Description:
A Depressing Slide
Springtime in the North breaks almost overnight, bursting forth blooms of every color and chest-high grasses. Nature knows that it has precious little time in order to complete another cycle before winter eclipses the land again. Ravens commence their broad-winged patrols in wide arcing turns, as flocks of smaller birds dart from field to tree-top like a rapid moving cloud. In the yard, apple trees bloom and spread their downy flakes across the tops of wild wheat grass that moves like the tide in the ever-present North wind.
All the world around me smelled green and alive again. It would, that is, if I could smell. In her orgiastic ecstasy, Nature neglected mankind; or rather, his histamines. Swollen and oozing, I sat at my computer in misery; one eye completely swollen shut, the other well on it’s way. My nose had become a wonder in itself; swollen to a ripe, wino-red and running without reprieve regardless of my constant attempts to clear my nasal cavity. With each pair of sneezes came a hair-like tickle at the back of my throat that would trigger a rib-cracking round of coughs, followed by another sneeze-duet. During the night, I would give up hope and stuff a wad of toilet paper up each nostril until the dam would get too soaked, and again, spill out onto my face and pillow. Down to three or so hours of sleep a night, I spent my days in an already exhausted, medicated haze; taking as many as six Benadryl at once to make it to work. Last week upon clocking in, I was told to go home in words that I was sure were merely a euphemism for “you are scaring
the customers”. The next night in my department, while working upon a three-step ladder, I was temporarily trapped, holding onto the ladder and an adjacent shelf to save myself from falling when the store suddenly tilted sharply to the left. Called back to my senses by an eight year old boy who had just dumped a box of BB’s onto the white tile floor, I slowly descended the ladder and prepared to round up ten thousand steel balls as they raced forth in every direction. I was vaguely aware of his presence, as he did not feel the need to tell me what had just happened or why. He just stood there in his WWF tee shirt, fumbling with an empty box of Crossman Copperhead BB’s, his hair, unkempt and hanging in his face, obscuring his left eye. I shot him a medicated glare and wondered, possibly aloud, where the rest of the trailer park was. Then my ear caught the sound of thousands of tiny spheres racing for destinations unknown. Looking down, the blurry copper beads swirled, collided, and darted. It’s like the beginning of the universe, I thought to myself; a tiny microcosm of the Big Bang Theory. Leaning over the mess, I began to sweep the racing copper colored BB’s in a futile attempt to get them to roll into a dustpan with a blunt front lip, worn to a jagged ridge from years of BB wrangling and the sort, that did little more than deflect the offending particles like a giant pin-ball bumper. Cursing out loud, I did little to impress the perpetrator of the BB incident until, out of my nose, came a stream of clear liquid that landed in the dustpan with a splat. Suddenly, I was the alien monster in charge of this fledgling universe; sliming entire galaxies at will. The quickly fading sound of sneakers squeaking on the tile floor told me the show was over.
“I think everything is there.” I told the receptionist behind the counter at the VA
clinic as I handed her a clear plastic clipboard with several forms attached. She was in her mid-thirties, with short brown whispy hair, dark framed glasses and that familiar look of a local trying hard to appear professional in the County: uptown professionalism, the latest business fashions from Wal-Mart, and too much product in her boxed dye job.
“Looks good Mr. Mac-Innnnn- tire? Is that it?” She smiled as she struggled to sound out my name. I stopped getting irritated when locals couldn’t pronounce my name about the fifth time I had to decipher Gagne, with it’s three pronunciations depending on where in the county your family was from. As I returned her smile and nodded, she slowly leafed through a large appointment book, searching for an opening. Scanning the pages with great concentration, she scratched at her nose and made a quick final notation before snapping her head back up to face me. “You’re all set.” She said in a chipper tone. “The doctor will be able to see you in September. We’ll call then to set a firm date.”
“September” I repeated incredulously, furrowing my brow and leaning forward as if the Benedryl was affecting my hearing.
“I’m afraid so.” She said in a child-like tone, mirroring my own brow and nodding her head at a slight tilt. “The doctors book months ahead of time. Sorry.” Her head was still nodding when I turned around and walked toward the door. The lobby was full of patients, most of whom were gray-haired and in various stages of infirmity. I wondered if they were my age when some perky nurse put them on the list.
Getting in my car, the warmth of spring translated into an auto oven as I settled behind the wheel. The heat made my head swim temporarily, until the dust caused by slamming the door caught my nostrils, eliciting a fresh round of sneezes. I quickly covered
my nose, but not before soaking the steering wheel with -snot? Spit? It really didn’t matter anymore. I knew now what I had to do; there was simply no choice left. I had to go to the enemy and ask for help.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered the last time I had spoken with the good folks at the Department of Human Services. It was the mediation phase of my divorce, when a forty-something blonde with a briefcase and deep-seated hatred for anything sporting a penis told me that I should be happy that the state can only take half of my paycheck for support. After explaining my already strained financial circumstances to her overly- made-up face of stone, her reply was curt, “Maybe you should consider dropping out of college and getting a second job so that you can send in more money.” It was then that I decided that I hated them- all of them. After expressing my desire to support my children and fighting to be made the custodial parent, I was treated as a common deadbeat. A criminal. Since then, I would refer to them (in their presence whenever possible) as SS officers. I denied their authority in all matters pertaining to myself or my children, and would stonewall any attempt on their part to gather information about me or my employers.
