Monday, February 3, 2014



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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