Code Junkie

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sara takes me inside and pours me a glass of water. She has been going on and on about these little sleeping spells for about twenty minutes now. She is asking herself, when will they stop, what is causing them, can medicine help or is my medicine causing it, and a dozen other questions that neither her or I could ever hope to adequately address. She is glancing at her cell phone and mumbling to herself. She looks up.

"Dr. Mason's office is probably closed for the afternoon already."

"Okay," I reply.

"We can talk to her about this. She did hint at the possibilities of you acting up a few days before you came to," Sara says, rubbing her shoulders.

"I do not think she is allowed to release that kind of information to you," I mutter.

"I was the only dumbfuck in the room with you for nearly the entire time, Kevin," Sara spits. "A month is a long time, be thankful that it wasn't fucking Jerry who was recording your medications and how much—"

"Oh, leave him out of this. Christ," I roll my eyes.

"Okay," Sara breathes in. "I'm sorry. It's just really, really nerve-wracking to not know if you'll wake up in the same place I see you go to sleep. I don't want you getting hurt when you're delirious."

"I understand," I stare out the window. "I do appreciate it. But don't worry about it. We can call her tomorrow."

"Alright."

The next day we do just that. Rather, Sara does just that. I am reading an article about a private space shuttle endeavor online at my desk when she peeks her head from the kitchen, the phone to her ear.

"Kevin," she asks. "Can you drop by the office around three to pick up your prescription?"

I audibly moan and throw my arms up in false-protest and she smiles.

"Yes, doctor, that will be fine," she disappears behind the wall. "Are you sure you don't need a consultation? No—it's common after trauma like that? Alright, then, he'll swing by later. Thank you."

I almost want to ask if Sara can go and pick it up for me, but I realize that she has work in an hour. My mouth that was open moments ago to ask her of this favor slowly draws shut, ridiculed by my own self-hate and thoughts of a self-image debased. I should really be actively seeking employment instead of reading about men whose footsteps I shall never trod in on a stupid website online, but, alas. So long as the state keeps sending these checks, I am in no rush. If they are disability or unemployment, I have no idea. I am the recovering inebriant bent on sapping all I can from the system, or so the conservative mainstream media would have you believe.

A little while later, Sara kisses me on my head and says she'll see me later, after work. I shout a goodbye after her and almost fall out of my chair when I remember something: I can't drive.

"Fuck!" I spin and fall. "Sara!"

I get up and rush to the door, but she is already halfway down the block. God damn it. I really do not want to bother either of the guys, so I call Mitch. Per his nature, he tells me, "of course, I'll see you soon," and we leave it at that. On the car ride there, I ask him, "how's the Swede?" and he promises that he has no idea what I mean. I guess they are bitter about the nickname. The ride there is only ten or so minutes anyway. I pick up my prescription, stare at one of the nurse's backsides as they lead a patient into a screening room (nothing to write home about) and promptly leave.

Mitch offers to take me to the pharmacy and I thank him. He waits outside and smokes a cigarette. I consider teasing him about it but he seems to be in a bad mood so I let it go. I nod to an old man behind the register and walk towards the back, to the actual pharmacy portion of the convenience store. A value as constant as night and day, the tall pharmacist is back there. The man with dark skin and white teeth is adjusting something out of sight, behind his computer's display, and upon noticing me, he smiles and says, "Hello, sir."

"Hello," I take the blue piece of paper out of my pocket and uncrumple it towards him. "I need this to be filled, please."

He smooths out the paper on the plastic counter and reads the hastily scribbled words to himself. For a moment, his head still leaning down towards the paper, he looks up at me, judging something. He flattens out the script once more and takes it from the counter, turning, "Of course, let me check." My usual procedure for this involves dropping it off and returning a few hours or days later, once they receive it in the mail or whatever delivery system they have for medication. Maybe today's my lucky day.

I suppose it is. He returns with your typical orange twist-off bottle of medication, complete with directions, in a sealed plastic bag. I notice the faintest trace of blue residue on his gloves from the procurement transaction, so I hypothesize that this medication is simply a revamping of my former dosage. I hand him my insurance information and credit card and he glances at the computer monitor. He doesn't charge me and insists that it's covered. He simply scans my insurance on a device below the counter and returns my cards. I shrug at this modern nicety and thank him. I quickly glance at his nametag and thank him by his name, "Thank you, Art." He simply smiles and nods once, returning to his previous work.

As I turn to walk down the aisle and back towards the entrance, I spot a "Community Events!" bulletin board near a hall cutting towards the restrooms. The obnoxious colors and decoration of the piece draws my attention and I find slight pleasure in the menagerie of various depictions of our town's mascot, Lenny, celebrating the upcoming fair. Although I smile at the sight of the whimsical creature, I am also slightly repulsed by the force-fed mimetic nature of this damned carnival. It is the only thing that the sad, sad people around Deptford County are talking about and it seems that as the week-long event draws closer, the more and more idiots there are in the streets talking about it.

Another bit that I am unprepared for is an advertised "wine-tasting extravaganza" – but perhaps, after reading more on the flyer, I shouldn't have been so eager to be disappointed. It is hosted by "Deptford County's Very Own Salvatore Delange, Connoisseur." Apparently, this is an annual event, filled with "art, theatre, good wine, and good friends" in preparation for the big event (the county fair). I chuckle and tear off one of the little RSVP slips. I avert my eyes and prepare to exit. With one last glance towards the pharmacy counter, I see Art writing something on a clipboard.

His professionalism is unmatched. His grace and candor is unlike anything else you will find paid by the hour in the Western world. His unyielding precision belongs only in that of the realm of a politician or a surgeon, and to that measure, he disgusts me.