...wakey wakey...

“For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils' tunes, Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.”
― Ernest Hemingway, 88 Poems


Cal had pulled the comforter off sometime in the night.  It was clumped like a dead green dear hanging from the side of the bed.  He kicked the remainder.  It fell slowly to the floor, like dough.

It must have been 10:30 by now.  The heat bounced off the mahogany floor, up to the ceiling, and down on him.  The Quarter had been dead center of a low pressure system for two days.  It was 94 degrees, but 70% on the barometer.  If he were partially sober last night he would have made sure to close the blinds.

He didn't remember even hitting the bed.  He still had his dress shirt on.  Dress shirt, boxers and one sock.  He sat up slightly and his head rang like the reverberation of an aluminum bat when you hit the ball square-on.  The pressure was all in a little spot where his skull and spine met.  He lay back down.

The speaker was on, but his phone battery died.  He did remember playing Rock Candy Funk Party on the Uber home.  From there, memory went dark, then darker.  Shit.  He turned his head, and like an aquarium being swung back and forth, he felt the pressure throw itself to one end of his head.  His wallet was where he usually kept it, thrown on the floor near the window.  He burped Grey Goose.

Holding his breath, he leaped from the bed, making a line for the blinds, but swerved like the world had pitched with him.  He would have laughed had the taste of bile rising sip sided.  He plowed into the window frame with a sharp crack.  He took a breath and tried to concentrate elsewhere.  The night's alcohol was knocking on the back of his esophagus.

The spell wore easier and he was able to reach out and close the first set of blinds.  The farmer's market was going on below and the dull basso of insipid pop music began.  Where did Katy Perry come in to sell shrimp, okra and mustard greens?  He swallowed again and used the wall for support.  He made it to the other side.  Darkness again.

He made his way to the sink avoiding eye contact with the row of aperitifs.  Cal used them more for show, but he would sneak an occasional draught.  He poured much needed water on this face from the tap.  It was practically warm enough for tea.  It had the familiar scent of New Orlean mustiness in it.  He paused wondering if he would make it to the icebox.  Instead, he put his forehead on his arms and let the water run over his head.  It cooled slightly.

He couldn't drink it, he couldn't swallow.  The bile was ready.  It was like the tension of...of a rubber band, being pulled to its breaking point.  I refuse.  He said this over and over.  I refuse.

He rose and turned off the tap.  There was an enamel object on the floor, starkly green against the dark brown mahogany.  His horn case was closed.  Sometimes, people throw other things in it than money.  But nothing should have come out.  He put the forty dollars he earned right back into Charley's.  He stared at it and wondered when the sickness would stop and he could pick it up.  It sparkled along what looked like golden accents and gems.

It looked like a ornate lamp.  It couldn't be.  It shouldn't be.  I'll waste the effort and it'll be a crumpled piece of green paper.