10. Bad Day

"I'm afraid you're going to die, Mr. Davis."

I hadn't been looking the Doctor in the eye, but if I had been, now is when I would have looked away anyway. Eye contact is inappropriate in a moment like this. Isn't it? I clutched the seat of the exam table I was seated on, causing the thin white paper cover to crinkle softly, a sound that came to me from the other side of a warehouse, stabbing at the thin film of Handel's Water Music being piped in over the tinny, old speakers in the ceiling. I turned my eyes from the floor to those speakers. I was confused, and I thought for a moment that, maybe, Handel might have the answer. I stared and stared for what seemed like months, but was probably three seconds. No answer was forthcoming.

The Doctor's words puzzled me. It was as if the sentence had broken into it's subsequent parts, and each piece was flying around the room, like a swarm of deranged and incensed wasps. They were flitting about, darting at me in the wrong order. Stinging me, but signifying nothing.

"Mr Davis?" Why, yes, that's me. Okay.

"I'm afraid?" Hmmm... what is he afraid of? He seems a perfectly healthy, middle-aged, suburban Doctor.

"You're going to die."

"I see." I started to smirk a little. "...but, do you have any news?" I asked, unsuccessfully stifling a giggle.

"...um... news? I don't... Listen, Mr Da--"

"Because, you see, that's not news. I already knew that." I was losing the ability to control myself.

The Good Doctor seemed struck dumb by this revelation that I could have known this fact. "You already... but..."

I guffawed ."We're all going to die, Doc." I was laughing very hard now. Uncontrollably so.

"Well--"

"I mean, aren't we?"

"Yes, but--"

"I mean, in a larger sense, right?"

"I suppose, but--"

"No no no! No butts! I don't want to see your 'butt', Doctor. This is only the first date. No butts until you buy me dinner." I delivered this in my best Groucho Marx impression, complete with wagging eyebrows and imaginary cigar. I felt like I was thirteen again, staying at a friend's house, in that place of over-tired, as my parents used to call it. It's that place when you're with good company, very late at night, and for no particular reason you can't stop laughing, much to your parents' exhausted dismay. Over-tired.

I grabbed my jacket from the counter, and made my way out the door, laughing to the point of tears. Don't misunderstand, this isn't that cliched movie moment where the main character is wracked with laughter and it poignantly melts into sobs. No, these were tears of pure, unadulterated mirth. Truly.

"Mr Davis, please! Let me--" Whatever he was saying was punctuated very suddenly by me dropping the door shut on my way through it.

I strode down the hall, shaking my head. Going to die. How silly it seemed. I had only made it a few steps away when I heard the door to the exam room opening behind me. I could practically hear the expression of incredulity on the good Doctor's face, though he said nothing. On my way passed the front desk, I saw that the nurse at the desk had dozed off. I stopped and knocked a quick rap-tap on the desk, which jostled her worse than if I had rap-tapped on her forehead. She let out a small high-pitched "yelp" and nearly jumped out of her chair. This got me laughing all the harder, and I flashed her what must have appeared a maniacal smile.

"Did you hear, Nurse? He's 'afraid I'm going to die.' " For no apparent reason I had done an impression of him as a stodgy old Englishman, when actually he is neither stodgy nor old nor English. This renewed my cackles to the point that my side hurt, and I said so as I bounced through the front door into the sweltering Arizona summer sun. It was early evening, the swelteriest part of the day. Swelteriest. If it wasn't a word before, it sure is now.

I hopped in my car and cranked up the stereo. I sang all the way home. The Avett Brothers album Four Thieves Gone: The Robbinsville Sessions. Perfect!

I sang my heart out, occasionally tripping up on an odd chuckle or two, here or there. Dancing Daze came on. One of my favorites.

I've seen the way you deal with things
The troubles that this life will bring
If it gets to you then I can tell by the way you sing
You act like it just doesn't mean a thing

I drove around for a while. First it was an hour. Then two. i just drove and drove, enjoying my Avett Brothers. Then some classic David Bowie. Then Live's Throwing Copper. As I drove I began to get the nagging sensation that I was forgetting something. Some important bit of information was hovering in the periphery, like a swarm of wasps, angry and buzzing. They wanted to sting me, I could smell it. Whole songs would roll by and I would forget they were there, but always their buzz would begin again. And stronger. "...I'm afraid..."

Finally, Sparks. Good Morning, Who Are You brought me to my driveway.

When I finally pulled up to my house, the sun was fully down. Night had settled in. My giggles were long since through, but I felt good. My smile was broad. If it's possible, I might have actually been glowing.

Words began to flit around my head again. Though now they had tamed. The former wasps had lost their stingers. Now they were gnats, as persistent as the wasps had been, but not as strong.

"...Mr Davis..."

I slipped my key into the lock, and swung the door wide. My eyes slowly swept the space I call my home. It looked bigger. Stronger. More homey.

"...I'm afraid..."

My fat, orange cat, Han, immediately insinuated himself into my path, declaring his need for affection.

"...Mr. Davis..."

I had, afterall, been gone a whole five hours. This was unacceptable from Han's limited scope of the world. I patiently explained to him that more urgent than his need for petting, was Daddy's need for a beer. He would just have to wait a moment.

"...I'm afraid..."

Swaggering over to the fridge, I pulled out the large bottle of Gulden Draak I had been saving for a special occasion, still humming Dancing Daze softly to myself.

I removed the wrapper and pressed into the lower part of the cork with my thumbs, closed my eyes, and stuck out my tongue. The tongue is entirely unnecessary for de-corking a bottle, I know, but its a reflex, and also kinda fun. After a long moment the cork shot off with a "POP" and vanished from sight long before the ring of the echo off the kitchen walls had finished. Normally, I find the pop of a cork a deeply satisfying, and even exciting sound. It's the sound of celebration. It's the sound of joy, of life. But not this time.

This time it jarred me like a gun shot. The ring of it was dark. Almost sinister. I stood for a moment, in my kitchen, lit only by the light of the still-open refrigerator. I stood in my kitchen. I stood. The cat meowed, and still I stood there.

And vomited all over my shoes.