Non-fiction

Being Sick

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I haven’t been sick in a long, long time, not since I can remember. I’m talking about the general illness: the cough and sore throat, along with nausea and diarrhea. I’ve been lucky thus far, but there are many types of illnesses besides that, such as appendicitis which I recovered from around 2006.

It happened one night when I was driving north to see my parents. I felt in my stomach a dull pain. I thought it was gas, so I tried to sleep. But it kept me up at night, and the pain only worsened like it was tying my stomach in knots. I woke up my parents in the middle of the night and told them I had to go to the hospital.

The doctor never ran any tests on me and decided I had gas. She suggested I take Tums, so I went home without any remedy. The pain was still there. It only got worse on the second day, but I tried to pay it no mind.

It got to its worst on day three when I looked in the mirror and saw my stomach drooping to the left side of my body. It looked unnatural, so I drove to urgent care with a centralized pain on my left side and waited forever in the waiting room like I always did.

The doctor finally saw me in his office. He wore a tracksuit and chewed gum. All he was missing was a whistle. I told him about the pain and showed my stomach drooping to one side. He told me to jump. And when I did, it was as if a bowling ball had punched me in the gut. I grimaced in pain and held my stomach.

The doctor immediately wrote on his clipboard. “You need to go to the hospital right away. Have them take x-rays.”

He never told me what he thought it was. I drove to the college hospital, and they directed me to radiology, where they took the x-rays–I forgot which kind.

A specialist saw me in a room and showed me the x-rays, where the issue lay, and told me my appendix was about to burst.

“My what?”

I’d never heard about appendicitis except for one time when it attacked a high school friend. He had to miss school for over a month, and I thought he was lucky. But my tune had changed.

The doctor who would operate on me flew in from South Africa. His name was so long that he told me just to call him Dr. K. He pressed on my stomach where it drooped while I lay in a hospital bed, and I winced again in pain.

“You’re very lucky,” he told me. “I will put you out and begin the operation.”

When I woke up again, the surgery was all done. Dr. K had removed my appendix through my stomach and left a little crescent-shaped scar. But I still felt a discomfort in my lower abdomen as if the appendicitis was still there.

They discharged me on the day after. I remember my mother was both angry and worried because she thought I was on the cliff of death, because my appendix had almost burst. I didn’t feel the same way, with an inkling I would still survive, and I wasn’t all too pleased. It wasn’t a happier time in my life.

That was really my only surgery. The hospital would send me a bill of over a thousand dollars, and I was furious because they’d misdiagnosed me the first time. I wrote an angry letter to the head of the department, and he waived the entire bill. What was a thousand dollars to them? The surgery was basically free.

I’ve never broken bones or dealt with fractures. I’m full of mental illnesses that shall never go away. I believe I have carpal tunnel in my left hand induced by work. No genetic illnesses or autoimmune disorders, but I do get migraines from time to time. All in all, I’m mostly a bill of good health.

Non-fiction

A Few Things About Birds

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My mother doesn’t watch birds, but she can tell you the name of any one that she sees. It’s impressive. I don’t know where she picked up that talent. Or she can tell you the name of any tree no matter where she is.

I ask her, “Hey Mom, what kind of tree is that?”

“Oh, that’s the Bois Dentelle, found near the Indian Ocean.”

“But Mom, we’re in Fresno.”

Don’t get me wrong. I can pick a pine tree out of a lineup. That’s not too hard. But a sycamore, that’s a different story.

The only tree I’m positively familiar with is a palm tree, probably the easiest tree to recognize. I’ve lived in Southern California for thirty-four years and used to live about two or three miles from Beverly Hills. Now I live in Palm Springs, where palm trees are all I see. But if I’m stuck in the forest somewhere in Northern California, I might be stumped at the type of tree.

The same goes for birds. I can identify a cardinal or a bluejay, both of which are rarely ever seen. In fact I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen either bird. They just don’t show themselves where I live, which makes them exotic. I see nothing but robins or finches (I think they are, but not positive) or crows, crows a plenty near my apartment.

