There were a couple of seconds tinted with concern as a rifled through the contents of my computer desk, worriedly searching for the small wooden case. I couldn’t have left it anywhere else, could I? I turned to my unusually compact laundry pile at the foot of my dresser.
“That’s it. The jeans,” I thought as I reached for them and began opening up pockets. I ignored the smell and stuck a finger into the mini-pocket on the right hand side. There it was...finally. Thank god.
I put it into my sweatshirt pocket and headed out into the living room. “Just going out for a smoke,” I said as I passed a comfortably reclined M, who sat intently watching Grey’s Anatomy.
“Cool,” he replied.
“You wanna come?”
“No thanks.”
“Alrighty. Be back in a bit.” I opened the fridge, poured a glass of water and walked to the balcony door.
Once outside, the bitterly cold evening stuck in my a/c fed throat. Flakes of snow gently came to rest on my hair and nose. At the very end of the balcony, I sat down and pulled out the tiny, illusive wooden case again. The lid turned clockwise and the metal pipe revealed itself with the satisfaction of a forcibly exposed blackhead. Pulling it the rest of the way out, I examined the end, noticing some remnants from my last balcony visit. The small, black Bic® lighter appeared in my right hand so naturally, I barely detected the movement in and out of my pocket. Spark and flame lit up the dim space. I smoked the last two hauls before the remnants, now sufficiently loosened, fell out onto the snow dusted concrete. A haphazard flick of my foot cleaned them away.
I pushed the now clean metal pipe into the larger cavity in the wooden case. It came up, fully bloated with green. I placed the other end in my mouth and the lighter once again came to life. The warm, musky smoke filled my mouth and the back of my throat. I inhaled as deeply as I could. The sickly odour entered every vessel in my lungs. My head was a rush with blood being pumped recklessly through my veins; responding to some new stimuli - familiar and strange at the same time.
My shoulders hunched, made ready for the inevitably strong exhale. A memorable barb of noxious air hooked into my prone esophagus. “Calm. Ride it out,” I visualized a clear throat; the pristine, pink sides, the whole tube slick with mucus; protecting, sealing.
The first cough came so abruptly that I nearly dismissed the entire event. It was the second and third coughs, each more violent and painful than the last, that made me take note. The fourth cough was close on the heels of the third, but I was still able to breathe between. The progressively less and less air I was able to take in, however, the more and more damaging the rapid succession of hacks felt.
My head was between my knees as the coughs now became brutal gasps. Severe intakes of nothing, lasting milliseconds, followed by vicious explosions of what little air I had, spit and mucus out of my right nostril. I leaned back and a string of saliva extended from my lower lip to the concrete floor.
Devoid of anything, air or otherwise, my lungs began burning and reflexively expanding and collapsing, my body’s natural CPR. I managed to stand up, realizing that I was probably going to collapse. My thoughts being that if I did pass out, better to do it loudly and obviously so that help can be administered as soon as possible and/or the cold air was making it particularly difficult to recover.
In the window to the balcony, I managed a sort of drunken puppeteers idea of a dancing marionette; flailing my arms, pointing towards my throat and bulging out my eyes. Everything was beginning to take on a fuzzy, out of focus look. The door handle took two tries to open and I slammed into the door in doing so. It swung open after a seeming eternity. I stumbled, pigeon-toed, into the kitchen and hit the counter with both elbows cracking against the hard surface. My plunging head nearly hit the sink.
The coughs were now pathetically meek wheezes, punctuated by hiccup-like attempts at breathing. There was nothing coming in and nothing there to coming out, either. At points, I thought I was going to vomit up a lung, or my stomach, or both. My eyes welled with forced tears – the kind of tears that burst out of your ducts, barely touching your cheeks. My face seized into a hideously contorted, breathless scream as M looked on, unable to do anything to help. I looked at him through salty, water filled eyes; my hands clenched so severely that they were now going numb.
The new roommate had been visiting throughout the week, dropping of whatever she could, slowly filling up the smell and dirt free room that was previously occupied by the illustrious winner of the CUNTY ASSFUCK of the YEAR Award. Thankfully, New Roomie is much more amicable, responsible and all around uncunty.
M had arrived very late on Friday evening and we had a full weekend planned so as to fend off my “domination-of-the-apartment” stigma. Canadian Tire was the first port of call, seeing as I needed a) a new shower head, b) a new coaxial cable end and c) a cat flap for my bedroom door.
Orko, the hell-beast-that-can-never-die, has taken to crying early in the morning and waking me up. When I was living alone, this was fine, if annoying on weekends. Now that I’m not alone, it becomes more problematic. I’ve been told that the issue will be resolved when I get him fixed, so we’re scheduling that POST-HASTE. In the meantime, I wanted to get a cat flap for him so that he could come and go as he pleases.
