NYC Journal #26 – Tues 3/16 – Sat 3/20 – Sun 3/21 – Monday 3/22/2021
So he had confirm the need by wasting a beautiful weekend, and now that that’s settled, he can start taking one Naltrexone every weekend morning. And this hopefully will give him a better life.
He didn’t want to tell his short 50 year old lady doctor with the Russian accent, Jewish name, tidy blob of light brown hair, dark eyes, and “Thank God!” for how the X-rays showed no pneumonia and “Thank God!” again when they showed no scarring — he didn’t want to tell her that he drinks a bottle of red wine every Saturday. He doesn’t want to wreck her image of him, although she must have almost no image of him, seeing as how quickly and seldomly they speak. Not only that, she can probably guess. There’s something a little fragmented in his aspect, if you ask me.
And he thought he could pay for Monument with his flexible spending account. So that’s why he did it that way. Some guy takes it easy a doctor in his sixties pie sleepy eyed and a little droopy basset hound on the small picture — that guy was late to the phone intake, but nice and it was agreed that Naltrexone was a good thought. We don’t know how it all went. Something about now, side-effects (and then reels off a little list), but the ones I actually see, well, nausea, so that’s why you take it with breakfast to try and head that off. The obligatory spiel for the free group counseling at the end and everyone parts friends. “I’m looking forward to it!” And they both force a coughy laugh.
The guy’s an alcoholic. But I wouldn’t really say that. It’s just that he can’t quite handle things lately. Lately? As in the last several years? But now, the problem’s been ramping up, hasn’t it? I can’t remember. He’s very weird because one moment all is fine and docile or giggly and then he’s huddled up over the hurt, saying how he can’t anymore, and then he’s fine again except saying the same thing over and over again about how such and such must be a mix up and/or that he is lonely.
You can get the pills. I think it is easy. Even if you initially tell the doctor to send it to Duane Reade and Duane Read can’t use your insurance — that’s easily solved: you just have to call CVS, wait fifteen minutes while a thirty second space music bit loops ethereally round and round, and then stumble with the pale thin long-faced young man with the tidily parted short chestnut hair and the big 1950s thickframed glasses (in your mind, since you can’t see him for real) as he mispronounced your street, a very easy to pronounce street and one that the guy has probably heard correctly pronounced a hundred times (given his line of work), and then google the phone number for Duane Reade and read it to him over the phone. Then I think you can glide in there and pick up the pills and you’ll be back at life, taking walks in the weekend sun, doing your hour a day of coding, maybe even somehow once again writing something. Yeah, gonna pick that up tomorrow, and then I’ll be all set.
But the job has torn you down. Too many years rope a doping. And now so tired, so lonely, so stranded in outer space because the spacewalk went bad and now you are spinning slowly further and further away from the spaceship, while your so-called-friends play cards, video games, and otherwise pretend not to notice.
It doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter. Do an hour of learning a day until you’ve found another way. But what? Data science? Takes too long. Python development first and then later add in data science? Go back to the abandoned copy writing job? It’s just that the web is already full of so much stupid useless content, and isn’t that all anyone hires anyone for? Junk that you skim over, maybe grabbing a salient thought or two, but mostly just spinning your wheels and wasting your worlds?
It doesn’t matter.
Whatever happened to meditation?
And the Buddhist group?
Why don’t you try that again?
Author: Fred Dodge