I don’t know the attraction. What are they fond of that makes them want to hang out near where I live? Is it the palm trees? I know crows are a bad sign. People refer to them as harbingers of death. I haven’t died yet. They’re also supposed to be the messengers between the physical world and the spiritual. I have no messages to convey other than where has my spirit been this whole time? I’m also supposed to count crows for the meaning:

One for sorrow: there’s plenty of that

Two for mirth, of which there’s none.

Three for a funeral. I haven’t been to one of those in over a decade.

Four for birth: I can’t remember the last time someone had a baby. Maybe it’s the birth of something that isn’t human, such as the birth of faith, the birth of creativity, the birth of contentment.

Crows are also supposed to be a sign that something significant is about to happen. I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for that. Crows are figures in Hindu mythology for departed souls and are sometimes actually interpreted as symbols of good luck, smarts, and guardianship. Then again, Christianity sees them as bad omens for sin and temptation.

The only way I can identify with crows is that they guard secrets, and I have plenty of those. Nothing exciting, just things I’m too embarrassed to share.

All in all, crows are misunderstood. They’re birds like any other. They’re just big and black, and they get a bad rap because of their color, which society feels represents something ominous when really it means nothing.

The only negative trait I can see is that they’re carrions. Who likes to see a bird like the crow feast on a dead squirrel on the road? I don’t remember the last person who liked a turkey vulture. You don’t see framed pictures of any vultures in someone’s house. No one has elected to go vulture-watching.

Non-fiction

Where Did It Go?

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I’m writing every morning but have run out of content, so the only way to produce is to regurgitate the old. But even that has slipped my mind. So now I’m left with nothing but mashed potatoes in my brain. I feel like I’m dead if death is how this feels. Maybe I should write once a week, so then I’ll have something to write about instead of once a day.

There are certain thoughts I can’t mention. Only my journal and therapist know. But I bet it would be interesting. Readers would gobble up that type of shit, but it can’t be written, which is unfortunate. How many secrets do people keep? I wish there were none at all.

I have a dark mind. There’s nothing about it that’s light. A kid in high school used to call me pessimistic. Not that word exactly, just negative. And he was right. I didn’t like that kid, never did. His name was Ben too. I don’t know what happened to him. I can do a quick Google search if I want, but I won’t. I remember he had the same girlfriend from freshman to senior year. How did he do that? He played soccer and had red hair. He used to be nice in junior high before he turned into a prick and called me names I didn’t appreciate. I forgot what those names were, but they weren’t pleasant. How the hell did I think of him this morning? How random. He rode the school bus with me and would harass me by calling me negative, and I had nothing to say.

I learned my negativity from my father, who was negative all the time and is still. Whenever I visit him, he always has something negative to say about mostly everything, and he brings me and my mother down. My mother would say, “Quit being so negative.” But it wouldn’t stop my father, and I caught his illness. So now I see the dark side of things, and it doesn’t really help. Maybe he was being more of a realist, and my mother has always been too much of an optimist. She was that way always. I guess the dark side has always been more convincing to me.

But anyway, I’ll just stick with today’s agenda. It’s Monday, another long week ahead of sales. I have to sell products no one wants, and I have to sell enough to meet the quota expectations. I hate that word: expectations. It really makes the pressure heavier. They expect me to sell these products and I expect me not to care. The job has robbed me of my imagination through stress, and so I struggle every day.

I don’t know what else to do. I could be a better salesperson, but sales was something I never wanted to get into. I just ended up that way because the company has switched me to so many roles. So this was where I landed. They inundate me with too many cases and other assignments, not to mention the pile of emails I have to answer each day. The pile only gets deeper, and I can never catch up. If I was still drinking, I’m sure the drinking would get worse. But that problem was something I got over. It didn’t solve everything.

Now the problems have changed. I look for other jobs, but all the websites like LinkedIn and Indeed and Glassdoor offer are jobs of the same type because of my resume. So it’s hard to change careers. And now that I’m over forty it’s difficult even more. Businesses post disclaimers that they’re equal opportunity and they accept those who are disabled and over forty. At the same time, in the application, they ask for my ethnicity, how old I am, and if I’m disabled. If they were equal opportunity, then why would they need to know? Wouldn’t it not matter? What am I missing? It’s hard to balance all this stress with what I hope to do. I’ve lost what I really wanted.

