Code Junkie

CHAPTER THREE

I began to cry. Not emotionally, not as a depressive reaction, but hey, it was happening. Tears were rolling out of my widened eyes as I stared at the date. How in the hell did this happen? I mean, I guess it made sense why I wasn't in the hospital and instead receiving homecare – no way would I have been home so shortly after my accident had it really only been last night.

I was stricken with an incredible sense of syncope.

Bracing against the kitchen table, I slowly lowered my head onto my folded arms. Slow, even breaths. Alright. No big deal. I have been out of it for two months. I began to notice the small bits of my previous life emanating from around my kitchen, specters from another existence. Get-Well-Soon cards, primarily from Jerry and Ted, flowers from my old employer, advertisements delivered by the mailman, a letter from Sara: they all haunted me from my place in the center of the room.

I had been unconscious for nearly two months and all I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep until things made sense again. Rest until I was actually a part of the present, not a visitor in some time-delayed immigration struggling to adapt to this unknown modern society. I am so fucking pathetic. Just imagine my displacement if I was actually a social being, imagine if I had a social circle to catch up with. Hell, I should have just blown my brains out right then and there. But, for the moment, in this swirling world of uncertainty, I felt just a second's relief of comfort in this new sanctity of anonymity.

I walked into my small office and felt compelled to turn on the computer. I really wasn't up to the task, apparently, as I kept strolling through the room and into the living room. I sank into the recliner and looked out of my front windows. It was a mild, relatively sunny day outside and the congealing layers of clouds kept the sun from scorching the tired earth. An older man glided by on a bicycle without looking up, not that he would have noticed me anyway. I grabbed the wooden knob on the side of the chair and pressed myself back, extending the chair's footrest. With my neck awkwardly craning up and backwards, I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep for a few hours.

I had to get something started when I woke up.

Not even twelve hours in and this lackadaisical lifestyle was already boring holes into my sanity. I walked back into my office, forced myself onto the computer, and tried to catch myself up with whatever I had missed in the previous two months, whatever would have concerned me. Hobbies. Interests. You know, people things.

A new Linux distro was due any day now; the town was expecting torrential downpours tonight; an author that I mildly enjoyed in high school was releasing a new book soon (but I hadn't read him for years at this point); a few relevant job openings had appeared in my vicinity. I didn't feel up to it. It was like getting over an emotional break up, that is, looking for a new job after losing Walt. I've been unawake for days at a time, and I hadn't pondered his death, at least to my memory. It was a fresh wound again. Sure, weeks had passed since it happened, but when you cut out more than half of the time due to what you assume is a comatose condition, does it really count as a healthy grieving period?

Momentarily lapsing into my spirited (pun intended) ways, I grabbed a large bottle of vodka and took it to my bedroom, like a child with his stuffed bear. However, not a drop was consumed. I lay awake, cradling that damn bottle like a baby, staring out my window, curtains drawn. A gentle rain had settled in around ten pm and would continue to grow in strength well into the morning. I barely slept at all. I laid in bed through the early hours of the day, watching the sun's journey across the sky, until it was dark, once again. Hunger had yet to make a return appearance. I was an android. I barely existed on this side of being.

I needed physical release. I, of all people, felt the need to go out and, hell, socialize.

Meeting people in bars was always an adventure. It was never a goal, it was always a residual effect. It was always detritus of the rare night out with coworkers. Considering my hefty account at the regional hospital, I can't really tout these lustful binges as anything beyond a poor decision. You could almost compare these "dates" as an addict dating his dealer; a doctor, his patient. I like to believe that "truck driver fucking his truck," (i.e., acting as a debaser of things that adequately maintained him) was a more suitable, and even whimsical, approach at classification. Take your pick, artist.