Always one to inadvertently play the fool, I duped myself into believing the idea of taking time off work in the dead of winter was a fine and righteous idea. For the first waking hour of the first morning of the first day, I lay prone in my bed paralyzed by an enigmatic and menacing awareness of doom. Almost like seeing that old ugly, blind dog with one day left to be adopted. Or driving across the state of Indiana. Or Grandpa calling to tell us he was bringing his boyfriend over to meet the family. Nearly the same as hearing church bells tolling at an odd hour. Your gut impression is that there is some religious observance that you aren't aware of, but at the same time, something unsettling gnaws from another place inside of you. Inside of me? The onset of illness? Fifteen years without calling in sick, and I treat myself to a winter leave only to fall prey to the microorganisms that some inconsiderate ass has left lying about?

I'll be damned if I'm coming down with something. An irritation in the throat and an uncomfortable burning in the chest. And it escalated. Oh, I don't fall ill often, and when it happens I don't suffer it well. In the midst of my misery I am always scolded for being an unreasonable patient. Sympathy, I suppose, goes to the deserving. I whimper and whine like a child and call out for nighttime cold medicine in the morning and for more of it an hour later. The potion is labeled to be administered at bedtime but my rhythmic clock has been in disarray since my decadent teenage years. The real Me does not become alert until the afternoon, so I take my medicine when my unrepentant psyche calls for it. And when it doesn't perform as I think it should, I accuse do-gooders of conspiring to modify the formula to placate wealthy and influential Oprah watchers.

Always one to inadvertently play the fool, I duped myself into believing the idea of taking time off work in the dead of winter was a fine and righteous idea. For the first waking hour of the first morning of the first day, I lay prone in my bed paralyzed by an enigmatic and menacing awareness of doom. Almost like seeing that old ugly, blind dog with one day left to be adopted. Or driving across the state of Indiana. Or Grandpa calling to tell us he was bringing his boyfriend over to meet the family. Nearly the same as hearing church bells tolling at an odd hour. Your gut impression is that there is some religious observance that you aren't aware of, but at the same time, something unsettling gnaws from another place inside of you. Inside of me? The onset of illness? Fifteen years without calling in sick, and I treat myself to a winter leave only to fall prey to the microorganisms that some inconsiderate ass has left lying about?

I'll be damned if I'm coming down with something. An irritation in the throat and an uncomfortable burning in the chest. And it escalated. Oh, I don't fall ill often, and when it happens I don't suffer it well. In the midst of my misery I am always scolded for being an unreasonable patient. Sympathy, I suppose, goes to the deserving. I whimper and whine like a child and call out for nighttime cold medicine in the morning and for more of it an hour later. The potion is labeled to be administered at bedtime but my rhythmic clock has been in disarray since my decadent teenage years. The real Me does not become alert until the afternoon, so I take my medicine when my unrepentant psyche calls for it. And when it doesn't perform as I think it should, I accuse do-gooders of conspiring to modify the formula to placate wealthy and influential Oprah watchers.

Yes, the medicine does do something, though it is vague and mysterious in its effects.  I am always aware of my epic plight and attendant suffering, yet curiously dismissive of them at the same time. In my ailing blankness I turned to the unfamiliar comfort of daytime television and found that I most enjoy The Jerry Springer Show. Springer is a work of art for the masses, and his show is a carnival, like the muddy doings they used to hold along the levee in my hometown. Spinning neon and  parolees herding cheery children onto tumbledown teacups and strapping sniggering teens into corkscrew roller coasters.  Geeks and barkers and  toothless women begging to offer the opportunity to flip a lopsided basketball through a too-small rim. The wealthy jostling with the poor to perhaps catch a free peek at some human oddity. Yes, Springer is an old-time carnival—scorned, but always managing an attraction. A friend to the woozy and offering a respite from having to think too much. A man worthy of raising a medicine cup to.