackers? Kidnappers? Donut thieves? Kev didn’t want to hang around long enough to find out.

Kev’s cultural paranoia, which had been brewing longer than the pot of decaf, peaked. Becca climbed into her car seat. He glanced over his shoulder at the car, the occupants were still staring at him. Well, not at Kev, at the minivan. Kev did a quick estimation based on their line of site and realized that they were not staring at him, they were watching the Barney video playing on the TV hanging from the ceiling of the van. They were transfixed by the antics of the purple dino and his friends set to their inner-city soundtrack. Kev wondered if it was as synchronistic as Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon supposedly was to the Wizard of Oz.

But he didn’t really want to find out, nor get into a discussion with them about it. He snapped Becca’s seatbelt into place and, in his haste, fumbled with the other cup of coffee. It dropped to the ground, splashing on his shoe and pant leg.

Becca looked back from her seat, “Oops,” she said, hoping the blunder wasn’t somehow her fault. Kev raised his eyebrows at her to quell her concern, then shut her door.

He shook the drips of creamy coffee from his left foot, too tired to even swear.  The smoke-filled sedan rocked on its shocks as its occupants rolled with hysterics at the situation. Kev walked around to the driver’s side and got in.

“You dropped your coffee?” Jess said.

Kev didn’t answer. He realized in that moment how trapped he had been in the paranoia of other cultures when he actually shared a good deal in common with those he had considered alien. Jess’s grieving family, all missing her beloved great aunt. The Starbucks gang, who just wanted to go home early. The donut clerk, frustrated with what seemed a simple phrase uttered from a stranger. The young men in the car, amazed that anyone could derive entertainment value from Barney.

Jess took a sip of the long-sought after beverage. Her face scrunched up.  “There’s just cream; no sugar,” she said.

Kev had slain her dragon. He had been blessed with an epiphany of personal growth on this trek outside of his comfort zone, a bonus Holy Grail! His quest was over. He was tired and any flame of further nobility was as doused as his coffee-soaked and lightly sweetened pant leg.

The lids of his eyes narrowed as the pupils slowly re-directed from the traffic ahead to focus on Jess. A look that said we will ride in silence now for a while and you will enjoy your donut and decaf coffee without sugar.

Except for the dinosaur’s insipid giggling through nursery rhyme songs, that’s what they did.
 

 

 

Stories

Wiggy

Leave a comment

Becca piloted the yellow rubber duck along the surface of the bath water, launching it through a berg of soap bubbles with a “Whoosh!” and sending it soaring for a victory flight.

As the duck dove back into the water, Kev submerged a bar of soap and launched it up his daughter’s spine. Becca laughed and wriggled at the touch.

“Did that tickle?” Kev asked, setting the bar in the corner of the tub and reaching for the bottle of no-tears Muppet shampoo.

Becca resumed her duck’s circuit back through the bubble berg. “It makes me feel wiggy.”

“Wiggy?” Becca’s vocabulary was pretty good for a four-year-old. This sounded not like a mistake, but a word she had coined.

“You know, that oogy-feeling,” she explained, matter-of-fact, as the duck again launched and plunged. “Like worms in your hair.”

Sometimes Kev would pretend he held an egg full of worms and crack it over Becca’s head, his fingertips wriggling over her scalp and down her back. Becca would squirm and squeal, “Again! Again!”

She set the sudsy duck on the edge of the tub, sat up, peered over the side, and scanned the floor near the toilet. “Can I read my book?”

Kev’s hands were busy massaging the shampoo into a lather and working it through her shoulder length blonde hair. “In the tub?”

“Yeah,” Becca said, pretending she didn’t know better. The board book pages would not survive a reading in the tub. She had not quite finished the book during her pre-bath big-girl potty time. Even though she could recite the tale word for word from memory, she did not like to leave it undone. After all, the story was a mystery that needed to be solved.

“Why don’t you finish it after your bath?” Kev suggested. He filled a large plastic cup to rinse her hair.

“It’s not a bedtime book, it’s a bathroom book, Daddy.” Duh implied.

Kev spied the book as he placed a finger under Becca’s chin and lifted slowly so she would face the ceiling while he rinsed the shampoo from her hair. Grover, the affable, goofy blue Muppet of Sesame Street fame, warned clearly from The Little Golden Book cover that there would be a monster at the end. This was Becca’s current favorite bathroom text. The suspense that built with each turning page stirred in her that wiggy feeling of nervous excitement, even though she knew full well that the book’s “monster” was only Grover himself, not scary at all.

