vituperation

My digestive tract continues to give me fits. I feel fine, working out each morning and working at the Smallville house in the evening, not sick at all.

But I continue to feel stuffed and bloated most of the time, and rarely hungry. Between Sunday morning (the start of the bug) and Wednesday evening, I ate three cans of soup and almost two sleeves of saltines. Wednesday evening, the spud and I were out in Smallville hanging crown molding when my hunger awoke.

And I mean awoke. I went from bloated to ravenous in seconds. We left out early and decided to get Mexican food. I know, probably a bad choice, but right then I didn’t care. By the time the food arrived, I was feeling full again. I still managed to eat my whole meal, and thought I was basically fine again.

But I wasn’t. I spent the night awake, tossing and turning and sweating because I was so full. Not in any pain, just uncomfortably full, like I used to feel on some Fridays when I’d way overdo it. Yesterday I ate a normal breakfast (oatmeal, apple, cottage cheese) around 12:30, then about a cup of tex-mex goulash (the finest stuff ever) at 5:30. Finally, around 8:00 last night, I had a piece of sourdough bread my mom baked.

And I spent the day feeling grossly stuffed.

I’m having trouble drinking enough, to the point of having dry and cracked lips, because of the bloaty stuffed feeling. I’m not dehydrated, just not as hydrated as I usually am. I haven’t even been drinking my coffee because it just doesn’t taste good, and when Fred skips his coffee, you know there’s something wrong.

It’s getting better as the days pass, but I’d sure like to be back to normal.

It brings me physical pain not to be able to show you pictures of the master bedroom, which I’ve done as a surprise for Robyn this week while she’s off with the in-laws.

Physical pain, baby. I’m just that proud of this room. I really tapped into my inner girl for this one.

I gave the box a big heave and it slid further into my car, enough so that I’d be able to get the back door closed now. Pieces of crown molding fell over the side of the box at the sudden movement, clattering against other trash piled in the back seat. I’d been cleaning up in the Smallville house so that it looked somewhat presentable for the electrician I was waiting for, and the car was loaded down. Closing the back door, I turned back to the house, and that’s when I saw him walking along the street looking my way.

The walkin’ dude.

He grinned and waved. I raised a hand, kept turning, and started for the house.

“Hey bubba,” he called.

There’s only one person in the world I’ll let call me Bubba, and it ain’t him. I turned back. He was coming down the driveway now, still grinning. The last time he was here, he caught me flat-footed, and I vowed it wouldn’t happen again. This time, as I turned, I felt the comforting weight of steel confidence resting out of sight on my hip.

He approached me, one hand extended, and we shook. He wore the same dark blue jacket as before, and jeans. Late afternoon sunlight glinted off the small wire-frame glasses that perched on his nose.

“Hey man, are you busy?” he asked.

“Actually, yes. I’m expecting some people and need to get a few things done before they get here.”

“Okay, man. Can you…give me a little help?”

“Well…” I thought for a moment about the best way to respond, and rejected several more snappy answers for a simple “no.”

Steel confidence, not steel cockiness. That’s for those dumbass gangsta types who shoot each other all the time.

He started, either genuinely surprised or faking it.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not trying to be a hardass, but no. I gave you money once—”

“And I appreciate it, man.”

“—as a gift, and that’s it. You need to get going, and stop coming around here asking me for money.”

Zing!

“My grandpa taught me to be a man,” he said. “And I’m just layin’ it on the line and askin’ like a man. Can’t you just help me out a little bit?”

Did Grandpa teach you to beg from strangers? I wondered.

“Again, no,” I said. “Don’t you have a job?”

“Naw, man. I’ve been sick.”

“I remember your voice sounded off last time. You sound better now.”

“I went to the doctor. He said…” He fell silent for a bit. “Eighteen months.”

“The doctor said you couldn’t work for eighteen months?” My bullshit detector was bonging so loud I’m surprised he couldn’t hear it.

“Naw, man. It’s deeper than that.”

Whatever that means.

“Basically, I’m on my own,” he finished.

Really? So am I.

I just stood there.

“I don’t have a penny on me, man. I got three dolla to my name, and need twenny three more to get a prescription filled.” He considered for a moment. “And that’s only for about four pills.”

For an instant I thought about saying, Really? Believe it or not, I’m a pharmacist. What’s your prescription for? And while I’m at it, why were you walking again? Wasn’t that money I gave you two weeks ago to get your car fixed?

But I didn’t.

This may be the heartless conservative in me, but with as many programs (both governmental and charitable) there are for money, food, and medical care, no one should be walking down the street begging for money from strangers. Not even strangers who look like marks.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, most noncommittally.

“So you can’t help me?”

“I said no, and I meant no. Now, I really need to get back to work, and you need to get going on your way.”

“I can do some work, man.”

“I might have something for you to do in the springtime,” I said. “When I’m working outside. How’s that?”

He smiled wanly. “Can I get an advance on that?”

“Sorry, no. I’m not a bank, or an ATM. I thought I made that clear.”

“I’m sorry, man. I don’t mean to disrespect you in your home.”

I just looked at him. Then stop doing it.

“I’ll work all day for $20, man,” he said.

McDonald’s would pay you $50 for a full day’s work.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do something like that. It’s not fair.”

“But I already owe you the $25.”

“No, you don’t owe me anything. That was a gift.”

“And you can’t help me out? I’m asking you like a man.”

Goddamn, this was getting annoying.

A man would get a fucking JOB and not accost strangers for money, I thought about saying.

“No,” I said. “I told you: I’m not trying to be a hardass, but I’m not a bank. It’s time for you to go. I have things to do before those people get here.”

“Alright, man.”

He shook my hand again and slowly plodded up the driveway. The last I heard of him, he was having a half-hearted coughing fit while he waited for traffic to clear so he could cross the street.

I went inside, where I promptly did a look-at-me-I’m-the-big-badass-alpha-male dance, followed by a good Tim Allen grunt or two, in the front room and called Robyn to tell her about it.

We’ll see how long he stays gone. If he comes back I’ll step it up a notch and tell him he’s not welcome and that further incursions onto the property will result in a call to the police. But, if he’s as meek and humble as he comes across, maybe I’ve seen the last of him.

I certainly hope so.