FireVaney

Pop (and I) sat in a crowded waiting room for an hour and a half before he could see the doctor who’d charge an arm and a leg to scrape the wax out of his ears. That was yesterday. Sometime overnight, Pop’s right ear started to bleed. Dried spots and dribbles of blood have ruined a silken pillow case. But hey, Jackson Pollock might’ve called it art. I called Pop’s internist. He wasn’t available, but the one who was didn’t seem terribly concerned. Doctor Substitute advised me to call Doctor Ears, Nose, and Throat when his office opened, for eardrops. Here’s hoping we don’t have to spend another hour and a half in Dr. E.N.T.’s office waiting for eardrops, if nothing else. Pop keeps asking why it happened; why at night and not when Dr. E.N.T. scraped out Pop’s ears. The ear that bled? Pop’s right ear? It all but quit on him years ago. Sure, it detects sound, but his brain processes the sound as an audible equivalent of mush. Any working hearing aid turns the mush into louder mush. All th...

Pop spent his 96th birthday in hospital room 4132, recovering from the removal of his gallbladder. His dinner tray came with a frosted cupcake he couldn’t eat. Why? Well, he’s lactose intolerant. That aside, in honor of his birthday, the doctors cancelled the liquid-only diet he’s been on since last Wednesday. Pop’s birthday was yesterday (Sunday). Today is Monday (duh) and I really hope he’ll get to go home. By the way, I learned a new word a few days ago: “sundowning.” According to one of the nurses, this happens when an elderly patient forgets where they are and hallucinates that they are anywhere else. As you might’ve guessed, it often occurs around sunset. Nobody really knows for sure, but it might have something to do with “circadian rhythms.” Supposedly, thanks to “sundowning,” all new hospital rooms are required to have a window. * Last night, in room 4132, Pop kept asking me for the time. Repeatedly, he wanted to know how much “this house cost to rent.” Again and again, he’d ...

His helplessness makes me mad. Where they operated, where they removed his gallbladder, it hurts like nothing else, it hurts like it’s the end. All that morphine they gave him, and it still hurts. Just this morning he was bragging about all his childhood fighting, bragging about all those bones he broke. Tell him he’ll get through all this pain, too, and he’ll reply at you by wincing more pain. Ever the accountant, he’ll tell you his estate is in order. Tell him the market went up today and he’ll try a smile, but then his body jerks in more pain. He tells you he’s wiped out, he tells you he’s got no energy left—and then he tells you he’s got to get out of bed. Because he feels like vomiting and urinating and shitting all at once. But, thank God, none of that actually happens.  10 August 2005

…and yet,  how self-deceitfully  easy  it is  to slip  back  into the dull,  monotonous,  thudding-along  of  life… 31 October 2005

This guy on the bench-press bench, sitting up, hunched over, picking his nose, all the while, there I am: eight sets on biceps, eight sets on triceps, three sets on chest, three sets on calves, and, all the while, I’m wondering whether or not he’s gonna get up the nerve to try a single set—a single rep —before the place closes in twenty-eight minutes. Do I want to stop my (futile) efforts to pump myself up for all the single ladies and fetch this guy a tissue? Part of me does—not because it’s a nice thing to do, no. Maybe he doesn’t give a shit who sees him digging for snot. And for that, in a way, maybe he deserves my respect. That’s my problem: I give a shit. Or too much of a shit. In any case, when I leave, five minutes to close, he’s still there, picking his nose.  16 January 2005

She’s somewhere around ninety-five, my Great Aunt Hattie. Her three younger brothers couldn’t say for sure when she was born. Hattie can barely walk now. She’s fallen a few too many times. Her hips couldn’t take the punishment. Even with hearing aids, she can hear about as well as she can walk. Pop, Betty, and I pay her a visit nearly once a week. Toward the end of a recent visit, I overheard Hattie telling Betty that every week she expected to die. She choked back tears when she told Betty this. Betty, with her ever-sunny disposition, did her best to raise Hattie’s spirits. As I see it, Hattie couldn’t ask for much more out of her ninety-something years of life, save for a little less death. When I kiss her goodbye, I usually kiss the air near her face. She doesn’t stink or anything. It’s MY hang-up. Well, this last time when I did it, Hattie chuckled and said, “You give cold kisses.” So I went ahead and pecked her cheek. She said it again, “You give cold kisses,” but at least she kep...