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Kev said. He flipped the metal toggle to drain the tub. “Your bath is all done. Time to dry off.”

Kev enjoyed these times when it was his turn to get Becca ready for bed. Jess would handle his usual post-dinner dish washing and dog walking duties. It would not be long before their little princess was too big for her daddy to help with the bath routine. Unfortunately, the dirty dishes and dog poo would never outgrow him.

Tonight, Jess had the bedtime story honors. Once that was complete and she clicked off the big light, Kev rejoined Becca in her bedroom.

“Good night,” he said with a kiss.

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” Becca chimed in with the sing-song benediction of her bedtime ritual.

Kev kissed her again, told her he loved her and wished her sweet dreams.

Becca usually had no problems sleeping through the night. When she did stir, her trusty night light and soft, ragged blankie usually provided enough security to lull her back to dreamland.

But not that night.

The hard oak floorboards that stretch along the hallway connecting her bedroom to the master bedroom are riddled with fifty-odd years of creaks and moans, alerting Kev to her midnight visit before she made it to his bedside. She stood cuddling her blankie in the crook of her neck, not making a sound. Jess remained still, breathing deeply, not quite a snore. The dog looked up sleepily from his spot at the foot of the bed long enough to make a quick assessment of the situation before dropping his head heavily back to the covers.

Even in the faint light of the room, Kev could see Becca’s lower lip protruding in a serious pout.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he whispered, not wanting to wake Jess.

Something unsettling she’d experienced during the day had crept to the forefront of her mind in the dark of the night.

“Will you lie down in bed with me,” she asked, “for just a few minutes?”

They’d had the discussion about how big girls can go to sleep all on their own. And Becca had embraced that concept, though not enthusiastically. But that night’s appeal seemed out of the ordinary. She was being haunted by some new bogeyman.

Kev smiled and wiped a tear away from her cheek with his thumb. What kind of father would he be to turn down the chance to provide his baby the feeling of safety and security as she drifted off to sleep?

The mid-July night was pleasant—low humidity. The warm breeze that blew in through the open bedroom window was a refreshing change from the past week of stagnant air conditioning. Kev tucked Becca into her twin bed and again kissed her forehead. She smiled, now certain that Daddy would keep her safe. She scooted closer to the wall, providing room for Kev to slide in next to her. He remained on top of the covers to allow himself an easier escape once she was conked out.

Kev lay on his back with his right arm cocked behind his neck and stared ahead, avoiding the allure of sleep as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim room, illuminated only by the small, partially obscured night light. Kev felt as relaxed and content as any father could be.

Until an odd, shadowy movement caught his eye.

Given the room’s lighting and his state of semi-consciousness, Kev couldn’t be sure, but it looked like something was crawling across his shirt, from his belly toward his face. Perhaps the hungry bed bug of legend had come to feast at last.

His pulse quickened.

Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on him. His eyes strained to focus on his T-shirt. The folds of the shirt and the angle of the low light created ample shadows across his torso. Kev remained still, not wanting to alarm Becca, though every muscle in his body was taut. Kev didn’t blink, he didn’t want to miss any possible movement, and was rewarded for the effort. One of the shadows suddenly moved with remarkable speed. It was huge. Becca stirred beside him, not quite asleep. Kev didn’t want her to panic. He was there to protect. Yet panic seemed eager for a victim and Kev proved to be fertile ground as the enormous thing scurried closer. Closer.

Closer.

It crested the collar of his shirt. Instinct overpowered his rational mind. His left hand slapped wildly at the front of his shirt. Kev was sweating and his heart was pounding. But Becca remained unaware of the danger.

An open hand still firmly against his chest, Kev groped about it to detect the creature. A tickling at the base of his palm confirmed that something was there. An invader. If it were a spider, he’d probably crushed it dead. But he had to know for sure. Kev didn’t want some fatally wounded creature of the night exacting its final revenge on his daughter.

Then a thought hit him, the kind of thought that only comes in bed, at night, when the lights are low and the shadows long: that the thing might be burrowing into his hand. Or worse, his chest—like some horrid, tiny monster from a B-movie on late night cable.

A gasp escaped his lips and Kev leapt from the bed, arms flailing as he snapped on the lights.

Becca sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Uh…nothing, honey,” Kev tried to assure her, failing to assure himself, realizing his startled leap had allowed the fiend to fall from his grasp. Kev searched the bed, pulling back the covers and the sheets, then checking and re-checking his shirt, his shorts, and the floor. No writhing horror. No scurrying terror. No twitching corpse.

