junkie at the juice store
If you're not aware, I recently spent 10 days in the hospital for some internal injuries I sustained in a bike accident on my last day of vacation. I was released on Saturday, but am still on bed rest and such. Though, I've been ordered to "get up and move around" 4 times a day. Easier said than done, but it is nice to get outside, even if just for a few minutes.
Despite significant internal injuries, I don't have so much as a bruise on my body. What I do have is 2 armfuls of blood-test needle marks, a grayish skin hue and constant dizziness/weakness from low blood levels, an arsenal of pain medication which I take with impunity and a complete lack of desire/ability to groom. I shower, but I don't so much bother to trim or brush my hair. Just to be clear (this is all about the setup), I was already in dire need of a haircut and hadn't shaved a week before my vacation even started, so now things are a bit out of control. Ah yes, and 7 days of no food has left me somewhere around 15 pounds underweight.
So, yesterday I decide I should go out. Nothing special, I'll just throw on a hat and grab a quick bite to eat. My mom is here helping the wife out, so we go to a fish taco joint. My walk from the car is less than stellar, and I need help up the set of 5 stairs into the place. We sit down and I promptly rattle off a bunch of instructions for my mom, then put my head down on the table to rest. While we eat, I notice a random lunch-rush patron staring at me here and there. I think nothing of it and continue to send my mom out for salsa and drink refills as it proves to be more than I can handle. I barely eat one taco, and even that takes me at least 15 minutes to accomplish. I have no trouble killing 4 waters though, nor do I have trouble resting between bites...it was pitiful.
We get up to leave, and I shuffle my way to and out the door. With help from my mom and the railing, I lower myself down the set of 5 stairs, and as I shuffle away, I hear a victim of the double popped-collar phenomenon mutter something about "heroin junkie". With that, it hits me. I'm wearing a ratty hat half-cocked off my ratty head of hair which is draped over my scruffy, pasty-gray skin. My bony arms are lined with "track marks", my eyes are bloodshot from weeks of pain medication and oversleep; I can barely eat, I can barely walk, hell, I can barely hold my head up at the table...seemingly, all I can manage is to bark orders at the poor old saint who still has the heart and money to take care of me.
I laughed, then walked over to the Jamba Juice and terrorized a bunch of smoothie-loving soccer moms.
