I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Wait, so I have worms? Living in my stomach?"
"Yes, that's correct. Well, not entirely correct. They're not only in your stomach, but your intestines and colon as well. And possibly elsewhere."
I stared at the doctor for a moment, wondering how this could have happened to me. Sweat beaded up on my forehead. I felt like I might pass out at any time.
Then I vomited, lost consciousness, fell off the examining table and cracked my head open on the floor.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
I am become milkshake.
Herbert felt satisfied. He also felt sure that he would soon feel yet more satisfied, conceivably more satisfied than he had ever felt. Finally he would taste a milkshake.
Herbert's childhood had been one of deprivation. He cried a lot, possibly because of what he had been deprived, or possibly his mother deprived him because he cried so much. It was impossible to tell some five decades later. He resented his mother, Helga, for not allowing him to have milkshakes and other things children crave. But mostly milkshakes.
"Herbert, you're too fat already," she would say, which was true, but a rude comment to make to a child. "And you're crying. If I give you this milkshake you'll just cry into it and your tears will make it salty. Milkshakes are supposed to be sweet. So no, you can't have any. You'll ruin it." What Herbert didn't know was that his mother was an alcoholic, and she loved to drink vanilla milkshakes with peach schnapps, because she was a disgusting woman. Not only did she think he was too fat for a tasty milkshake, his partaking would have directly cut into her alcohol consumption. So clearly that wasn't an option. And who could afford two milkshakes in those days, anyway? They weren't rich, clearly.
His mother's arguments were persuasive, Herbert thought, so he worked tirelessly to create a tear-catcher. To be honest the tear-catcher was nothing more than a washcloth safety-pinned to Herbert's glasses so that it hung down across his cheeks and nose, soaking up the tears as they streamed down his face.
"Look!" Herbert yelled after completing the tear-catcher. "May I have a sip now, mother? Even if I cry my tears won't spill into the drink. See? See?" he asked while bawling.
Of course his mother didn't want him to drink her precious peach schnapps so she smacked him in the head and broke his glasses, which also caused the tear-catcher to break, although more than anything it just became unattached from his glasses and dropped to the floor softly, like a washcloth and two safety pins likely would.
As far as Herbert could remember, similar scenes characterized his childhood, and later his early, middle and late-middle adulthood, as he was a loser and lived with his mother for a variety of loser-y reasons. He loved her, but he loved her in a distinctly Stockholm syndrome way, although neither Herbert nor his mother was aware of Stockholm syndrome, even though it had long been used as a plot point in sitcoms. But they didn't like sitcoms. They liked shows about carpentry, and those nice Sunday morning news people, and sometimes they watched The Wheel when Herbert's mother got really drunk.
So Herbert learned to live without milkshakes in his life. His knew his mother couldn’t live forever, and when she was dead he would have all the milkshakes he could handle! Maybe even more than he could handle, he thought devilishly. That would teach her – he could drink so many milkshakes that he would make himself vomit just like she used to (though that was due to the schnapps, not the milkshakes; Herbert, however, never knew about that).
He waited for his mother’s death, first a year and then a decade and then soon 47 years had passed. Herbert graduated from high school and took a job in an office, sitting at a desk and doing nothing that benefited anyone but was somehow supposedly a necessary function in modern society. At first he had a typewriter and then a series of computers that he was barely able to operate, but it didn’t really matter because everyone else in his office was old and worthless too and they couldn’t operate their computers properly either.
Herbert struggled daily with his computer at work for eight hours, then took the #117 bus home to his mother. One day, not unlike any other, Herbert walked in the front door after a long day of incompetency and shouted, “Mother! I’m home. What shall we have for dinner?” Herbert always asked his mother what she wanted to eat, although he knew full well that, being a Wednesday, they would have spaghetti and meatball TV dinners. Normally Herbert’s mother would respond to his query with some meanness, but on this particular day she said nothing and he immediately knew she was dead.
He walked through the house to her bedroom, where he found her sitting up in bed with a sitcom blaring on the television. Herbert wasn’t sure what it was, and its vileness caused the bile to rise in his throat. He turned off the TV, turned to his mother and said, “Well, I guess I’ll try a milkshake now.” A single tear dropped off his cheek, and he ground it into the filthy carpet with his heel.
Herbert felt triumphant. He had buried his mother in the backyard beneath the hackberry tree, per her request. It had taken a long time, and moving his mother (who was herself quite fat, more than likely from all the milkshakes and sugary liquor) proved more difficult than expected. With the aid of a wheelbarrow, though, he was able to get her outside. After filling the grave, he went inside and took a shower. Then he took the bus to the nearest fast food restaurant.
“I’ll have a milkshake,” Herbert said breathlessly. He could hardly believe it was finally happening. “What flavor?” the clerk asked. Herbert had never considered this. Flavors? He thought all milkshakes were vanilla. He went with that, as that’s what his mother had always had. “Vanilla, please. To go,” he replied, with more confidence in his voice than had ever been present before. He had barely enough money to pay for the milkshake, and he knew he would have to forgo the bus ride home in order to afford it, but he could hardly give up now.
Herbert watched the birth of his milkshake, created by this god of a pimply teenage fast food employee. His mouth dropped when he was handed the milkshake. A tear came to his eye, but he sucked it back in. He didn’t want to cry even though the occasion was so joyous, and crying was pretty much his default response to any situation, good or bad. Still, he wanted to maintain his dignity. This was a somber and solemn moment.