Nothing.

Becca’s innocence and drowsiness kept her from suspecting the true nature of his sudden urge to ransack her bed.

“Did you lose something?” she asked, now fully awake.

Kev slid the mattress away from the wall and surveyed the dark crevice. If it had made it that far, its escape would be certain.

“Daddy?”

He pushed the mattress back into place, cupped the back of her head in his hand, smiled and calmly replied that he thought he had lost something, but must have been mistaken. She smiled in return, satisfied. Kev turned off the lights, returned to the bed, kissed and covered his daughter, and, now very, very awake, reviewed the recent events in his mind.

It had all happened so fast, it was possible he had imagined it in a near-dream state. Had his subconscious latched onto that old saying about the bed bugs and fabricated the entire event? No. Kev was certain he’d seen it—some thing—had felt it against his skin. Yes, it was real. But where was it now? It had moved so fast. Could bugs move that quickly? His mind accelerated with his lurching heart. He re-propped his head with his cocked right arm and kept his left hand free, ready to strike at the first sign of movement. It had probably fallen to the floor when he had jumped up, and scampered under the bed or maybe the nightstand. Kev tried to focus on the thought that he was safe, they were safe—whatever it was, was gone now—gone for good.

Bugs really bothered Kev, especially at night. He knew it was silly. He understood the math. He was thousands of times more massive and powerful than any lurking critter. But the thought of even a harmless millipede scampering across his body left Kev feeling all, well, wiggy—goose bumps, cold sweats, and chills down his spine. Picturing spiders or other ungodly nocturnal nasties crawling upon his little princess in search of her blood sent Kev into paternal protector mode.

Becca cuddled close. After five minutes without further incident, Kev began to realize that the intruder was unlikely to return, especially if he’d frightened or harmed it. His breathing and heart rate returned to normal. Lulled by the warmth and reassurance of his daughter’s body against his, Kev felt his eyelids grow heavy. He could actually feel himself drifting off to sleep when he felt an itch in his right armpit, the one next to Becca. Kev tried to ignore it, but the more he did, the more the itch intensified. He was wide awake again. Becca’s breathing revealed her escape to dreamland, so Kev carefully reached over with his left hand and slowly scratched the irritating spot. Mission accomplished, he re-set his left hand in a defensive position, and resumed his vigil.

The itch returned. The more inconvenient it is to scratch an itch, the more it seems to recur. Again, Kev waited, taking in deep breaths of the fresh night air, hoping in vain the itch would abate. First the bug, now this itch. His mood had swung from wiggy to vigilant to irritated.

It seemed his promise to calm Becca into sleep was satisfied, so he began plotting his escape without waking her.

The itch moved.

Eyes wide, Kev realized that the source of the itch was something inside his shirt, clawing its way through the hair in his armpit. The creature wound its way through the curly brush, soon to pounce from beneath the fabric of his shirt to Becca’s nearby head. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream spiking his heart rate to light speed.

His left hand swooped in, the thumb and forefinger finding their prey and, with a pinch, halted any possibility of escape. A squeeze produced a discernable crunch, the sound of an exoskeleton under duress. Kev sat up, holding the insect captive. Becca stirred. “I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” he told her and made a quick exit.

In one fluid motion, Kev flicked the bathroom light on with his right elbow and shut the door behind him with a kick of his foot. His thumb and forefinger squeezed together again, and he was rewarded with another audible scrunch. Kev hovered over the gaping toilet bowl, positioning himself so that, upon the release of his vice-like hold, gravity would drag the bug to its watery tomb.

He released his grip, but nothing fell.

Kev shook his shirt and frantically checked the floor. Still nothing. Was he going mad? Had it flown away? He scanned the ceiling while grasping clumsily at his armpit. He decided to take his shirt off and shake it out. It wasn’t until his head was below the neck hole, inside the shirt, that Kev realized that that was where the bug must be. He imagined a multi-legged, fanged and venomous creature lunging at his nostrils. He stripped the shirt from his back with a quick jerk. He shook the garment, checked the floor…nothing. Kev looked in the mirror—just in case.

It was on his head. Scurrying through his coarse, rapidly graying hair.

