V.20 No.11 |
Overheard at the ER
Five Hours In The Presbyterian Emergency Room
Fourtysomething barefoot man, in handcuffs, led out by police:
V.19 No.36 |
Main Street Oberlin
Death comes for the arch-bear-shop
John Bear gets cold, complains about it
Being sick in the summer sucks.
I prefer to be a vector for infectious disease in the winter. It makes more sense to be wrapped in a blanket, slurping down chicken soup and not going outside in the colder months.
Alas, I was stricken with some sort of evil microbial funk this week. It started in my head and moved to my lungs. I prayed for death, but death was on vacation (I'm a dramatic sick person.)
I drank Robitussin until the floor became liquid and the cat spoke in tongues, laid prone for extended periods, took showers in a futile effort to clear my blocked head openings and cursed the almighty (Okay, really dramatic.)
The worst part about this affliction was the timing. I started my brand new staff job at the Weekly Alibi. There was no way I was calling in. I couldn't be that guy, the guy who calls in his first week.
But a dilemma emerged: I also don't want to be the guy who comes to work when he is sick, spewing germs all over his coworkers. That's a good way to make friends, infecting others with pestilence.
In the end I came to work, germs and all.
It didn't turn out that bad. I had the best interview in months. I asked a bunch of hard hitting questions and got the “This interview is over” handshake from the interviewee.
The joke's on him. He's probably lying prone somewhere, slurping soup and wondering, “How the hell did I get sick? It's summer.”
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