Non-fiction

Unique Observations

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I saw a black t-shirt this morning with a message in old English font that said, Assholes Live Forever. Where did she buy that shirt? And is it true? The assholes do live long if you were to ask me.

I sit in torment over tomorrow. Work will start again, and I still haven’t heard from the doctor about my hand. I have to keep calling him until he sets an appointment. My job is making me work on commission. They pay me only fifty-five percent of my salary once a month, and then the total of my salary plus the commission is on the next payslip. It’s not enough to get by.

My right leg still itches with some sort of sore on my calf. I hope it isn’t from a bed bug. The last thing I need is another infestation. I’ve been through that hell enough times already and now isn’t the right time. The right time is never.

But anyway, I’m facing a wall right now and can see the rest of the shop through the glass reflection of a picture frame. My head is full of residue. I don’t feel motivated and haven’t felt motivated for quite some weeks. I’ll have to practice patience until the motivation sparks. I vegetated all of yesterday, but today I’ll get exercise. I was using the elliptical machine the other day along with the stair stepper for almost an hour. I burned a lot of calories, and I counted them with my watch. It’s the only way to know if I’ve made any progress. I don’t feel like going to the gym after I’ve just joined, but maybe my motivation will change.

There’s a woman wearing a cowboy hat high on top of her head, with most of her blonde hair showing on top. And then she left with her man.

It’s cold in here. I wish they would turn down the AC. They always turn this place into a freezer. I’m the only one here. There are people sitting outside on the patio, but I don’t want to be near those folks. I’m doing just fine where I am.

Someone posted on my blog yesterday that I should subscribe to theirs. I didn’t, and I didn’t understand why they would post such a comment. It was something I didn’t approve of either. I’m not subscribing to someone’s blog just because of what they told me to do. As it were, they didn’t subscribe to mine, so I didn’t see the point.

I’m lost for words. It wasn’t this difficult a month ago. Now writer’s block has put me in handcuffs. I belong to a Facebook group about writers helping other writers. It’s mostly bitter people bashing other bitter people about their writing. But once in a while, someone will post that they’re a new writer who’s facing writer’s block. They can’t think of any new ideas, so they’re seeking advice from someone who might know the answers. The answer is that it’s everyone’s plight. No one is immune to this illness. We get trapped in it because of life’s difficulties. And that’s my answer: that everyone has to deal with the same shit no matter how experienced they are. It’s about continuing writing, even if it’s bullshit. In some ways, that’s the beauty if that’s the way you’re looking. But so many of us stop where we are and wait for our thoughts to come rather than keep our hands moving with time. And then the thoughts emerge as best as they can. I often stop where I am but that’s not good. Anyway, what’s the use? This will go down as another wasted post in a long line of others. I sit and wonder why I’m doing this.

Non-fiction

Little League

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He called me to the mound. I’d never pitched. I was nervous going up there for the first time, being in the center of the spotlight, when I threw pitches for practice before the batter came up to the plate. And when he did, there was a new confidence. My only mission was to strike him out. Then one… two… three pitches later, I sent him to the dugout. And then they called the next batter. One… two… three. I sent him to the dugout too. Up came the third batter with two outs. On the first pitch, the ball sailed from my hand to the right, and just like that, the ball struck him in the face. It was a fastball that had gotten away, and the batter fell to the dirt. He curled up and started crying. I felt like a murderer, an evil seed for hitting him that way, all because of an innocent pitch. People in the stands, mostly parents, started yelling:

“Get him out.”

“He hit my kid.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

But the coach kept me in.

“I really like your talent,” he said. “I want to keep you as the starting pitcher.”

So I was the starting pitcher for the Mt. Lebanon Giants. The season continued. I pitched in just about every game and struck out batters every inning. I never hit another boy. The coach loved to call me Benny. No other person did.

