A certain speedwagon once sang, "I can't fight this feeling anymore. I've forgotten what I started fighting for. Time to bring this ship into the shore and throw away the oars... forever."
What's that got to do with anything?
I've got a man.
What's your man got to do with me? I ain't tryin to hear that, see.
The point is I'm bored and damned lonely right now. Somehow, the throwing away the oars song got stuck in my head, and I believe just so matters could be deemed a little worse.
When I got off work today, I put more gas in the tank and refilled my cigarette prescription, then hit the house. I was waiting on a phone call or two and none came. I dicked around on the computer for a minute and laid down to rest. To elevate my big toe.
Around six o' clock, I heard the phone ring. I heard my mom answer and saw my brother walk in the room. I was on the couch.
"He's asleep right now."
I didn't fight it. I slept for another thirty minutes and then pretended I was going to come back to life. Somehow, I ended up in my bed where I woke five hours later worried I was going to be late for work. It was a little after midnight. My shift doesn't start until 8am.
Oh but my plan. Dammit, my plan. I was going to go to the Med-Stop, have my toe examined and even X-rayed. I was going to have them tell me that I can't work so I could have Friday off to look for another job. I was going to frolic in the meadows and lounge in the park. I might have even sold some plasma to finance a lunch date.
And all this, I could have blamed on customers.
Eventually, my hobbling around and people's natural curiousity made each other's acquaintence. I explained the situation and most sympathized before going about their duties. One co-worker was extremely distressed over the fact that most times there's nothing that can be done about broken toes. That putting it in a cast is useless and waving magic wands doesn't work. She reacted with the same agitated vitrol that activists reserve when condemning the Man. She seemed to believe that a grave injustice had been dealt unto me.
Sweet gal, she is.
It was this darling lass who told a couple of the regulars about my toe. I was already off work and had just finished my free meal. They must have noticed my limp.
"Chris," one said to me like he'd known me my whole life, "you need to do something about that toe."
The guy sitting next to him, another regular, said, "If you don't splint that, it'll grow back crooked and every time it rains, your toe will hurt. You're wearing the splint they gave you, right?"
I told them I hadn't seen a doctor.
"Maybe it's just jammed," they said.
"Not likely, it's swollen and blue and purple and it hurts to touch it."
"You really need to splint that thing. You need to get a --" and here he motioned with his hands the essence of all things splintacular.
Meanwhile, a waitress finished his sentence, "A popsicle stick."
He shook his head. "No, no. Get a tongue depressor."
This went on for at least five minutes. The two regulars taking turns telling me the exact same thing in almost the exact same ways. Maybe they realized that this helpful advice wasn't taking and that I was just trying to go home, so they amped up the danger I'd encounter should I fail to heed their warnings.
"Remember, it'll hurt when it rains."
"And then you'll get arthiritus."
"You might lose your toe nail."
"That'll get it infected."
And finally, the coup de gras: Looking me dead in the eye with all seriousness, one said, "I saw a man lose his toe like that once."
"Okay, guys. Thanks for the advice, I'll take care of it now. 'Preciate it."
"You need to splint that thing."
"See a doctor and get it x-ray'd"
So I left and realized I could go to a doctor and have it checked out then not have to work Friday. I'm already off Saturday and Sunday, so it'd have a legitimate chance to heal.
This might sound like laziness to you but it isn't. That toe really hurts like a mofo. Compounded by the fact I'm walking on it more when I'm on the floor and there are five and six other people back there at a time. The other trainee stepped on it today and I thought about stabbing her with a Waffle iron. Yes, Waffle is always capitalized... like proper names and the word President when referring to one in specific.
And I haven't told you how I broke my toe. And frankly, I don't feel like it now. And I'm not going to share any other of my heartbreaks this week. I think I'm going to bed so I can get up early and go to the Med-Stop. I'm going to rest this thing Friday. I'm going to play the lottery and if I win anything, you'll be the first to know.
You'll know because I've disappeared from Myspace but pictures of my smiling, drunken face will be showing up all over the country. You'll know because three weeks later, someone you know will have seen me sleeping in an alley, dirty and destitute.
Speaking of, I think I'm going to fix some clam chowder.
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