Walking into a lobby similar to the one I had just left, I immediately noticed the change in clientele. A large woman sat between two cushions of a plain institutional sofa, causing the ends of the assaulted cushions to stick up from either side of her backside. Her face was pasty and overly-large, with brown eyes set close together. I wondered if she had Down’s Syndrome, or was just an unfortunate victim of bad genes. Just then, a little patch
of frizzy brown hair slowly rose above the coffee table littered with toys in front of the woman. It was followed with what appeared to be the face of a little boy about four years old and sporting the same close-set eyes. “Christ, somebody fooked her.” I muttered to myself as I made my way to the receptionist at the far side of the room.
This receptionist made me long for the first. She was in her forties, with short salt and pepper hair that clung to her head in tight wiry curls like a poodle. Her eyes were brown and each carried beneath it, a large sack. Her nose was narrow and hooked, giving far too much length to her face. She never smiled. “Can I help you?” She asked; her expression never changing from it’s neutral gaze.
“Look, I’m sorry. But the thing is, I’m broke. I need to see a doctor and get something for my allergies. I never ask for…” I realized that I was running on even as she cut me off mid-sentence.
“Fill these out and bring them back.” The face never changed.
After an hour in the waiting room watching the kid play while his mother stared blankly at some spot on the wall, I was led into an office through a security door. There, I was met by a pleasant woman in a blue jacket and white top. She was older with signs remaining in her face that she was once quite attractive. Her eyes still held a sparkle to them and that sparkle never once faded; even when she assumed the same head tilt and nod while telling me that I was shit out of luck. I could read in her face that she was used to giving bad news, just as I could read in her tone that professional numbness had robbed her of any genuine sense of compassion for my plea. What did I expect? I came to the camp of my enemy seeking comfort and now left feeling foolish and weak for the attempt.
Still, I was strangely consoled as I got back into my car and fumbled out two more store brand Benedryl. Someone had, if for only a minute, pretended to care about my situation. I blew my nose and rolled out onto the access highway and headed for home.
That night, Sasafrass’s pain had increased, evidenced by her continual whines to me for help. She had begun to show blood in her urine as well and I had placed a fresh towel under her, to make her more comfortable. She hadn’t moved in days except to struggle forward and drink a little from the bowl of water I had placed at her nose. She should have gone to the vet long ago. A venture that would have cost even more than the doctor visit I so desperately needed and couldn’t afford. I alternated between petting her and reassuring her, to sitting in a chair and watching her. She was mine from the time she was six weeks old, and barely a white puff of fur with a little black nose. Now, ten years later, she had grown from a chewing machine of a pup to a shadow that would follow me from room to room and lay at my feet. Sheba played nursemaid as well, getting up several times to sniff her and nudge her flanks with her freckled nose. The whining increased as the night went on, and as I sat there, I couldn’t believe what I was contemplating.
At midnight, I rose from my chair and, grabbing a shovel, went out into the meadow. Digging a shallow hole into the side of an embankment, I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had become completely numb. This wasn’t happening. Laying aside the shovel somewhere in the dark, I went back to the house. Scooping up Sassafrass with the white towel still beneath her, she whined a little but made no attempt to shift position in my arms. With what little strength she had, she turned her head on my arm and stared
up at me, wide eyed and ears back. I talked to her as I carried her out into the dark, freeing a hand to stroke the fur on her head. I told her it would be alright. I told her everything was fine. I lied.
Laying her on the towel in the hole, I turned to go back to the house. My feet stumbled and my hands shook. I wished and prayed to God that she would find the strength to get up. Just get up and wander off in the dark. Wander off before. Sheba lowered her head when I went back inside and loaded the .22 rifle. Her ears were back as she approached me, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She knew. Shaking more violently now, I wandered back into the darkness. I could see her outline ahead of me. She hadn’t escaped. Never letting her see the rifle, I layed it behind her as I knelt down beside her. She didn’t move. I stroked her fur as I watched her flank rise and fall with each labored breath. She whined again to me for help. Reaching behind her, I slid the rifle barrel behind her ear and kept petting her and attempting to sooth her with my voice. “I’m sorry.” I told her. “God, I am so sorry.” Over and over, I repeated; how many times? Time was a blur, and neither of us were really there. This wasn’t happening. How does it all come down to something so horrible?
There was a muffled report of the rifle. In an instant, her body tensed and relaxed. I heard the rifle clack off of a rock as it fell from my hand. I felt my body become weightless and I rolled sideways and landed on my shoulder and back. Above me through burning eyes, the stars and moon swirled like a kalidescope. My breath came in ragged jags as I could not even catch my breath enough to cry. Immediately, from within the house, a low, mournful howl went up from Sheba. One after the other, she continued to
howl for her fallen pack mate. I lay there on the wheat grass for an eternity. It must have been hours before I felt the dew freezing my back and broken grass stems jabbing me to wake from the nightmare. Sassafrass still lay bleeding at my feet. I rolled over and felt her side. She was cold. No longer would that side rise and fall. No more would she be able to follow me from room to room. No more would she steal scraps from the kids or chase mice like a cat. She was gone and I could neither justify it fully in my mind or call the bullet back.
