ICYMI, Part V - Page 2

Days earlier Lindsey laughs over the phone telling me how she needed a Haitian-Creole translator for a client at work. Antony Tomas was more than helpful and even though she didn’t understand the dialect, it made her think of my ill attempts at Jamaican patois:

[Dey pon dildo maca. Me am no bucky, blackheart. Me am dogheart wit dem dat test me no?]

The recollection gave a false memory that she had traveled with me to New Orleans for the NOLA Poetry Festival years earlier, when our free domestic flights were still active; how we walked the french quarter  in a drunken haze but truthfully that was my friend/ former 10k associate, Glenn Davis, who took me around the bars on Bourbon Street before and after a blur of pleasantries. 

***

I am crashing the fuck out. Stir crazy. 

🎶Im feeling you, Im warning youuuu. You know I’m feeling you, I’m warn-🎶

Fuck Drake!

I'm chewing my thumbnail at the edges and you say I should always be authentic… You're talking out one side your mouth and your foot is coming out the other way.

Why the fuck are we even talking about this? I told iris it’s like sitting next to my casket before it’s full. I obviously can’t be honest about all the people who deserve my fist in their face. I often approach communication with a Millernarian outlook; same, and perhaps moreso can be said when securing a stable mode of communication. I do not like to repeat myself, I do not like to raise my voice, and I do not like being patronized.

After a petit mal seizure at work on 6/6/26, I was more concerned with the fact an employee from the Pho stall to our right had to grab me before I walked into the deep fryer while my eyes fluttered. I didn’t lose muscle tone but a sense of pride after coming to just before Danielle administered a 5 mg dose of Nayzlam to my right nostril. I waved her off with my right arm, trying my best to say, don’t give it to me unless I fall down, and by the time I could form the words, the till still needed to be counted and Danielle needed someone to walk her to her car after closing. 

Venus and Jupiter were set to align only minutes before I stepped off the bus and into another focal seizure later that night. My phone, and subsequently my novel, waited patiently in the seat that was next to me.

Eric had mentioned how strong I was while he tried to hold me back, how he watched me pull myself out of a seizure and he’d never seen anyone walk around like that before. I was initially abhorred when I read stories from support groups describing the afflicted walking 10 miles before a gran mal, or into a busy lane of traffic before being hit by a car, surviving, and dying of SUDEP a year later. I felt very strongly that I was living on borrowed time and was distraught that I had lost a working novel entitled light grip/dark phase. 

Still, I needed a new phone and 2 days without my black mirror had shown me how dependent I am on constant access to information and the ability to speak with someone other than the annoying voice in my head. 

The Verizon booth on 16th Street Mall is a travesty of construction and planning, a hub for socially inadequate sales agents to essentially offer you things you don’t want or need, without wavering persistence, beneath the blazing Summer sun, against the odds of gathering crowds and fentanyl chasers ready to die for the free mall ride downtown, or, you know, start up random conversation.

I didn't mean to be abrupt within the first 30 minutes of arrival. I just wanted a new fucking phone.

“Are you interested in getting higher speed internet access?”

“No.”

“Well, we have some great plans you may like? You don’t want faster internet speed?”

“No. I just want a new phone.”

Crista wouldn’t make eye contact but loved pushing her plans on me.

“We actually have a new family packa-”

“I’m single. I live alone.”

“Well, we have this google pixel 9 plan.”

“I want a new Samsung. I just want to replace my data from the old phone. I had some important stuff on there.”

“Do you have insurance?”

“You tell me.”

I’d taken my Keppra late that day and the mood swings were amplified by the incessant heat/questions. I was also annoyed with Kennedy’s preconceived return to rehab during a surge of Knicks fans who had suddenly found out that McGregor Square has been in Denver longer than themselves. Lindsey reminded me several times before taking this job, that: you hate the sportsball and sportsball fans piss you off. It’s true I read people well and sometimes I read people too early; and when ultimately asked what my favorite sport is, I always answer that I love contact sports because I want to see some jock ass motherfucker shrink a bit when he knows I love to watch people get beat up as opposed to throwing balls at each other. 

I was annoyed by the fact a wiener dog had bit my knee when I tried to leave my apartment earlier. I let things slide too much these days and after discussing the concept of consciousness transplants from alternate versions of myself, I couldn’t help but think Don Tone from Earth 234-.ki8 would be ashamed of the pushover I’ve become during the golden years, and say I was exuding lil d energy as some smart ass quip to provoke me into being more aggressive. I suffer from frequent crying spells and maybe Big DT is right to antagonize me.  

I just, I regret so much now; it’s hard to be a man of action anymore. 

***

After 3 hours and a terse interaction with every rep working the booth, watching them take their lunch breaks in succession while my stomach growled, here he fucking comes.

He has no spatial awareness and squats like, 3” from where I’m sitting in the dissipating shade. I scoot away and he apologizes for crowding anyone but he’s being kicked out of the place where he’s staying in 5 days and his uncle gave him this phone and he’s wondering if there is a way to get a sim card or something because the assholes at Target told him to come here since all their phone cards are non-compatible. 

He takes a strong pull from the straw on his Big Gulp: “Oh, that’s not apple juice.” He looks in my direction without an invitation. “That’s Natty Daddy. Warm, but incognito Natty Daddy, heh heh.” 

Verizon’s independent sales manager is more amused by this guy than I am and it’s very apparent to everyone but: 

“Hey man, what’s your name?”

I don’t answer.

“Hey, I’m Jesus. I like that shirt. What’s your name?”

“My name’s mind your business.”

“Oh… mind your business. I can dig it. My name’s Jesus.”

“I don’t give a fuck dude. Leave me alone, 4real.”

The SM tries de-escalating by engaging Jesus with the idea of going back to Target and securing a phone card from one of the racks hanging on the wall. 

“Thanks man. Yea, there’s no way to just-”

“You don’t have a sim card. If you want a phone card, you can purchase those there. Just ask the clerk to show you where they are.”

“I will, I appreciate the help. And you-”

Jesus redirects his attention to me. 

“You enjoy Hell. And if you ever want to go to Heaven, just hit me u-”

“If you don’t get the fuck out of here right now, I’m definitely going to hit you. I don’t give a fuck who sees me. Go call your uncle, bitch. Don’t die out here.”

When I tell Lindsey about the encounter, Jesus’ involvement is funny and all, but she's quick to remind me that I need to start taking Vimpat, per my neurologist’s instructions; that she was there, at the appointment.

She sends me an AI generated plan of attack for the future and I'm quick to say I'll regulate in due time…