The wigginess returned, intensified. As if electrocuted, his whole body convulsed, his feet dancing as he slapped frantically at his head. Dislodged, the bug was smacked against the wall, then fell with a thud to the floor. Even after all the slapping and squeezing, it was able to move with uncanny speed. Near the base of the sink, it made a frenzied dash for a crack in woodwork. Barefoot and still freaked out, Kev whacked at it with the shirt, but the bug stayed its course. He grabbed Becca’s rubber duck and brought it crashing down on the six-legged fiend. It was an incapacitating blow.

With a satisfied smile, Kev said, “Duck you.”

Using a tissue plucked from the box on the tank of the toilet, he brought the still-writhing insect in for closer inspection.

It was enormous. Black, with brownish markings, some kind of beetle, perhaps. Not a cockroach, but…what was this? Kev brought it within an inch of his nose—it had two huge pincers, like the claws of a lobster.

That’s when it leapt back to full life and onto his face.

Kev reacted as though set on fire. Sputtering and blowing viciously out of his nose in a panicked attempt to keep it from clawing its way into his nasal cavity and—who knows—raising a small family there. He bludgeoned his face with his hands and the creature fell again to the floor. This time, shoeless be damned, Kev stomped and felt a crunch beneath the meaty part of his foot. Remembering the big pincers, he retracted his foot and watched in horror and amazement as the thing continued to limp toward the door.

Becca’s Little Golden Book on the floor and caught his eye. Kev grabbed it and threw it onto his nemesis.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open and a bleary-eyed Becca stumbled in, still clutching her blankie. She stepped squarely onto her book, oblivious to the source of the crunchy, popping sound emanating from beneath it.

“Are you done going potty?” she asked. Why else would Kev be in the bathroom at this hour?

His eyes never left the book. Grover continued to smile that Muppet smile, but now a new monster resided at the end of this book. On the back cover, to be precise. Kev stood breathless, waiting for a small claw to appear from beneath an edge of The Little Golden tomb, like a slasher flick villain refusing to die—this tiny monster determined to extract its hideous body for one final assault against his precious daughter.

“Daddy?” she asked, puzzled by his disheveled, shirtless, distracted state.

With a nervous, unconvincing smile, Kev suggested she go back to bed.

“I’m thirsty,” she protested, shifting her minimal weight to the foot not resting on the book. That might be all the hellish creature needed to escape. Kev rushed her back around the corner to her room, promising a cup of water in a moment. Back in the bathroom, he cautiously flipped the book over, revealing the very squished corpse of his waking nightmare. Kev wiped the remains off the cover with a tissue, then dropped it into the drink, flushing it into oblivion.

He put his shirt back on, filled a Dixie cup with water, turned out the light and returned to Becca’s bedroom. Her thirst quenched, Kev again reclined beside her and she in turn drew close to his side.

“Good night, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she chanted, wrapping her tiny arms around him, snuggling close, sighing. Relaxed. Content. Asleep.

The inside of Kev’s eyelids revealed hordes of the deceased pest’s relatives swarming from the woodwork to take up where their fallen comrade had left off. They dispersed as his eyes shot open, yet every shadow moved. Squirmed. The gentle breeze crawled across the hair on his arms.

Kev lay awake for hours.

Stories

The Incontinental

1 Comment

Jake, Mary and Jim all studiously pondered the possibilities on their respective menus. Kev didn’t need one. He knew what he would be ordering before he set foot inside the front door. The Pit served a mean tuna melt on wheat, and Kev never thought to order anything else.

They all worked in the Loop in Chicago, for different employers, but within a four block area of each other. Kev was the common factor among them, having worked with both Jake and Mary though at different asset management firms over the past ten years. Kev had worked closely with each of them and so thoroughly enjoyed their comradery that when they had moved on to new firms and new jobs, they maintained a regular lunch date to stay in touch. Jim was an old college friend who worked for a magazine downtown and met Kev for lunch regularly, too. At some point, Kev started meeting two of them at the same time for lunch, sometimes Jake and Mary, sometimes Jim and Jake, sometimes Mary and Jim. While they would go to different places around town, the one venue that they all seemed to enjoy was the Pit.

They weren’t sure of its actual name, they always just called it the Pit. It was a basement level bar and restaurant on Madison in the financial district. Dark, low ceilings. Residual smoke from the years prior to the ban on cigarettes indoors still hung heavy on the yellowed, stained wallpaper. The wait staff were all seasoned, mature no-nonsense women not there to flirt or chat, just take your order and quickly, thank you.