And then, when I was ten years old, my father moved me to Florida, Clearwater to be exact. The boys down there weren’t so nice. They treated me like I was nothing. I continued playing Little League, but the coach didn’t stick me in as the pitcher. Instead, he played his kid, who was awful. Sometimes I had to watch him from the dugout. Most times I had to watch him from right field, the worst position in baseball, where they stuck the scrubs. I knew I was better than that kid, but my father didn’t coach the team.

My parents didn’t appreciate how I was treated, so they sent me to a pitching camp in Orlando. I had to stay there for two weeks with others. We all shared the same room, to sleep in bunk beds. And they made us pitch from a regular mound on a regular diamond. I skipped a lot of balls to the catcher. My arm from that far couldn’t throw. My fastballs were limited.

On one of those days, I threw out my arm. My shoulder started hurting.

“What’s wrong with you?” one of the coaches there asked.

And I said, “I think I threw out my arm.”

“We’ll get you an ice pack to cool it down.”

But the ice pack didn’t work. My arm was still thrown out. I spent the rest of pitching camp with a hurt arm and couldn’t throw. The boys there would hurt me more with their teasing. The coaches weren’t so nice either. I missed home and wanted to go back, so I called my mother to pick me up. She drove several hours to Orlando from Clearwater and took me back after just a week. I told her what they made me do.

“That’s just ridiculous,” she said.

My arm still hurt, but it didn’t keep me from playing in Little League. The coach still played his son as the pitcher, and I still stood in right field. I had to ask the coach to put me in instead of him watching me at practice.

So one game, when his son was walking batters and giving up runs, he called me in from the outfield to begin practicing on the mound. The kids from the other dugout started laughing at my form. It was embarrassing. I didn’t want to be on the mound anymore despite my advanced skills. My parents were in the stands as the boys kept laughing. The first batter came up and I walked him after four straight pitches. But I struck out the next, and my confidence returned. The boys stopped laughing. I struck out the rest of the batters that inning and the coach chose me over his son for the next game. His son hated me for that reason. I never liked him anyway.

My pitching wasn’t as good after I threw my arm out at camp, so I walked a lot of batters and gave up hits and didn’t strike out as many. I watched my skills decline and worried if that could be it for my career.

I used to daydream in class about being the star pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates and striking out the side in every inning. But that dream came to a halt when my father made us move, this time to California, where they signed me up for Little League again. It was the same old situation. I was on a team where the coach started his son over me. The coach never even considered putting me on the mound. What a disgrace. I had to stand in right field just like before. I wanted to give up Little League and focus on a more individual sport like tennis, where there was less nepotism. But the coach stuck me in on the last game of the season to my surprise, and my skills came back. I struck out more batters than his son, and after the game, he said, “I should’ve put you on the mound more often.”

But it was too late. The season was over, and I would move on to high school that same year. I wasn’t about to try out for the team. I believed politics had taken over baseball, so I stuck with tennis instead. My father was disappointed, but it didn’t matter. I’d had too many negative experiences to continue with baseball, and to this day I don’t regret my decision.

Non-fiction

Why Bother?

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I had a nightmare where a snake was chasing me down the street. It had legs from what I can remember. I awoke around 1:30 and couldn’t go back to sleep. All I thought about was the snake and my job. They correlate. So now I can’t focus on what’s in front. I wander like a zombie and feel like one too.

I applied for another position yesterday but doubted I was qualified. These companies want experience, yet they’re not willing to train. How is anyone going to learn anything when all they’re looking for is someone who has learned already? Where does one start when beginning a new job? This is the worst that life has to offer: searching for a job. I wish it was over, but I have no choice. I’m not making enough money to live. You would think full-time employment these days would support anyone but such isn’t the case. They wave their flag of diversity yet pay someone scraps. It doesn’t make much sense. These job sites offer nothing but positions in which I have experience, but I don’t want that experience any longer.

I’m going back to work today after taking three days off because of my left hand and how I can barely pull my cell phone out of my pocket. That’s how they expect me to work. The doctor still hasn’t called me back to set an appointment. I have a feeling he won’t. Maybe it’s because of the possibility of worker’s comp, and he wouldn’t want to get involved. I don’t know. It’s just a guess. I could be negative, and he will call to set one up.

