I feel like I live here. I must be one of her most regular customers, but
today I am here mainly because I am irregular. God forbid if the Medicaid
ever runs out. I'd be fucked then. I'm not a hypochondriac, but I am
getting old. Older, anyway. When I was younger, I never went to see a
doctor. Maybe I'm paying the price now for some of that exorbitant
behavior of my youth.
My body is screaming, "Payback is hell, mother-fucker." What do
As usual, she, The Doctor, says that I am going to live. She listens to my
heart. She listens to my stomach. She asks me if I am feeling any pain.
"No," I say, as usual.
She gives me a prescription for cold sores. These huge blue pills that she
prescribes knock the unsightly, painful mass of pus-filled shit off of my
lip, almost instantaneously.
The Good Doctor also gives me a prescription for a pill that will help my
allergies. I'm wondering if I will really need them now that my cat has
run away. At the pharmacy, I remark to the man and woman standing there at
the counter in white coats that it still cracks me up somehow to hear John
Lennon come over the Muzak at the pharmacy or the grocery store. The guy
ignores what I say; the girl gets the giggles in agreement.
As I walk away with my pills, I say to her, "Especially when he is
She giggles some more and I feel like I have found someone who
understands. I leave her stuffing Prozac into smoke-colored plastic
containers. There is a weird story about this pharmacy. I used to do LSD.
For two years of my life, I did a lot of LSD. Hell, I did all the LSD that
I could get my hands on. It was a very unhappy time in my life, a very,
very depressed era, and I would do anything to escape from the way that I
felt. I didn't know it at the time, but I was undiagnosed bi-polar,
trying to self-medicate.
And self-medicate I did.
Well, in order to self-medicate, you have to have someone to buy the
medication from, i.e. a drug dealer. RuPaul turned me onto this LSD
dealer, who was turning on everyone who wanted to turn onto it and had the
five bucks to buy a hit of it. I was as regular a customer to this drug
dealer then as I am to the Good Doctor now. I don't think that I ever
fully hallucinated, reason being I always threw a horrible amount of
alcohol on top of the little bit of blotter acid that I would let sit
on my tongue for a while.
Anyway, I'm sober now, no more LSD, no more Jack Daniels, no more
Budweiser, no more Long Island Teas, no more shots of this, no more shots
of that -- and I'm going into this pharmacy to get my bipolar meds, and
who is fucking working at the counter and handing me the pills? The
fucking drug lady, the woman who I bought my LSD from for two years. Is
that not fucking weird? I got my illegal shit from her and now she is
handing me the legal shit.
Is the government watching me? Am I part of some brain chemical experiment
that the CIA, the FBI, or the Mafia are conducting? I fucking doubt
it, but it is a fucking weird coincidence.
Don't you think?
After I leave the pharmacy, I bike to the coffee shop. At the coffee shop,
the lady says, "Long time no see." She has a phone glued to her
ear. (Have you noticed how three-quarters of Amerika has a phone glued to
their ear these days? On the sidewalk. On the job. In traffic. While
making fucking love.)
The coffee lady is multi-tasking. She seems to have forgotten that I
ALWAYS get a LARGE cup of coffee, room for cream, please.
I've been busy with "WORK," I tell her, and I think back. The
three months when I occupied a chair and a table on the patio of the
coffee shop nearly everyday, guzzling two large cups of coffee, room for
cream, were three months when I wasn't working, three months "between
jobs," as they say. I think now that I'm working that I'm cheaper. I
don't want to give up the three bucks plus a buck for a tip that
this place costs me. Basically, I can buy enough coffee and coffee filters
to home-brew for a week with four bucks. When I'm working, I'm trying to
squirrel away money for the rainy day when I won't be working, a state
of existence that seems to occur semi-frequently or very regularly,
depending on how you look at it.
How do you look at it?
This guy sits down at one of the coffee shop patio tables without buying a
coffee and pulls out a small drum. He starts tapping on it. "Fuck
off," I want to say to him. Take your fucking drum and head into the
woods, nature boy. I find nothing soothing about the intrusion of his
percussion into my reality. I have come to the coffee shop to write, to
think, to drink coffee. The neurotic staccato that he pushes out into the
air are, by no means, relaxing. I think to narc him out to the coffee
girl, but realize that I can't control the universe. God will take care
of this fucker and his drum. I don't have to.
The coffee lady is playing some sort of rhythm-and-blues station over the
coffee shop speakers. I find this irritating also.
Jones...Mrs. Jones..." is a song that I usually
like, but I like to like it on my terms, like when I have turned the on
and off switch on the radio to on and have tuned the radio to the station
that plays that sort of song. I hate when other people have control of the
programming that is going into my head.
Can you dig it?
I'm thinking how I need a regular column, a steady writing gig where I can
put all this bullshit out there for all you motherfuckers to see. Isn't
that a literate way to put it? Do you know of any publications that would
want me? Do you know of a publication that would want a daily or weekly
column by Mikel K: a space where I can ramble on about whatever comes to
mind about God, government, kids, dogs, drugs, "using" and recovering,
coffee houses and beyond -- way, way beyond -- and shitheads who bust my
tranquility with their motherfucking drums.
Can you dig it?
work is copyrighted property of Mikel K.