You walk into a bar and spot your crush. She spots you back and waves and squeals your name. Anyone else who notices, they smile—a few even go so far as to turn and smile—but they keep their waves and squeals to themselves. Not that you’re undeserving of waves and squeals, but, don’t fool yourself, you’re a bit player in a large cast of characters. She saw you first because her booth seat faced the door. You didn’t think she’d be at this bar. You figured she’d be at the other bar, the louder bar, in the neighborhood. It’s younger, hipper, trendier. You feel relief and frustration. Let’s unpack that: You feel relief because, here, you can keep an eye on her. And, perhaps, when the time comes, she’ll ask you, in some roundabout way, for a lift home. And then, who knows, maybe she’ll even invite you in. You feel frustration because, here, you can watch her flirt with all the boys and girls who are much cuter than you are. But, dude, you gotta quit kidding yourself. Let’s be realistic....

Rare is the natural-born chick magnet. Or, rather, rare in MY experience—which is, admittedly, severely limited—and, further, limited to Northern Flapjackistan. Regardless, my (admittedly) unsolicited advice? Young man: Take FULL advantage. Just my “two cents.” Just in case you aren’t already. This presumes that you are not a religious man. Presuming my aforementioned presumption is none too presumptuous, then, by all means, you absolutely MUST look upon this gift of yours as a biological FORCE of life—a FORCE you are, no less, of course, IMBUED with. YOU, sir, have a responsibility. Feel no guilt. But DO use protection. Please, by all means, SPREAD the “wealth” —and ONLY the “wealth,” if you catch my drift. * As for me, I’ll be up in the “stands,” so to speak, rooting you on. Best I can do. (MOST I can do, really, as I would not want to interfere.) But if I am lucky, perhaps some of your pheromonal magic will, in due course, rub off on me. Mayhap, just by hanging around you long enou...

His yellow toenails jag as if bitten off by some terrible two-year old. His skin flakes white specks under his five o’clock shadow. His wifey’s tremulous fingers clutch a cigarette between two fingers. You want to ask about her caveman’s painting of the sun tattooed to her calf, but you never will. Both hubby and wifey drink cheap wine out of what’s clean—coffee mugs. You’ve heard that hubby’s got a hernia. You won’t ask about that, either—though you’d like to. What’s he gonna say anyway? “Yeah, I got a hernia.” What with their fried burgers every summer night, both hubby and wifey, they’ll be lucky if they make it into their mid-fifties. Not that you’re a happier, or a healthier, or in any way a better person. Ho, no. You’ve told them that your former wingman was a con-artist. Really, though, he was just a bit of a hustler. But given his uncompromisingly spiffy aesthetic, he didn’t have much choice. *  15 July 2005  * [“I've wasted a greater part of my life looking for money ...

We regret to report that we’ve replaced your newish Timex digital alarm clock (id est, the one with the recorded water and forest sounds) with your grandmother’s ancient Westclox (id est, the one with the slowly sweeping second hand and orange sherbet-colored “Dialite”). This ought to serve as an vitally important reminder: Whilst the complication— any complication—makes money for the capitalist, one often finds comfort in the simplest of things. (exempli gratia, a crisp apple.) This is not to suggest that simple things are perfect. No, no. Set the aforementioned Westclox to buzz its buzz at five o’clock and it will buzz its buzz at four-fifty. But perhaps this “bug” or “feature” wasn’t always so. Whoever wasn’t the early-bird (whether Grandma or Grandpop), they’d left the aforementioned Westclox in the basement to collect dust, mold, rust, and/or other forms of rot. But then it’s entirely possible that it wound up in the basement thanks to its overzealous alarm setting. We’ll never kn...