They were all about the same age, Mary and Jim in their late thirties, Jake and Kev in their early forties. Jake was a couple of years senior to Kev, and, like him, was married with a young family in the suburbs. Mary and Jim were both single. At some point, Kev had thought introducing them might lead to some sort of romance. But there was a mutual disinterest between them. Their relationship over lunch in the Pit evolving more akin to brother and sister. Siblings who annoy and barely tolerate one another, yet relish in pushing the others’ buttons.

Kev yawned. Then Mary, sitting next to him in the booth, yawned. “Don’t yawn,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “My life is dull enough without you yawning to remind me.” She dropped her menu to the table. Jake peered around his to see what was going on. Jim remained hidden, as if he didn’t already have the menu memorized. They’d been coming to the Pit every Wednesday for more than five years. There were stains on the menu he’d recognize.

Mary turned to Kev, “So, what’s new with you?”

“I got dog troubles,” he said.

“What kinda dog troubles?” Mary asked.

“In a word: incontinence,” Kev said.

“That’s not a good word,” Jake said.

“What, did he pee on the floor?” Jim’s menu asked.

“Well, yeah,” Kev said, “but that’s not what’s bothering me.”

“The couch?” Jake asked.

“Been there, done that,” Kev said. “But not the raison du jour.”

Mary curled her left nostril a bit, “Not your bed?”

“Not just my bed,” Kev said, “but while in my bed, he peed on my head.”

“He peed on your head?” Jake asked, laughing.

“While I was sleeping,” Kev explained.

“Ooooo!!” Jim lowered his menu. Now he was interested. “Was it all warm?”

“Initially,” Kev said, “but cooled quickly. Got to take a real shower, do the laundry and bathe the dog all at two-thirty in the morning. It’s like having an infant again.”

“Did you beat him before bedtime?” Mary asked.

“I fed him pork chops,” Kev said, “and gravy.”

“Ungrateful cur,” Jake said.

Jim was openly laughing, “What did you do when he peed on you?”

“It was a difficult moment, to be sure,” Kev said. “He can’t help his condition. He’s diabetic. He’s old. I mean, we’ve had the little guy for over fifteen years. Longer than we’ve had the daughters. He’s a member of the family. He’s been sleeping in our bed for fifteen years, right there between our heads. So imagine the polarity of emotions surging through me last night as I held his little limp body, him looking pathetically and helplessly into my eyes, his tiny little neck in the firm grip of my hand. On the one hand I wanted to comfort him. On the other, I couldn’t help but think…just a tiny little twist and SNAP it’s all over. This thought came so easily as the urine dripped from my hair. I’m pretty sure he knew it, too.”

“Dog’s have a good sense for that sort of thing,” Jake said.

“A quick snap would be cheaper than a trip to the vet,” Jim said.

Mary snapped a glare at Jim, “That’s so cruel!”

“Every trip to the vet for him is a guaranteed three hundred dollars,” Kev said. “Minimum. Sometimes we’ll go a couple of months without taking him in, so they call us and say he’s overdue for some blood test or something.”

“Hey, they’ve got a boat payment to make,” Jake said.

“You’ve spent a small fortune on that dog,” Mary said. “Didn’t you drop like five grand on him a few years ago?”

“What?!?” Jim asked

“Six grand, actually,” Kev said. “We started calling him the Six Thousand Dollar Dog.”

“Six thousand dollars!!?!” Jim cried out. “Is he part bionic? Can he hump your leg at super speed?”

“Rips your pant leg clean off,” Jake said.

“No,” Kev said. “But he developed the super-canine ability to sleep. And urinate.”

“Seriously,” Jim said. “How do you spend six thousand dollars on your dog and not me?”

“It was six years ago,” Kev said, “right after Katie, my youngest daughter, was born. He was still a relatively young dog. And he’s small, only eight pounds soaking wet.”

“Soaked in urine?” Jim asked.

Mary glared.

“Anyway,” Kev said. “It was late Spring – April or May. Bucket just collapsed one day.”

“Bucket?” Jim said. “Your dog’s name is Bucket?”

“My wife insisted on a small lap dog. So we got a Maltese,” Kev explained. “But I got to name him.”

“And you went with Bucket?” Jim asked, still unable to believe.

“I dunno,” Kev said. “Seemed right at the time. Better than Fifi or Fluffy.”

“It’s unique,” Jim said.

“I think it’s cute,” Mary said.

“He collapsed,” Jake said, getting them back on track.

“Suddenly,” Kev said. “No accident, just stopped moving. Suddenly quadriplegic.”

