Wheeze

Wheeze                                                                                 by:  David Tongay

   The alarm in my head goes off early.  Looking at the window through sleepy eyes I see the sun hasn’t peaked over the eastern horizon, yet.  It’s quiet time in the house, but outside the house is a different story.  The animals that live by day have been up far longer than me fighting for territory, searching for food and moving from minute to minute just trying to survive the day.  My windows and doors shut off their world leaving me with a setting of semi-silence for reflection and in a sleepy state.  Me?  I’m just trying to get downstairs without knocking a picture off the wall.  Scuffing into the kitchen I pluck an empty coffee mug from the cupboard and pour out a cup full from yesterday’s brew.  Set the microwave on “nuke” and wait 90 seconds at full power yields a passable cup that is still far from fresh and an insult to all baristas and coffee aficionados.  I settle into the overstuffed chairs as it exhales in receipt of my butt.  Outside the house is a muffled riot of sounds, but only as ambient, not present since the windows and doors are just about average insulators. 

   Then, I hear it…a distant asthmatic wheeze or creak that interrupts the darkness of the room not loud, but distant and mechanical.  Not paying much attention to it I let it pass preferring to think more of the warmth in my hand and a possible nap while still trying to wake up.  There is no schedule to keep at this time.  Wheeze.  What was that?  Wheeze.  Is it happening at regular intervals?  I count…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, wheeze.  There it is, again.  I look about the room my senses starting to ratchet up.  Setting the cup carefully on a coaster made from my grandson’s last year Christmas’ project I decide to investigate.  I have a problem with diminished hearing capacity in my left ear that inhibits my ability to triangulate sound.  That makes me lucky to know where the television sits in the room.  It can be on in some anonymous room in another setting, but if I don’t see it, I have to look for it. 

   Walking toward the front door past the basement stairs I am thinking…gas pipe sound?  Is the dryer running?  Wheeze.  No, wait, it’s fainter.  I stop and stand holding my breath.  The tinnitus in my left ear rages endlessly.  Caffeine has a direct effect on it, but at the moment I don’t have that much coffee in me.  It’s always there, just not as loud. 

   I turn around and walk into the kitchen.  Wheeze.  Looking around I am thinking about the plumbing leak we had in the wall several years ago that caused a furor of DIY activity, power tools and trips to the home improvement store for paint and other finishing materials.  Drips don’t…wheeze.  Pantry.  Wait for it…wheeze.  I can’t find it.  Seeing last Sunday’s crossword on the table I decide it may be better to deliberate on this from a different angle.  The scenarios for imminent disaster are running through my head at full speed.  Wheeze (softer, but it’s still there).  Shit.  I can’t deal with the esoteric of some guy from New York’s idea of a good time playing with words when there is a full-fledged mystery afoot.  I push the    crossword aside.  Wheeze.

   I’ve decided it must be mechanical and not from a natural source.  Though it sounds like it could be a baby bird it comes to mind that baby birds are a little more random in their sounds than precisely every seven seconds.  Wheeze.  Throw that out.  Squirrel…hmm?  Wheeze.  Why would a squirrel make a noise every seven seconds?  Certainly they are not on any time fame to make noise on a regular basis, are they?  Wheeze.  Sit and turn your head toward the noise.  Use your good ear.  Wheeze (fainter).  Turn your head the other way.  Wheeze (louder).  Where in the…?

   My wife’s alarm upstairs goes off and I know the day for her will begin.  The creak in the upstairs floor (wheeze) telegraphs her mission to the bathroom.  Wheeze.  I hear her heading for the stairs where calls to me in her sleepy voice, “Hello…”

   Slowly taking a step at a time she descends the stair way.  Her eyes are squinting from the light that is now filtering into the room from the rising sun.  She pulls a pair of yellow sunglasses she picked up as a sample from the Chevrolet booth at last year’s Kane county fair from the pocket of her robe and puts them on.  Wheeze (very distant).  She starts off talking about today’s events and where we have to be and with whom.  I’m trying to listen to her, but not interrupt my search for the (wheeze) source of this sound.

“Have you ever noticed there is a sound in this house that occurs every seven seconds?” I ask.