Herbert took his milkshake and walked outside. He breathed in deeply and felt satisfied. He took the top off the cup containing the milkshake and peered inside. It was silky and smooth and it clung to the walls and moved with a glacial magnificence. This must be what it was like discovering Antarctica, he thought. He put the lid back on, careful to protect the milkshake, and took his first step home. His toe caught on a crack in the sidewalk and he fell forward. The Styrofoam cup was crushed in his grasp and milkshake exploded outwards. Herbert’s face hit the ground and his glasses were smashed. Blood poured out of his nose and he began to cry.
Herbert's childhood had been one of deprivation. He cried a lot, possibly because of what he had been deprived, or possibly his mother deprived him because he cried so much. It was impossible to tell some five decades later. He resented his mother, Helga, for not allowing him to have milkshakes and other things children crave. But mostly milkshakes.
"Herbert, you're too fat already," she would say, which was true, but a rude comment to make to a child. "And you're crying. If I give you this milkshake you'll just cry into it and your tears will make it salty. Milkshakes are supposed to be sweet. So no, you can't have any. You'll ruin it." What Herbert didn't know was that his mother was an alcoholic, and she loved to drink vanilla milkshakes with peach schnapps, because she was a disgusting woman. Not only did she think he was too fat for a tasty milkshake, his partaking would have directly cut into her alcohol consumption. So clearly that wasn't an option. And who could afford two milkshakes in those days, anyway? They weren't rich, clearly.
His mother's arguments were persuasive, Herbert thought, so he worked tirelessly to create a tear-catcher. To be honest the tear-catcher was nothing more than a washcloth safety-pinned to Herbert's glasses so that it hung down across his cheeks and nose, soaking up the tears as they streamed down his face.
"Look!" Herbert yelled after completing the tear-catcher. "May I have a sip now, mother? Even if I cry my tears won't spill into the drink. See? See?" he asked while bawling.
Of course his mother didn't want him to drink her precious peach schnapps so she smacked him in the head and broke his glasses, which also caused the tear-catcher to break, although more than anything it just became unattached from his glasses and dropped to the floor softly, like a washcloth and two safety pins likely would.
As far as Herbert could remember, similar scenes characterized his childhood, and later his early, middle and late-middle adulthood, as he was a loser and lived with his mother for a variety of loser-y reasons. He loved her, but he loved her in a distinctly Stockholm syndrome way, although neither Herbert nor his mother was aware of Stockholm syndrome, even though it had long been used as a plot point in sitcoms. But they didn't like sitcoms. They liked shows about carpentry, and those nice Sunday morning news people, and sometimes they watched The Wheel when Herbert's mother got really drunk.
So Herbert learned to live without milkshakes in his life. His knew his mother couldn’t live forever, and when she was dead he would have all the milkshakes he could handle! Maybe even more than he could handle, he thought devilishly. That would teach her – he could drink so many milkshakes that he would make himself vomit just like she used to (though that was due to the schnapps, not the milkshakes; Herbert, however, never knew about that).
He waited for his mother’s death, first a year and then a decade and then soon 47 years had passed. Herbert graduated from high school and took a job in an office, sitting at a desk and doing nothing that benefited anyone but was somehow supposedly a necessary function in modern society. At first he had a typewriter and then a series of computers that he was barely able to operate, but it didn’t really matter because everyone else in his office was old and worthless too and they couldn’t operate their computers properly either.
Herbert struggled daily with his computer at work for eight hours, then took the #117 bus home to his mother. One day, not unlike any other, Herbert walked in the front door after a long day of incompetency and shouted, “Mother! I’m home. What shall we have for dinner?” Herbert always asked his mother what she wanted to eat, although he knew full well that, being a Wednesday, they would have spaghetti and meatball TV dinners. Normally Herbert’s mother would respond to his query with some meanness, but on this particular day she said nothing and he immediately knew she was dead.
He walked through the house to her bedroom, where he found her sitting up in bed with a sitcom blaring on the television. Herbert wasn’t sure what it was, and its vileness caused the bile to rise in his throat. He turned off the TV, turned to his mother and said, “Well, I guess I’ll try a milkshake now.” A single tear dropped off his cheek, and he ground it into the filthy carpet with his heel.
Herbert felt triumphant. He had buried his mother in the backyard beneath the hackberry tree, per her request. It had taken a long time, and moving his mother (who was herself quite fat, more than likely from all the milkshakes and sugary liquor) proved more difficult than expected. With the aid of a wheelbarrow, though, he was able to get her outside. After filling the grave, he went inside and took a shower. Then he took the bus to the nearest fast food restaurant.
“I’ll have a milkshake,” Herbert said breathlessly. He could hardly believe it was finally happening. “What flavor?” the clerk asked. Herbert had never considered this. Flavors? He thought all milkshakes were vanilla. He went with that, as that’s what his mother had always had. “Vanilla, please. To go,” he replied, with more confidence in his voice than had ever been present before. He had barely enough money to pay for the milkshake, and he knew he would have to forgo the bus ride home in order to afford it, but he could hardly give up now.
Herbert watched the birth of his milkshake, created by this god of a pimply teenage fast food employee. His mouth dropped when he was handed the milkshake. A tear came to his eye, but he sucked it back in. He didn’t want to cry even though the occasion was so joyous, and crying was pretty much his default response to any situation, good or bad. Still, he wanted to maintain his dignity. This was a somber and solemn moment.
Herbert took his milkshake and walked outside. He breathed in deeply and felt satisfied. He took the top off the cup containing the milkshake and peered inside. It was silky and smooth and it clung to the walls and moved with a glacial magnificence. This must be what it was like discovering Antarctica, he thought. He put the lid back on, careful to protect the milkshake, and took his first step home. His toe caught on a crack in the sidewalk and he fell forward. The Styrofoam cup was crushed in his grasp and milkshake exploded outwards. Herbert’s face hit the ground and his glasses were smashed. Blood poured out of his nose and he began to cry.
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