“What the hell?” Jim asked.

“Apparently he had a seriously slipped disc,” Kev said. “Pinched off all the nerves from the neck down. The vet said he thought it was genetic. He was confident they could repair him, but they’d have to operate immediately. They gave my wife and me an hour to decide what to do.”

“And it cost six thousand dollars??” Jim asked.

“Oh, no,” Kev said. “Only about three thousand. Still, three thousand dollars. I asked the doc for odds of recovery. He said ninety-five percent chance of full recovery.”

“Wow,” Jake said. “It couldn’t be like fifty-fifty?”

“No. Ninety-five percent,” Kev said. “Pretty good odds. So we agreed to the surgery.”

“And did the vet lie?” Jim asked. “Not a full recovery?”

“Well, what we didn’t take into account was that full recovery was not the same thing as immediate recovery,” Kev explained. “Post-op we pick him up and he’s wearing one of those giant plastic cone collars so he can’t lick his wounds, but the rest of him looks like he’d been hit by a lawn mower!”

Kev unlocked his cellphone and called up his photos. He found one of his two daughters and Bucket. “See,” he said, “he’s a little ball of white, fluffy fur. Well, instead of shaving him all over, they just shaved him where they needed to, front right leg, part of the belly, most of the neck area. He looked awful. And he was sore.”

“‘Cuz he’d just had spinal surgery,” Jake said.

“Yes,” Kev said. “So every time he moved, even a little, he barked bloody murder.”

“Oh, well, that’s fun to have around the house,” Jim said.

“Katie, was still a baby and just starting to sleep through the night,” Kev said. “So for two weeks, I slept on the couch downstairs with the dog. Whenever he’d move and howl, I would immediately start petting him until he’d fall back to sleep. I’d carry him outside and hold him while he did his business. Fed him by hand.”

“He’s your little baby,” Mary said.

“He’s my little baby,” Kev said. “I took care of him. Before long, just like the vet said, full recovery.”

“And then?” Jim asked.

“October,” Kev said. “He stopped peeing.”

“What do you mean?” Jake asked.

“He’d stand by the door, give us the ol’ I gotta go look,” Kev explained, “but when he went out, just stood there.”

“Kinda the opposite of the present situation,” Jim said.

“Yes,” Kev said. “He’d strain, so it was obvious he had to go, but nothing was happening.”

“So, off for another boat payment to the vet…” Jake said.

“I swear this only happened on Sundays and holidays,” Kev said. “He had a blocked urethra.” Jake and Jim both winced at the word. “Kidney stones that didn’t quite pass. Little dog. Little urethra.”

Jim hunched his shoulders and wriggled his fingers like someone was scratching nails on a blackboard, “Please stop saying that word.”

“How do they, uhh, fix that?” Jake asked.

“They’d use a little poker,” Kev said, using his butter knife to accentuate the point, “to dislodge the blockage.”

“Yee-ouch!!!” Jim said, doubling over as he sat.

“This went on every so often over the course of a few weeks,” Kev said. “Each clearing incident was three hundred dollars.”

Jim repeated, “Yee-ouch!!!”

“Finally I ask if there was any other option open to us,” Kev said. “The vet says he has an idea. We could create an opening a little earlier in the plumbing cycle, allowing any stones to pass before ever entering the urethra.”

“Wait,” Jake said. “Are you saying, he had the ‘operation?’”

“Well, he’d been neutered as a puppy,” Kev said, “so this little operation essentially made him more of a little girl dog than a little boy dog.”

“Quite an expensive route to end up with a bitch,” Jim said. Mary glared at him.

“What happened to the uhh, original plumbing?” Jake asked.

“Still there,” Kev said, “just not active.

“Sure glad we’re eating,” Mary said.

“So after that operation, you’re up to six thousand dollars?” Jim asked.

“Just about,” Kev said. “Between the two operations and the multiple pipe cleanings, we were at five thousand dollars plus. Then he started urinating all the time. At first we thought it was a result of the sex change. Nope. He’d become diabetic.”

“What’s that mean,” Jake asked, “no more sugar in his diet?”

“Oh, no,” Kev said. “That means he has to get a shot of insulin two times every day for the rest of his life.”

“Shot?!?” Jim said. “You mean, like a syringe?!”

“Twice a day,” Kev said. “For the rest of his life.”

“I don’t mean to sound cruel,” Jake said, “but isn’t it at that point you just put the little guy down?”