The new shower head was simply because I needed a new one (the old one had appeared on several CLR commercials as the ‘BEFORE’ picture and it was getting embarrassing with the press and photographers outside the apartment constantly vying to get a picture of the reclusive superstar. I also wanted one with a hand-held massaging shower head at the request of my female roommate. You do the math. Yeah...
We got all these items for just under $50 and went across the street to this pub, the Crown and Dragon. Why are all pubs called The THE and SOMETHING? Or The THE and the SOMETHING? The Bishop and the Belcher, the Firkin and the Whore, whatever...it is odd and it freaks me out. Anyway, anyway, anyway...I’m sure M will have a more detailed account of the insanity in that place, but it was one of the worst restaurant experiences of my life. Thankfully, it was not a normal occurrence for The Crown and Dragon (insert Monty Burns like cringe here).
We returned home and I installed the new shower head, which went without a hitch, taking perhaps 10 minutes from start to finish. Feeling overly ambitious, I decided to take on the cat flap. The operation would involve cutting a hole in my door, sticking up either side of the flap, screwing one side in and VOILA. It would appear to be simple providing the following do not occur:
- your key saw breaks
- your door is filled with cardboard
- you drill crooked holes
- you misplace your electron microscope and surgical laser
Unsurprisingly, all of the above happened. Eventually, after 40 minutes of blood, sweat and tears with the odd “MOTHER FUCK!” thrown in, the door was finished.
But wait – is it possible that the door was completely installed and finished without some kind of cripplingly ironic twist of cruel fate? No, it’s not possible. The cat refused to use it and when he did, the magnet, which just barely holds the door closed, was too tough for his mammoth head to push open.
Somewhere in there, between a “CUNT” and a “MOTHER FUCK,” Gillian arrived (a.k.a The Red Menace). She and M entertained themselves before heading out to see a movie.
My friend Ian and I were planning on going out that evening for a few drinks, which we did, and we met up with Gillian and M after their movie.
I was typically shit-faced by 9pm, but M and Gillian were just arriving. I tried to hold on, but could not so we returned home around 10:45 or so. Sorry everyone, I just cannot stay up that late anymore without severe prep beforehand (see: taking a 14 hour nap during the day).
M and I fell asleep and I was out until around 4am or so, when the cat was crying outside my door. My door with a large, gaping hole for the asshole to climb through. ARGH! I threw off the covers and opened the door. After playing with the cat for about 5 minutes, I carried him back into my room and put him on the bed. Orko was cool for a bit, but then started crying again. I ignored him as best I could until then I heard it – the familiar clippity clap of the cat flap opening and then swinging closed. SCORE! Yay! I looked over and he climbed back through right after. “Good boy, Orko!” I said, half-asleep, as he mewed cutely. Then I felt relaxed enough to go back to sleep
Around 6:30 or so, I was awoken by an odd smell. The more I smelled it, the more I realized that the odiferous cloud beginning to choke me was that familiar, but as yet unknown, smell of cat piss on clothes.
MOTHER FUCK.
I awoke M and we cleaned up. I grabbed the clothes that Orko had seen fit to relieve himself on and threw them in my laundry basket, intending to wash them. The laundry room was yet to open – in fact, it was an hour and a half away, so I moved the laundry basket out to the balcony.
I swung the window open and closed my door as M and I sat, drinking coffee and wishing we could have slept another hour or two. The magnet was promptly removed and the cat seems fine with using the door now, when required.
After we finished washing my piss covered clothes, I realized my jeans had been hit with spray also, just not as much. Niiice! We then left to go for brunch, which we had at Fran’s. It was good, as always, and surprisingly not busy for a Sunday afternoon. It could have been the completely ass-tastic weather, but who knows. M and I headed to The Bay for underwear and then we were off to the Ontario Science Center! Good times! :)
The less said about the OSC, the better. I will say this, though – NEVER, EVER, EVER go on a weekend (or at all, in my case). I’ve seen less kids at the ball room in IKEA on a PA day than @ the OSC. And they were ALL of the most mind-numbingly trying, obnoxious and histrionic variety. The collective bumps, screeches and rudeness were enough to make me actually consider the logistics of a child-suit. Aside from the children, I’m sure it was interesting, but its rather hard to enjoy anything when you feel like this.
We moved on to the Body Works 2 exhibit which we had arrived nearly an hour early for – I wonder why? We decided to sit down at the bar and have a coffee while we waited. We stood at the entrance to be seated, but no one even looked like they were thinking of approaching us. Forgoing the “Wait to be Seated” rule with the confidence only possible when accompanied by a real-live server, M told me to sit at the bar, so we did. We sat...and sat...and watched as the guy who ‘appeared’ to be the manager, flitted about like an overworked hair dresser at a fashion show. Then we noticed he barked an order to the girl at the cash, who stopped drinking her orange crush for long enough to look back at him. She then looked at us and back at him. She then came over and said,
“Can I get you guys something?”