All I do know is this isn’t the way I can function. They’ve dumped a bunch of work on me after I was gone for three days. It isn’t right because other employees had been off for about a week, and everyone had to work their cases. Yet I took a few days off because of a medical emergency, and my cases were untouched. The amount of work has grown and left me buried. Where’s the sense in that?

And then there’s the pay, which makes the least sense of all. They promised me a certain salary but I saw from the last two paychecks that I was being paid significantly lower than before. Now it’s below living standards. Call me cynical, but I don’t subscribe to people’s words when they say that I have to find my calling, or that I need to go soul-searching. I can look for those things for the rest of my life and still come up short. Why, I’ve been doing that already for many years and have never come close to finding any semblance of a soul, and I can look for my calling all I want but may never find it for the rest of my life when all that’s left is a job that overworks and underpays. I thought I was getting a promotion, but not even close.

Non-fiction

Fatigue

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I awakened to another summer morning, not motivated to do much at all. The doctor still hasn’t called to set up an appointment. My hand is still going numb. But at least I’m taking another day off from work.

I slept in and pulled myself out of bed. It was a struggle to leave the apartment. Just imagine having to do my job.

I drove to the gym yesterday and signed up. The salesperson, I’ll refer to him as, showed me around the facility like I knew he would. I just wanted to be in and out, sign up and leave, but the salesperson had to do his job and walk me through every corner of the place as if one had never been seen. But I was patient, polite, inquisitive. I saw the fitness room, where they do Zumba classes, the fitness band room, the cycling room with a disco ball, the weight room, the personal trainer room, and lastly the cardio room, where I believe I would spend most of my time.

And then he led me back to his desk where I knew what was to come: not just me signing up for the gym but him trying to upsell me to a personal trainer, which I wasn’t interested in at all. He was eager to offer me a machine that would measure my body fat and levels of nutrition: too much information. I was better off ignorant. But he insisted that I try it out. There were three membership levels: the basic, in which I would use the equipment at that gym only for ten dollars a month, the fit, where I would get to use the equipment at multiple gyms and set up lessons with a personal trainer, and then the max, which would offer all of those things plus access to that nutrition/body fat machine, which I didn’t need. I chose the fit level because I just wanted to use the equipment at multiple locations. But he kept trying to upsell me to the max fit which I knew he would do. I saw it all coming.

“What are your fitness goals?” he asked.

I didn’t see that question coming. It made me uncomfortable. Did I really want to expose my insecurities to that kid? I gave him the vaguest answer. “I would like to get in shape.”

After the tenth time I said no to a personal trainer, he made that move where he called over his manager who so happened to be working at the next desk. A guy named Buddy. What does that tell you? He was big, and not with muscles, and covered in tattoos. One of the tattoos said I Want to Kill You on his forearm. And he spoke so fast that I couldn’t keep up. It was a tactic for me to say yes. Every time I said no, Buddy would offer to lessen the cost of the program. I would’ve had to pay $144 biweekly for four weeks with a personal trainer. I kept having to say no. Buddy kept going a fourth and fifth time. I knew what to expect. Right now I’m just not committed, I kept saying. And finally he surrendered, and I won.

I just can’t see myself with a personal trainer. I have enough commitments already. The reality is I don’t need someone telling me what I should or shouldn’t eat: no healhy fats, lean fats, supplements such as creatine, et cetera. Maybe someday, but I’m not ready to buy all that crap at the store. I left the gym, and maybe I’ll go today if I feel motivated.

Non-fiction

Juxtaposed in Daylight

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Everywhere I go, I see them texting. Anger follows. People pissed off at everything, and it shows, and they aren’t to blame.

Yesterday, I paid my speeding ticket online. Over four hundred dollars that included a fee for an online school. I don’t know when traffic school will start. I’m supposed to call a number for school. It will be on the internet, and it will have comedy, that which won’t be funny. But that’s okay.

