It was mid-July. A Wednesday night. And when I say night, i mean about 2:32am. I’m gradually roused out of sleep by an odd noise. It was one of those noises that starts off subtle, and if it was just a one-time noise, I probably would have slept through it. But it kept on keeping on, and what finally woke me was the fact that it had merged into my dream, and my dream-self was saying, “that fucking noise better stop because it’s really starting to get annoying.” I found myself fully awake, and realized the noise was coming through the wall. “Great,” i thought. “Mark is talking in his sleep again.” As if that wasn’t creepy enough at 3 in theafternoon. Figuring it would stop eventually (because who talks in their sleep for a full 4 hours straight) I rolled over and attempted to fall back to sleep. He kept talking.
As I lay there annoyed, I realized it sounded like he was choking. “I wonder if he’s dreaming that he’s choking?” I thought. It went on. And on. And on. And finally I got up so i could wake him up to make him stop. I opened my bedroom door and spoke to my left (it’s a Medford apartment. Walls are made of paper and the next room begins before the first one ends.)
“Mark!”
Not expecting an immediate answer, i was surprised when i heard a weak, but awake, “yeah?”
“What’s going on?”
“Um…” A pause… “I threw up alot.”
I felt my blood turn to ice and my heart stop (and I’m actually feeling the same thing as I write this.) The first thing that popped in my mind was and image of his bedroom, covered in vomit. The second thing was the absolute definite fact that i had to get him as far away from me as possible.
“Um,” I could barely speak, but was trying to remain calm. “Are you okay?” Stupid question.
“Yeah.” Stupid answer.
“Do you want me to call someone?” I was thinking i could get the ambulance there to take him away in about 2 minutes.
“No, no that’s okay.”
Damn. I shut my door, and the retching began again. I had to get out of there. I stumbled around my room in the dark, searching for items of clothing i could wear to work the next day. (Luckily i was never one to put clean laundry away, so there was an easily accessible pile right next to my bed. Plus, all my clothes are black, so pretty much nything would match.) I stuffed whatever I could find in a bag, and literally ran out of my bedroom and down the stairs to my car, which I started up and sped off to Smacky’s. I called him and woke him up.
“Hi,” I said, “I’m coming over.”
“Really?” I could hear the smile in his voice. Sleeping over at each other’s apartments was a slight inconvenience since we lived about 40 minutes apart from each other. So, naturally, he was surprised and flattered and loved me even more because I apparently missed him enough to swing by at 3am.
“Yeah. Mark is throwing up.” I started to cry.
“Oh!” The bubble of romance in his heart popped. But he knew about my “issue” and the smile in his voice was immediately replaced with sincere concern. “Drive safe! It’ll be okay!”
Did I mention that I hadn’t thought to pack shoes? That’s because I was so horrified I forgot shoes.
I got to Smacky’s apartment at about 3:30am (barefoot) and climbed into bed next to him, literally shaking. He tried to calm me down, but all i could hear was imaginary dull retching sounds coming through the walls. I finally fell asleep, and when I woke up the next morning, I had that awesome sense of relief that you get right before opening your eyes, that the horribleness you just experienced was all a bad dream. Then i opened my eyes, and i realized where I was, and I had no idea what I was going to do.
I realize that this sounds completely ridiculous. I mean, it’s just vomit. NO one likes vomit. I have never heard anyone say, “you know what I really like? Barfing.” “Oh my god, me too! Especially other people barfing!” “Really? That is so crazy!” “I know! Wanna go find a frat house and watch people puke all over the place?” “YES! Totally cool!” But I digress. Had I called Mark the following afternoon and asked him how he felt (which I did) and he said he felt a lot better and it must have been something he ate (which he did), I would have gone home and quizzed him on what he ate and made sure he NEVER ate that thing again, I would have been able to go back to a generally normal life.
But if that’s what happened, then what I just wrote would not have been the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
To be continued.
2 comments
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July 6, 2008 at 11:38 pm
Persian Apostate
Waiting for the next installment. One can hardly imagine a more apropos time.
July 9, 2008 at 2:17 am
Loafers McCheckerslacks
This is riveting. So much more detail that what I’ve heard in person. Also, I love that the posts are interrupted by a Steakum plug.