“Two coffees, please,” M said.
There was an audible exhale, like when someone gets punched in the stomach or falls from the top of a barn. She then turns back and says to her manager, “I’ll get you for this.”
Huh? It didn’t make sense to me either. Either way, she told the manager we wanted to coffees and he caught probably the 3rd or 4th plane out to South America to begin picking the beans. After an unacceptable wait time, he gave us our two coffees, swiftly accompanied by the girl working the register giving us our bill and the 4¢ change we received. We let it sit there the entire time we drank, with the girl looking back at it repeatedly as if a tip would appear if she pushed hard enough on her brain muscle. We were about to leave as M scribbled a note, along the lines of “Sorry about the lack of tip, but there was a lack of service,” and left it for her to pick up.
Finally we could get into Body Works and I have to admit, was worth all the children in the rest of the OSC. It was the most eerie, interesting and disturbing thing I’ve experienced in recent memory. The inner workings of the human body are undeniably fascinating and incredible, but to see REAL innards on display, plasticized, left me a little goosebumpy.
In particular – the prominence of male subjects caught me off guard. Also, their rather excessive endowment (with the exception of 3 or 4) was interesting. The weirdest part for me, though, was the finger and toe-nails. For some reason when I looked at this one model and could see his fingernails – could see how he cut them, how he cared for them when he was alive...it really freaked me out. Also, the huge camel in the center of the exhibit that still had twigs in his stomach cavity was oddly fascinating.
We left the OSC, both satisfied and disappointed, vowing to not go back unless it was to see a particular exhibit like Body Works 2.
M and I headed home, picking up some stuff for dinner along the way. When we arrived, the new roomie and her girlfriend were watching the Superbowl, as planned. M and I intended to just chill in my room, but the two of them left to go to some pub. Score!
Dinner was great – ravioli and spinach salad: a staple in my house. We sat to watch some TV and as the evening progressed, it became less and less interesting. The remote worked overtime, trying to find something semi-interesting. No luck until we happened upon the Atlantic Canada feed of “Grey’s Anatomy” – a show that M has gotten me into.
The episode was quite good, involving guest star Christina Ricci as a paramedic who placed her hand inside a patient's chest cavity to prevent him from bleeding to death. Unfortunately for everyone at the hospital, the wound was caused by an accidental firing of a bazooka into the man’s chest...and her hand is, theoretically, the only thing preventing the ammunition from exploding AND the man from dying (although at this point, the two aren’t that far apart). The epitome of overly written and far-fetched, I know, but it worked magnificently, except for one thing that I found appallingly unrealistic.
Because the ammunition was an explosive, a CODE BLACK was called for. Code Black is actually for a bomb threat, but this was close enough, I guess.
Here is my issue – at one point in the show, there is an evacuation and one of the doctor’s finds herself in an elevator with the two hot residents (hot is a relative term, but that’s the casting). The one resident says something like, “We got a page saying “Code Black.” What does that mean?”
Sorry, what?
You’re a DOCTOR in training and you don’t know what a code black is? Then the other resident says, “Is that bad?”
Um...sweetheart...
Code Black doesn’t fall between Code Pink for Fabulous Alert and Code Teal for Sweetness Spill. I worked in a hospital for nearly 4 years and there is no WAY anyone in that hospital a) wouldn’t know what Code Black is (it’s also printed on the back of every ID badge) and/or b) no resident with BRAIN ONE in their head would ask if Code ANYTHING meant something bad. THEY ALL DO, RETARD. Here is a complete list for the writers of GA to refer to in future.
I’m sorry, but GA is SO well written most of the time, but this flagrant lack of research and continuity really annoyed me – only because the show is so good otherwise. Stupid, childish oversight on the writers’ parts.
After seeing that, I decided to smoke a little and headed to my room. Where was my case?
...as I leaned over the sink, I could feel myself teetering towards blacking out, but by some miracle, I could take in minute amounts of air during the gasping/wheezing fit. I was still unable to talk for about 5 minutes. Slowly the coughing stopped and breathe entered my lungs like drops of water on a dry floor. Each passing moment made it easier. I wiped the tears from my face and looked up at M, mouthing, “I’m okay” as he looked on in horror.
I eventually did recover, but it was possibly the scariest moment of my life – the closest I have come to being aware of death being frighteningly near.
Then we had to rewind the PVR to see what we’d missed on Grey’s Anatomy. Annoyingly, they saddled us with a clear sweeps week grab and cock-blocked us with a ‘To Be Continued.” You bastards.
Categories: choke, death, Orko, drama, Ontario_Science_Center, BodyWorks Grey's_Anatomy