I can feel my hand again, but the doctor hasn’t called to make an appointment. I’m beginning to think he won’t because of the possibility of worker’s comp. He would rather not deal with the headache. I’ve experienced enough to know, like my therapist who won’t accept my insurance, and so I pay her full price. It sucks to lose, but at least I’ve taken the day off from work. That’s a victory, like yesterday, which was a day off too. My stress isn’t as high as usual. Go figure. I can walk around with less of a bother. Although today it will be hot. It’s hot already, and it’s not even eight in the morning. I’m waiting for the weather to cool down, which won’t be for another month.

My next work deposit better be significantly higher than the previous, or I won’t know what I will do. And what will I do if I come back and see all of the work piled up because no one has taken off the load? I would be extremely upset, but I’m not free of doubt.

The month is almost over. One more week before September, and I’ll be glad because it has been a hell of a month.

I wallow in boredom because in boredom I’m consumed. I’ve heard that boredom is for boring people, so that’s how it is. I waste away my time and hear that time is meant to be wasted. Evidence shows little in regard to nothing. What should I do? I’ll call the doctor and see what’s the problem. Do I have to search for another? What other can I find?

I stare into space and look for words. I’ve run out of ideas, stuck in a cloud.

I took an assessment last night for a new job, and I believe I failed because the exam was multiple choice, and the answers were too similar. They had to do with sales of water. I didn’t know sales would be that in-depth. I just thought I would test water, but it appears that water has to be sold. They just call it water tester to attract more applicants. I can’t see myself selling water, but it has to be a better job than the one I have now. They might actually train me rather than hand me a bunch of documents to read and expect me to know the material right away. I was untrained and set up for failure. That’s important to know. I’ll just sit in this chair and watch it unfold.

Non-fiction

A Night in the ER

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I lost control of my left hand as I was typing at work. It fell to pieces, and I couldn’t type with it anymore, and I could barely grip a cup of coffee. My hand went as crooked as a tree, and it stayed that way. So after work, I hurried on foot to urgent care to have it looked at.

The waiting room was as crowded as a bar at six o’clock at night. They were closing at eight. I was lucky to find a chair, and I had to fill out one of those daunting medical forms, which asked me about my family history of health of course. I had to draw a checkmark next to stroke, which my grandfather had in his late age. It was something I worried about as my hand was still numb.

When I waited, I googled hand numbness and came up with possibilities such as a mini-stroke, the worst possible scenario. All I could do was wait with a lot of people ahead of me. One of them was a woman with a suitcase. I always wonder about people who bring suitcases to urgent care. She kept asking the receptionists when they would call her name. Then a woman stormed in, bawling, and went straight to the receptionists. She could barely speak because she was dry-heaving and said she needed to see someone right away because she thought she was having a panic attack. They let her in before all of us, and I could keep hearing her bawling, even in the doctor’s office. I figured they would close at eight and tell me to come back tomorrow, but I was lucky because the nurse called me in at about a quarter till.

I sat in the examination room. The nurse checked my vital signs. Everything looked good. I waited some more afterward before the doctor came in: an old man with a plaid dress shirt. “What seems to be the problem” is what every doctor asks. I told him I couldn’t feel my left hand. He asked me if it hurt as he was rubbing it. I told him no.

He rubbed his finger up my left hand. “Can you feel this?”

I told him yes.

“I’m worried it might be ITA,” he said.

A mini-stroke, in other words.

“I suggest you go to emergency.”

All I could think about was waiting longer. I would’ve rather gone home and suffered more than wait another several hours to see a goddamned doctor. I took his suggestion and rode a Lyft to the nearest hospital. The Lyft took all night it seemed to pick me up from urgent care.

When I got to the hospital, there were several people sitting outside in the pickup area. I went right inside to the receptionist. He was a bald man with tattoos and yellow fingernails. I handed him the sheet that the doctor from urgent care had given me, explaining the sudden loss of feeling in my left hand (which I’m experiencing right now). I can’t believe that I’m typing this, to be perfectly honest. I filled out the form and handed it back to the same receptionist.

“Have a seat,” he said.

