Itch
It started Thursday morning at nine; I remember it so well,
I was sitting at my desk looking out the window of my office on the fourteenth
floor at a sullen sky wondering if it was ever going to stop raining. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth
living in the North West; damn rain forest is what it is. Oregon; starts raining in September and rains
until the 5th of July; makes me want to slash my wrists and roll up
in a ball and die. I’ve started light therapy;
Doctor said it would do me good, help with the depression.
The phone rang; I jumped and swore under my breath; Johnson
again, Christ, for the twentieth time trying to explain the new roll out plan. Annoyed by the call I realized I’d been
scratching the top of my left thigh. Not
really digging at it, but rubbing, lightly scratching trying to get a spot that
I just couldn’t quite find; I chased it across the top, over the left side and
back up to the top always an inch or two behind it. “Hang on a minute” I set the phone down and
stood; really digging in. It was that
type of itch that is deep like almost to the bone but the damn thing just
wouldn’t stay still. “Let me call you
back” I dropped the phone in its cradle.
This is crazy; must be nerves. I
popped a couple Tylenol and walked to the floor length window; from fourteen
floors up the people look really small down there. All the umbrellas; black ones, white, even a
couple that must have been golf umbrellas by the size of them. Flash of lighting lit up the office, counting
to three a muffled crack of thunder; all the little umbrellas stopped for an
instant then started moving again.
Freaking Oregon rain, no one even notices unless we have thunder and
lightning with it, go figure.
I live alone; wife up and walked out about four years ago. Took a couple years to get use to living
alone; no one but the cat in the house, now I look forward to my alone time. Too many hours, too many parties; on and on, she just didn’t seem to understand
that if you want to make it in this town you’d better put in the hours, lots of
face time with staff, clients and always looking to make an impression with new
prospective customers. My normal time
home is about seven; early enough for dinner but late enough that all the bad
news is over with on the TV.
Walked through the door at exactly seven; Tiger was sitting
on the back of the couch waiting for me.
He didn’t even start complaining until I was in the bathroom throwing
stuff around and cussing; l was looking for the itch cream I remembered the
wife used every once in a while, four years ago. I found it and put a dollop of
it on my left thigh; cracks me up, I’ve never used that word until seeing a
commercial on TV where the song goes “Just put a dollop on it” now it’s stuck
in my brain forever. Dollop this, dollop
that; I put dollops of shit on stuff all the time now, fucking TV. I rubbed it in; scratched it in is more like
it; been driving me nuts most of the day.
It never entered my mind that itch cream might go bad over
nearly half a decade; damn cream must be past its expiration date; woke up at
one am itching like an old’ dog with fleas.
Damn if it isn’t both thighs now; I’m scratching with both hands, finger
nails bending back to the quick, now I’ve got two fingers aching along with
this damn itch. Two more Tylenol and a Darvocet
should do it; I’ve got to get some sleep I’ve got a big ass client coming in tomorrow
I’ve got to land this account.
Oh holly shit I’m so tired, must have scratched half the
damn night. The second dose, a pair of
Darvocets at three did the trick until six when I woke digging at my legs. Both are swollen and raw looking I must have
dug at them while I was asleep.
Why do people think it’s so fucking funny when they ask you
if your all right; cause you look like shit in the morning and when you answer
that you’d been scratching all night they laugh their asses off and walk off; it’s
not fucking funny, not funny at all.
“Mr. Christenson is here to see you.” The intercom announced “I’ll be right out Jan”
Jan the one that spit she was laughing so hard at my expense when told “I had
an itch” fucking bitch. Lost that
client; I think he thought I was crazy.
I’d stop in mid sentence and dig at my legs; the fucking itch is
consuming my thoughts, I can’t help it.
I had to go home at noon; how do you drive with both hands
busy scratching, ripping at the tops of your thighs? Ran a stop light at 245th and Biscayne
St. fucking cop gave me a ticket and asked if I’d been drinking. Yeah I should be drinking you fucking idiot,
you’d be drinking if you itched like I did.
Made it home at twelve thirty ran up the driveway to the front door,
dropped my keys, fuck me, dropped to my knees scratching like a mad man; I am a
mad man. Fucking key in the lock; ran
for the master bath, five Darvocet down looking at the clock; I’ll give it
another fifteen minutes then I’m gonna drop another two more Darvocet and call
the doctor, this has got to stop.
Two o’clock; I’m stoned, I can’t keep my eyes on the clock
long enough to see the time for sure.
Seven down and I’m ripping like a demon; I turned the music up and
poured a glass of red wine. Fuck the
itch it’s party time. Bottle is going
fast, I’m only itching a little but my hands are tingling like they have electricity
running through them; fuck I hope it isn’t something else. Bottoms up; I fumble the uncorking of the
second bottle but who really gives a fuck?
I have seven more wonder pills then one more bottle of wine, then I’m
fucked; it’s going to be ok, floating, just a little spinning, I can’t even
feel my cheeks. This is gonna work; I’ll
be ok, I know I will. The Doctor will
know what to do; I’ll call in the morning.
It isn’t so bad now; just rub a little and it’s hardly there.
My hands are on fire; woke at two am. What do I do? I’m on fire fire. The itch is crazy. Rubbing hands on thighs just makes it worst;
I slam my hands on the night stand, there’s no response no pain, just the itch. Itch like ants running crazy; thousands of
ants eating eating running in circles tearing at my hands, my thighs are on
fire blood boils from tears, sheets sodden in red clots, running red rivers of black
flowing blood. Bathroom, I have to get
to the bathroom; seven more life savers down, swimming in despair, thick sticky ribbons of black
viscous gelatinous globs
run from sleeves, dripping claws that where once hands. Grasping at the half full bottle of red wine
with claws of a demon curled blood soaked knuckles fresh meat hanging from
ripped nails. Neck itching, veins
swollen from clawing, red blood trickling from gouges dug deep from clawed
hands. High pressure spouts of ripped arterial
crimson geysers paint murals on egg shell colored walls.
CNN Headline news:
Morbid pictures of ripped flesh, walls painted red in blood met Police
in what is described as the worst suicide scene remembered by veterans of
Portland’s Police Department in years. Reporter Nick Robinson reports a ghastly
crime scene in NW Portland this Saturday night…………
From the Ramblings
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