“At that point?!” Kev shot back. “At that point we’d spent six thousand dollars on him! Oh, no, he was going to live!”

“This was how long ago?” Mary asked.

“Six years,” Kev said. “So the vet was right. He recovered from everything and has lived a relatively normal, healthy life.”

“And now he’s incontinent,” Jake said.

“He’s diabetic, right?” Jim asked. “Just slip him a little extra insulin and no one’s the wiser…”

“If he has too much,” Kev said, “he gets hypoglycemic and starts shaking and falling down and, gets incontinent.”

“So, you’ve already tried that,” Jim said.

“What happens when he gets like that?” Mary asked.

“We give him a spoonful or two of honey,” Kev said. “Followed by a scoop of Trix. Hand-fed.

“Trix cereal?” Mary asked. “With the silly rabbit?”

“I thought they were just for kids?” Jake said.

“Mind you,” Kev said, “these hand-fed honey and  Trix cereal moments generally come between three and four in the morning.”

“You’re like a dog saint,” Mary said.

“That’d be cool if you were,” Jake said, “‘cause then you’d be required to carry a barrel of whiskey with you wherever you go!”

“Of course,” Jim said, “you’d also have to be neutered.”

When Kev got home from work that night, Bucket was the only one to greet him. Jess was busy with dinner, the girls with homework. But there was Bucket, feeble, limping, moving in slow motion, but coming to say hello none-the-less, his little tail wagging with as much energy as he could muster. Not nearly at the speed it moved in his youth, back before the daily shots, the back surgery, when he lifted his leg to do his business rather than squat.

Kev picked him up and scratched behind his ears. Bucket lovingly licked him with his pink little tongue, huffing out his stinky dog breath. But Kev didn’t care. It was tough to stay mad at this fluffy little bundle of unconditional love.

Kev tried to remember that later when he stepped in a puddle at the top of the stairs.

Stories

Blowout

2 Comments

“He’s a fainter!”

Three little words so quickly emasculate a grown man.

“His hands are cold,” one nurse said.

“He’s gone pale,” said another, the one who seemed to be in charge.  “Okay, we’re calling this off!” And with that, she stripped the rubber tourniquet from Kev’s arm.

“Don’t faint on me, okay?” she said, more of a threat than request.

A third nurse provided a cool washcloth for Kev’s neck and orange juice for some quick energy. “Breathe deeply,” she said, then moved on to other duties, leaving him in the chair in the hallway of the medical center. Another out-patient three chairs down stared at him as if he might spontaneously combust or turn into a chicken. She rolled her eyes and looked away as Kev attempted a weak smile.

He had just stopped in for some routine blood tests – a couple of vials and then on his merry way. Now he’d been escalated to a problem case requiring the attention of the entire nursing staff. Kev was embarrassed. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to look at his arm to inspect the blowout. They were right.

Kev is a fainter.

He sat there, not looking at the other patient, not looking at the blowout, rolling his own eyes at the ceiling, wishing for a window, even to look out on the dreary parking lot, anything to distract him. He pondered this classification, fainter. Ridiculous. A man in his thirties, modestly successful in business and life, to be maligned with such a label. It wasn’t that he had a weak constitution or poor health. I just hate veins, he thought, and shivered a bit at even thinking the word.

He hates anything even related to veins. When his wife, Jess, lightly touches the veins on the back of his hand, it completely wigs him out. And needles!  He can’t watch while giving blood; he isn’t bothered by the pain, it’s the vein. And the blood. His blood.  Outside his body. And IVs are the worst, because the needle has to remain in the vein for an extended period of time.

He would get a little woozy just thinking about this.

That said, today’s simple blood draw seemed inconsequential. Kev had found a way to distract himself while the deed is done. It wasn’t rocket science. More like Zen-inspired misdirection. Meditation-light. Just look away! Go to a happy place. Embrace the minor pinch – there is no blood, no needle, just a pinch! Just a minor pain, like a stubbed toe or a pulled muscle. Some minor inconvenience to endure for a moment and before you know it, you’re all done!

When he got to the lab, Kev confidently exposed his right arm – his good, blood-givin’ arm – then dutifully looked away as the nurse jabbed him with the needle.  Kev was mellow. Kev was Zen. Be one with the pain. Ride the wave like an astral surfer. He took in a deep breath and stared at the fluorescent light, flickering ever so slightly, waiting patiently for her to say “Okay, that’s it!”

