Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Forty-six

Being that it was the first time I ever passed out, college-drinking games excluded, I felt it a surprisingly calm sensation, sans the new injury, which made its presence in the form of a huge knot, as they call it, on my forehead. Suddenly, I had something pulsating from both ends of my body. Which, if you think about it, is not an everyday occurrence. As far as the pass-out factor, I'm not sure how long I was out, but lying there on the sidewalk outside of Walgreens, I felt rested. A bit groggy, but rested.

As I came to, not only was I greeted by Liz, but my old friends Melvin, Doni, and the lovely Walgreens pharmacy technician, Betsy, were all staring at me.

"Give him some room, you guys ..." Betsy said.

"Christ, look at that thing grow." I wasn't exactly sure what Doni was referring to, but I hoped to hell it wasn't my penis. I've heard of patients experiencing spontaneous erections in certain medical situations, so I grabbed myself out of fear, and drew more attention to myself and my fear than expected.

"Da hell you doin', bro?" Melvin said.

"Sam ... kinda kinky ..." Liz said.

By the smile on Betsy, the pharmacy technician's face, I could tell she understood my concern, while Doni just gave me a hard time, so to speak: "Hey, big guy. Settle down, I'm talking about the golf ball on your forehead, not your johnson ..."

I touched my forehead to investigate. "Shit."

"You bashed your head pretty hard on the mailbox or concrete, Sam. I couldn't really tell, but it was loud. I'm sorry I was acting like such a baby, but ..."

I held up my hands as if to say, "Enough, please stop talking." Thankfully, she got the message.

"Here, put this on your forehead," said Betsy, and in her pharmacy technician way, handed me an ice pack. "Are you dizzy? Light-headed? How do you feel?"

That was a fair question; it's just that, at that moment, I wasn't prepared to answer her, or anyone else, in an honest manner. I wasn't prepared to tell her, or anyone, I missed my friend Ben. As a matter of fact, felt terribly lost without him. Had been in and out and through the habit trail of anxiety, and ontological inquisition. Had feelings for Liz, but not in the way that's healthy, and can't seem to either get it through to her, or myself, that that's what's going on. And of course, since the night she tapped her Montblanc pen on my shoulder while playing "Waltz for Debby," there was the bewilderment with Kate. And that's not even acknowledging my battle with the ever-present inflammation.

"I'm doing all right, I guess. Thanks for asking. Could you guys try and help me up?"

"Are you sure? You might have a head injury," said the sweet, concerned Betsy.

"Naw, I'm fine. I just need to get to my feet. Maybe get something to eat. What time is it?" I said, feeling the golf ball on my head.

"It's close to three," Doni said.

"Shit. Liz, we gotta go."

Doni, Betsy, and Liz all helped me up. Melvin on the other hand, saw a marketing opportunity, and worked the crowd, trying to charge admission to see the "amazing, spectacular, once-in-a-lifetime knot" on my forehead.

After the initial wooziness wore off, I swore I'd be fine. We had to get to Helena Storm's. Liz offered to pay for a cab, which I quickly accepted. We bid the Walgreens crew a fond adieu as Liz nabbed a Christmas cab instantly. Those fucking tight black polyester pants—I'm not the only one who finds them ... attention getting.

We sat, waiting for the cab to take off. The cabby waited patiently for us to recite an address, or location, or something. We both just sat there ... I, with a legitimate reason, Liz, with no clue.

"The way it works in this country, folks, is that once you get in the car, you give me an address or some clue as to where it is you'd like to go. Then we go. Now, given it's the birthday of our Lord, I'm giving you a break with the hostility." It was as though his facial features were a really bad disguise. He had a large prominent nose, an overgrown mustache that hung over his top lip, bushy eyebrows that fought with the top of his BluBlockers, and terribly white skin.

The cabby and I looked in the rearview mirror at the same time, each catching a first glimpse of my forehead.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph ... what the hell's on your forehead, pal?"

I ignored the cabby and searched my pockets for Helena's address.

"Are we going to the hospital?"

"If you need to know, we happen to be on our way to a very exclusive Christmas party."

"All right, sister. Whatever you say. Just give me the secret address so we can be on our merry."

I finally discovered the scrap of paper with Helena's address in my wallet, right next to the other scraps of paper with names of stuff like CDs to buy, books to read, and videos to rent. My wallet was puffed to no end, like Dizzy Gillespie's cheeks blowing a high C. As a matter of fact, once I had the wallet out of my back pocket, my inflammation had a little room to breathe. I had found half the cure—Keep the wallet off the butt.

"2142 Fremont, please," I said as I put the wallet in my coat pocket instead.

"Now that wasn't too hard, was it?" said the cabby.

We both ignored him as I closed my eyes and leaned my aching head against the cab window. I needed a mental and physical reprieve. Suddenly, the inflammation didn't pulsate.

"Wake me when we get there ..." And I was out.