Some Are Sicker Than Others by Andrew Seaward Read Free Book Online Page A

leather of the couch. With his elbows on his knees and his shoulders hunched slightly forward, he started rubbing his face as if he was trying to rub it off. Jesus Christ, he felt fucking horrible. His neck was throbbing…his head was splitting…it felt like he’d been in a head-on collision.
    As he uncovered his face, he looked down the line of his body and noticed that he still had on his clothes from yesterday—a pair of pepperoni-encrusted khakis, his green and gold Catholic High Crusaders warm-up jacket, and his yellow and black bumblebee running shoes. What the hell? Didn’t he even take a shower? Or did he just come home last night and pass out?
    He shook off the sleep and pressed his palms into the cushions, then straightened his legs and slowly stood up. But, the walls of the living room started to spin around him like the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at an amusement park. He swayed for a few minutes, like an inflatable doll outside of a used car lot, then leveled his vision and straightened himself out. With his eyes on the floor and his hands out in front of him, he staggered across the living room towards the stairs.
    When he got upstairs, he went straight for the bathroom, flipped on the light switch, and locked the door. He leaned inside the shower and cranked on the water, turning the knob up as hot as it would go. Sitting on the toilet cover, he untied his shoelaces, kicked off his shoes, and pulled off his pants. As he unzipped his jacket, he felt something bulgy in the pit of his side pocket. He reached inside and pulled it out. It was his pipe, lighter, and a red, plastic pill bottle, like little chess pieces, all in a row. He unscrewed the cap and turned the bottle over, but nothing came out except for some white, chalky residue. Damn. He must’ve polished off the entire bottle. It looked like he was gonna have to make another trip down to Aurora. He couldn’t start the week without any motivation. He’d never make it, especially not in this condition.
    He stuffed the chess pieces back into his pocket then carefully folded his jacket and laid it beside his pants. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the shower then began lathering his chest, legs, and butt. About half way into it, he began to get that feeling, like something slimy sloshing around in his gut. He put down the soap and crouched into a squatting position, his knees against his chest, his palms flat against the sides of the tub. With his eyes closed and his mouth wide open, he lurched repeatedly forward until the vomit churned out. It was pale yellow, like freshly squeezed lemon juice with chunks of something acidic spinning around like pulp. It mixed with the water raining down from the shower and danced its way down the drain of the tub. He stayed in that position for a little while longer then rinsed out his mouth and stood back up.
    The rest of his routine went along without too much difficulty. He always felt better after his morning throw-up.
     
    After he got dressed, he staggered downstairs into the kitchen and went right for the coffee maker, which, thankfully, had a fresh pot. His wife, Cheryl, was standing barefoot at the sink, hand-washing dishes and loading them into the machine for another unnecessary run.
    “Good morning,” she said, turning towards him, holding a handful of soapy silverware.
    “Morning,” Dave groaned as he opened the cupboard and pulled down his favorite #1 Dad coffee mug.
    “How’d you sleep?”
    “Fine.”
    “Yeah, I’ll bet you did.”
    Dave rolled his eyes as he grabbed the coffee decanter and emptied it out until there was nothing left but sludge at the bottom. He knew that Cheryl was just trying to pick a fight with him and that really wasn’t what he needed, at least not until he had his morning cup of joe. He set the decanter back on the burner then went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bagel and some cream cheese. He put the bagel on a plate and grabbed a knife and napkin