This morning, for breakfast: a “Home Made Daily” ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria in the basement. My first question: In whose home was this sandwich made? My second question: What’s the deal with the white writing on the orange dot sticker stuck to the sandwich’s cellophane sleeve? It says, “SAT.” Below that, it says, “SABADO.” Today is Sunday. (Pop’s spending his worst birthday in ninety-three years up in room 4132.) So has my sandwich expired? Or is this orange dot telling me that it was made yesterday? (Not the dot, the sandwich .) I didn’t notice the dot until I finished eating the sandwich. Yesterday, and the day before, for breakfast: doughnuts and roast beef sandwiches and coffee. The doughnuts at the hospital are much tastier than the doughnuts from the Dunkin’ Donuts up the street. But then, as far as hospitals go, this one’s a bit ritzy.  July 2005

What are your answers? The answers you provide are few and far between. Worse, your answers bleed ambiguities. That’s right, your answers are the mutilated corpses of an at-large serial killer. In other words, your answers, they have no life. They suck the life force out of every question posed, your answers do. Worse still, your answers embarrass my questions. More oft than not, when you’re around, my questions run for cover! To answer my questions—as to what your answers are—they are deadly, and, thusly, they are worthless. Indeed, worthless. I cannot overstate just how worthless your answers are , but I will try. Your answers have less worth than a single atom in a grain of sand. And you may ask, “How many atoms in a grain of sand?” And I may answer (correctly), “Quintillions.” And I will have you know, sir, that there are more atoms in a single grain of sand than there are grains of sand on all of the beaches on the entire planet! But, sir, your answers provide no hope. Your an...

This vertigo, it’s been going on since last Wednesday. It was at its worst last Thursday, when I went to the hospital. The doctors and nurses set me up with an IV drip, they set me up with a CAT scan, they set me up with an MRI, they also set me up with a bottle of meclizine. And, yes, the entire ordeal warranted the use of three comma splices. And the doctors, they let me go home when they couldn’t find a tumor. Instead, the doctors, they think I’ve got an “inner ear virus.” That, or there’s a “stone” in there... that’s too small to see, I guess. And if in the next few days it doesn’t go away or roll out on its own? The follow-up internist says I’ll have to go back for another MRI. All of this might make one wonder: Is the practice of medicine simply the practice of educated guesswork? I’m allowed to take the meclizine “2 or 3 times a day as needed,” but I’m avoiding it. I’m worried about constipation; I’m worried about fattening up. I haven’t been to the gym since last Wednesday. Dri...

When it came to things —you know, things you buy, things you build, things that require expertise to install or repair—his biological farter used a gentle touch. Like, with knobs, with handles, with levers on kitchen and bathroom faucets; or like with knobs, levers, and buttons on stereo systems; and especially like with knobs, levers, and buttons on automobile dashboards and control panels. You name it, didn’t matter, always, always, always: a gentle touch. Make no mistake, his biological farter was NOT a gentle man. He was a cheap jerk who farted a lot but more importantly didn’t want to replace anything. And the best way to avoid replacing anything, in his biological farter’s opinion, was to be gentle. That, or to avoid using it, the thing , altogether. Yup, that ole bio-farter, he’d carp if, in his opinion, you opened the refrigerator door once too often; he’d carp if, in his opinion, you spread too much peanut butter on a slice of bread; and he carp if, in his opinion, you...

Ma won’t even eat half a chicken sandwich. She wants a chicken wrap — which, while advertised, is not sold. (Presumably, they ran out of wraps.) Ma feels that the sandwiches purveyed at this particular concession stand have too much bread. She’d eat the chicken alone — which, to my tastebuds, is tender and juicy — but she’d rather eat a hotdog. That, and instead of buying her own carton of fries, she’d rather mooch off everybody else’s. Not that she’s cheap, she just doesn’t want to eat an entire carton of fries. “Together,” says Ma, “a hot dog and its bun add up to two hundred and twenty-five calories.” To my thinking, this was possibly true of hotdogs and their buns back in the 1950s. “You can have a hot dog, its bun, and a cookie — and keep the whole meal close to three hundred calories,” she says. “Or you can have two hot dogs, minus their buns, and maybe two cookies. Or a cookie and a half.” This was one way to control one’s weight back in the 1950s. These days, the hotdogs I bu...