I was lucky again to find one in the waiting room, where lots of people sat and waited with their babies. I always see babies and little kids in waiting rooms for some reason. I worried I would catch COVID being in the ER without a face mask on–not that face masks would ensure protection. I waited and waited for about two and a half hours. A young man came back out to the waiting room with bandages on both hands. My first suspicion was that he’d slit his wrists. He looked quite annoyed for being there, and I had to agree. There was also someone moaning the whole time behind me. I contemplated walking home because home was about a mile away. I stayed there because I was worried about a stroke.

The receptionist finally called me in a little after ten o’clock. I sat in a chair behind a curtain. A nurse checked my vital signs. Once again he said they were perfect and asked if I drank, smoked, or took illicit drugs.

“No, yes, no,” I said.

“The doctor will see you shortly,” he said.

Nothing is ever shortly at the ER, except when they see me, which usually lasts under five minutes.

She came in about twenty to thirty minutes later, young and blonde, with a surgical mask on her face. I told her what was going on and handed her the sheet that the doctor at urgent care had given me. She felt my left hand. She asked me the same questions that the urgent care doctor had asked and said it could be possible ulnar nerve entrapment. She rolled her eyes after I said the urgent care doctor thought it could’ve been a possible ITA and that I needed an MRI. She said she didn’t think so. Right away, she made me grip a piece of paper with my left hand and told me to try to take it away from her as she pulled it. But I couldn’t hold it. She tried the same thing with my right hand. I was able to hang onto it.

“It definitely could be ulnar nerve entrapment.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s the same thing as when you bang your funny bone and your arm goes numb.”

I definitely know what that’s like.

She referred me to a hand specialist and wrote me a note to take time off work. They released me about twenty minutes later.

I took another Lyft ride home and got there around eleven o’clock, glad to be there because I hadn’t eaten all day. I wrote to my boss that I went to the hospital that night and I wouldn’t be able to make it to work the next day.

I ate and went to bed an hour or two later and woke up late at ten o’clock with my left hand still partially numb. I took a shower, wrote my morning pages, and called the hand specialist afterward to set an appointment. They said they would get in touch with me later. Now I wonder how long I’ll be out of work for. I don’t see how I can work with my left hand like this. It might require surgery.

Non-fiction

The Fist of Everyday

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I yelled in the shower my frustrations at ricecakes and said to myself I’m only awake to go back to bed. I have about fourteen hours until then, so I’ll do a bunch of jumping jacks on broken glass. That’s all it is. Some of the stuff is Jell-O. Other stuff is cold cement. But all that matters is that I go back to sleep.

I felt like a pirate without syphilis when I woke up this morning. It was the same as throwing a clock out the window. I usually feel like a craps dealer with his head in the oven, but maybe it’s the medication I’m taking that helps me feel a little more Jack Nicholson. I told my doctor about the dogshit I’ve been snorting, and she increased my dosage. I got worried. That’s something I don’t wanna hear. I would rather hear, “I’m glad things are getting better. Let’s lessen the dosage.” But I rarely ever hear that. In fact I don’t remember the last time a doctor said that. She said she needed bloodwork again. But why? What’s she going to do with it?

The sun is like an orange dipped in rancor. I stand in repose, as numb as eggs in a lazy refrigerator. The milk is full of snot. I boil inside at everything that can’t be redone. The devil reincarnate laughs at my disappointment. Maybe I should too. Oh, there are a lot of things to be disappointed about. It hovers like an alien craft and shits plums on my head. Maybe I should glue myself to a pillow in Saskatchewan to feel better after all the barrels of panther piss I’ve had to swallow. But that probably wouldn’t make a difference. I can’t remember the last time I held a knife and felt like Christmas on a Friday. The cars fill the air like jackhammers on vanquished cats. And all I can think about are Tetons skinning lions. What colossal rancor. But I don’t blame myself. It’s those who play Uno and try to shoot me with raisins from a BB gun. What hell they have to pay. Anyway, enough languid hostility for today. I still have to squeeze these grapes with my steely thumbs and crap out more penguin sweat. At least it’s not the pallor skin of a turtle.