Instead, she said, “Uh-oh.” Which is not exactly what you want to hear from a medical professional.  Kev thought that it was the worst thing for a patient in his position to hear.

He was wrong.

In a mild panic, she called another nurse over.  “Why is it swelling like that?” she asked.

See, that’s worse.

The other nurse didn’t seem too concerned, “Oh, that’s just a blowout,” she said.

The rational part of Kev’s brain was sure the term “blowout” is common nursing lingo for something minor, but that part of his brain was being pummeled by his emotional part, currently in a state of near-panic. It did not sound good.  His so-recently-Zen-mind was now flooded with images of exploding forearms. His forearms, to be precise. Exploding.

“How much more blood do we need?” the second nurse asked as she wrapped a tourniquet around Kev’s left arm and started probing for a new vein to tap.

“Three vials,” the first replied. “I only got a little over one from this arm.”

They weren’t talking to Kev, just each other. He was some piece of meat they were carving up. He was in no mood for discussion anyway. The two things that most freak him out in the universe are needles and veins and here he is with two nurses, two needles, two veins and a blowout. His anxiety intensified as he frantically scanned the ceiling, desperately forcing himself not to look down, down where all the action was, between the left-arm probing and the right-arm damage.  The second nurse, the one probing his arm for a vein, abruptly ceased her search and looked Kev in the eye.  “Are you okay?” she asked, suddenly very concerned.

“Uhh, well, yeah…” Kev said. The sudden inclusion of him in the conversation pulled him back from the abyss of self-absorbed terror and shame, to the real world of a few adults having a conversation in a medical center, throwing a virtual damp rag on his raging anxiety attack.

“He’s a fainter!” she yelled out, signaling all nurses in the area to immediately converge on him for maximum humiliation. Kev was stripped of his tourniquet and pride and left with a moist towel and OJ to compose himself.

He recovered for a few minutes. His original nurse, the one surprised by the blowout she’d provided, returned. “Are you ready to proceed?” she asked.

“Sure,” Kev said, trying to maintain the Zen-like calm. But the butcher couldn’t find a vein on his left arm, either. She called over the nurse who seemed to be the senior nurse on call.  As she was probing and probing his arm for a vein (and, yes, freaking him out), two other nurses rushed over in a panic warning, “He’s the fainter!!”

They might as well have declared, “He’s the bed-wetter!!” The blood that everyone was so desperate to access, rushed to his face and burned bright in his cheeks, supplanting the sweat streaked pale green hue.

The probing stopped.  They moved Kev, carefully, to another room with a bed.  There he reclined and extended his left arm again. After a quick review, the senior nurse declared, “That’s it, I’m going in through the hand.”

Good thing he was lying down.

Kev started seeing spots as she secured the tourniquet to his wrist.  That hurt. As he closed his eyes to the world swimming before him, he heard footsteps running.  Kev opened one eye to see the nurse running out of the door then quickly returning with a big needle in one hand and something dangling in the other, like a giant vein.

Kev fainted.

The vial of ammonia-smelling horridness used to revive him was a virtual slap extending from his nasal cavity to the crown of his skull. He shook his head back and forth like a dog dislodging a snout full of water and tried to exhale the nastiness.

“You better now?” asked one of the nurses, very serious as she checked the dilation of his pupils.

“Well, I am a fainter,” Kev shrugged, trying to lightened the mood.

“Lie there for as long as you need,” she said. After about fifteen minutes, Kev slowly swung his feet to the floor and tested his sea legs. Everything seemed in order, so he shuffled down the hall to the main lobby and wisely collapsed in a big comfy chair for another few minutes before heading out to his car.

That night at home, Kev stared at the bandage on his right arm afraid of what horror lay beneath. Jess’s college roommate is now a surgical technician, they call her whenever they have a medical question. “A blowout?” she repeated back to Kev over the phone. “Oh, sure. That’s when someone’s taking blood or inserting an IV and the needle goes in too far. It passes through the backside of the vein. Kinda scary looking, but not a big deal. Basically the sign of bad needlework.”

Wincing at the mental image, Kev thanked her and hung up the phone. His arm ached.

Relieved that ultimately it was no big deal, no matter how bad it looked, he sat comfortably on the couch – just in case – and prepared to remove the bandage. Carefully peeling back the Band-Aid and cotton revealed a nasty, yellowish-green bruise about four inches long and two inches wide on the inside of his forearm.

Kev sneered a little in disgust, then shrugged. Nothing really to faint about.

But he did anyway.