Q: Hold down a job?  A: Check.  Q: Pay bills (on time)?  A: Check.  Q: Save money?  A: Check.  Q: Obey the Rules of the Road?  A: Check.  Or, mostly check.  Or, rather: Check -ish .  Q: Recycle?  A: Check.  Q: Observe common courtesy? (Exempli gratia, holding doors open for those who follow behind, allowing others to lead the way onto or off of an elevator, giving up a train seat to those who are less steady or heavily burdened, et cetera.)  A: Check. Q: Charitable?  A: Check.  Q: Keep in shape? A: Check.  Q: Avoid junk food?  A: Check.  Q: Find someone to love you back? A: ... Q: Find someone to love you back? A : Pass.  Q: Find someone—  A: Shut up. There’s always a rub. Exempli gratia: You’ll have love, but you won’t have money. Love, but your lover’s unfaithful. Love, but you’ll be sick with AIDS, MS, or cancer. Or, they’ll be sick with fill–in–the–blank. You’ll have love, but you’l...

You would never characterize Betty as an irritable woman. Never in a million years. If anything, she’s too cheerful, she’s too polite. That said, when she settles into bed every night, if she isn’t greeted with absolute silence, then she’ll have to take a pill. * She won’t sleep in the same room with Pop because he snores. She’s taped the vents in the guest room over with cut-out rectangles from paper grocery bags. She doesn’t like “the blowing,” she says. It’s not so much the feel of “the blowing,” but more the sound of “the blowing” that keeps her awake. Even if it’s the middle of winter, and what’s blowing is heat, she’ll want the vents taped over. Never mind her interminably “cold” feet. What’s also interminable is the ringing in her ears. Does she prefer absolute silence to hear the ringing better? At the senior village, where Betty spends most of her time, a neighbor of hers plays loud music and owns a dog that barks too much. So Betty complained. The music stopped and the d...

When nearly nobody else goes, THAT’S when I go to the gym. I don’t like to wait for other members to wrap up their sets on any particular machine or finish their use of any particular free weights; and I hate it when other members wait for me to wrap up my sets. When other members ask to “work in” between my sets, I hate that, too, but not as much. As you might’ve guessed, I tend avoid crowds. I’ll make certain exceptions for sporting, musical, and theatrical venues—which I infrequently patronize. Otherwise, in most public settings, I’d rather not be in close proximity with people I don’t know. This is particularly true at the gym. In a perfect world, the gym would be filled with me and, at most, five other members. There’d be a guy who’s clearly stronger than me, a guy who’s clearly weaker than me, and three beautiful young women. And when it comes to “personal space,” please give me at least twice—no, three times—no, five times—the recommended distance, even if you’re a beautiful you...

You love her face because her face belongs to a cartoon. Her expressions belong to a cartoon. Her voice, though? It belongs to a motorcycle gang. And her body? It belongs to Victoria’s Secret. She throws up a Great Wall of China between anyone and what she really feels, or what she really thinks. At least, that’s what you suspect. And before a single try, you’ve given up trying. At least you got the hug she gave you. Better to leave little enough alone. You watched all the cartoons (when you were a kid) because they never got better (or rarely ever did), but you knew they couldn’t get any worse. And though you’re convinced that motorcycles are insane—rather, those who operate them are —you think you’re ready for one yourself. ‘Cause Kassi, she’d find it cool. She’d want to go for a ride and, in so doing, hug herself to you for dear life. You love her because her face belongs to everyone but you.  31 May 2005 

His small talk skills were so small that his coworkers called him, “The Interrogator.” If he didn’t know you, he’d assault you with a barrage of questions — basic questions, harmless questions, questions that led nowhere. [INSERT EXAMPLES HERE.] If the answers were satisfactory, he’d start in with a more probing line of queries. [“SATISFACTORY”? “PROBING”? UNPACK / ELABORATE / EXEMPLFY.] The more answers you volunteered, the more intimate and/or bizarre the questions became. [“INTIMATE”? “BIZARRE”? UNPACK / ELABORATE / EXEMPLFY.] From beginning to end, this was how he’d make “friends”… and then lose them. From beginning to end… the span of which could be an hour or less… “friendships” forged and shattered. It takes him quite a while to learn his lesson — several decades, in fact. That is, the lesson of keeping your damn trap shut. Having learned it (the hard way * ), he isn’t, as he once was, spurned quite so frequently. No, now, instead of annoying, he’s merely boring.  30 May 200...