It Was Only a Matter of Time

When I woke up on Sunday morning, Jim was sitting on the opposite end of the couch playing with one of those rubber ball paddles; each THWACK of the ball against the wood sent needles through my temples. Or so it felt like.

"Please stop," I whispered, afraid that the sound of my own voice even in a normal tone would bust my head open.

"GOD DAMN IT, Stimpy!" Jim shouted. "I was on 397! I almost broke John Sledge's record of 402!"

Then he ripped the ball from its elastic tether and began smacking my legs with the paddle. It didn't hurt when he struck me; however, the sound of the plywood against my skin was too much to bear.

Finally, he stopped. "You know you've been passed out on that couch since yesterday afternoon?" he asked.

"What?" I said, sitting up.

"Actually, that's not true," Jim said. "You got up several times and staggered to the bathroom, then into the kitchen to make another drink. You did that something like 15 times. Other than that, though, you've been lying there collecting funk since I got here."

"Really?" I asked.

"Sure. I just figured you were having women troubles and left you alone," he said. "That's what I do when I have women troubles—just drink myself into pervasive oblivion. And the clock ticks on!"

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I thought he was playing one of his "jokes," like the time he cut pictures of Tommy Lee Jones from a magazine and glued them inside the lenses of my glasses, then laughed for months any time I told someone that I'd seen the star of Coal Miner's Daughter walking by my house every day for nearly a week.

It was true, though, that I didn't remember anything about the weekend. There was usually a trip to the grocery store, or to the laundromat, memories of the boy next door screaming at the barking dogs, "Shut the fuck up!" And, of course, the crowing of the rooster across the road from sunrise to sundown.

I couldn't recall any of this. My last clear memory was drinking a cocktail of cranberry juice and citrus-flavored Vodka from my Simon Barsinister glass, a Christmas gift from Jim.

Suddenly, one other thought occurred to me as I looked down and saw how scantily dressed I was. "Jim, was I really unconscious all weekend?"

"Yep. Passed out cold as a ten pound block of cheese in the dairy case at Winn Dixie," he said.

"Then what have you been doing all this time?" I asked, covering my chest with a blanket that had been tangled around my feet.

Jim looked away, red in the face.

"NO!" I yelled. "Tell me you didn't!"

"I'm sorry! I couldn't help myself!" he said, wringing his hands. "I knew I could never do it while you were awake and in charge of all your faculties! I'm sorry! I just had to find out, to satisfy my own sick curiosity."

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I began screaming, and continued until Jim finally said, "And I have to say I like Barrel Fever a lot better than Naked. That Me Talk Pretty One Day was just fluff, though, especially the one about trying to get rid of the giant turd in the toilet . . ."

After he wrestled me down, pinning my arms on either side, he said, "And if you ever tell anyone I read David Sedaris and laughed, I will hunt you down like a pig and kill you quick!"

I promised as he ran out the door and down the stairs on the first leg of his long journey back to Alabama.

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