“What kind of sound?” looking puzzled at the challenge of my question.

“It sounds like a small squeak, like a rusty hinge or something.  It happens every seven seconds.” 

She looks back at me with a dismissive look and says, “Now you’re sounding like my dad did when he started his dementia.”

   “No, I’m not going into dementia.  I hear this sound over here every seven seconds.”

She walks past me and opens up the patio door still not interested.  The ambient noise level is increased seven fold when the sound of nature invades my field of operation.  My test lab is suddenly polluted with bird chirps, awakening traffic noise and the sound of an ultra-light plane flying over head. There is no way I can isolate this, now.

   “So what’s it sound like?”  She bends and gives me a perfunctory good morning kiss.

Looking up at her a little miffed by her insensitivity I reply, “I dunno, it’s a small squeak that sounds mechanical.  It happens every seven seconds.”

   “Can you hear it, now?” She walks up to the front door opening it to even more noise level.

   “Not with all this extra noise!”

   “You’re half deaf anyway.  How can you hear anything like that?”

   “When everything is quiet I can hear it.  You’ve opened up the doors and now there is simply too much noise to pick it out.”

   “You can hear it where you are sitting?”

   “I suppose so if I try.”  She walks over to the chair and stands next tom me. 

   “Say something when you hear it.”  I sit quietly. (wheeze)  I raise my finger.

   “Did you say something?” she asks. (wheeze) I raise my finger, again.

   “You didn’t say something” with a little annoyance.

   “Listen and I will raise my finger when I hear it.” (wheeze) I raise my finger, yet again.

   “I don't what you are talking about.  I’ve got to go take a shower.”  She walks across the living room and mounts the stairs.  “You’re scaring me with this.  You need to go see the doctor.”

   “For what?  Because I hear something in this house every seven seconds?  What can she prescribe for that?”  I get an eye roll and she heads upstairs.

(wheeze)

   I abandon the search and follow her up the stairs.  It’s time to start the day. 

   The planned day unfolds.  We spend most of the time in the garden mixing soil and complaining about the chipmunks digging up newly planted seedlings.  We find several caches of peanuts buried in small mounds amongst established plants with foliage perfect for hiding treasure and a stored meal.  The noise of the neighborhood continues throughout the day burying any further thought about the mystery of the second sound.  It’s been abandoned for another time and a quiet setting. 

   It’s 4:18 AM.  There is no light coming into the bedroom.  The memory of the sound worms its way into my opening thought process.  I decide to get up and try it again.  But first…coffee.  I make a new pot, this time, sitting in the kitchen.  The coffee maker pops and hisses its course until the last drips of my morning ritual seep past the filter and plop quietly into the warm glass pot.  After pouring a mug I sit back down in the same kitchen chair where I heard the sound before.  The living room chair was the best place to hear, but I figure I would try the kitchen again to see if I could isolate it here.  Sound does travels in strange ways since the hearing loss in my left ear.  I wait.  I wait some more.  Where is it?  Maybe it was just a random thing after all.  I’m not hearing it.  These townhouses are co-joined, right?  Could have been something from the neighbor’s house...

   I get up from the chair and walk back into the original source of the sound, the living room.  Coffee mug in hand I open up the patio door to hear the morning sounds of the birds.  I sit down in the overstuffed chair and settle in.  My eyes closed I sip at the hot mug.  Wheeze.  My eyes open and I search the room.  Wheeze.  I’m going to find it this time…wheeze. 

   On the table at knee height facing me sits the source of the mystery sound.  Its golden eye blinks at me with regularity…on…off…on…off.  Then, wheeze.  In a previous life it sat on the wall table where it would spray a mist of scented air freshener at me every time I passed.  I would choke on the mist in the air.  After complaining about it, I found it in the narrow powder room on the toilet tank.  Its eye was facing the wall, but the nozzle aimed at me.  Once I started urinating I couldn’t stop until my bladder emptied.  Pfffft!  I was trapped!  This thing would spray at me every seven seconds…

Empty of anything that gave it a purpose its only function now is to react to the message sent every seven seconds by its on-board computer.  The long lived battery is driving it like an oil pump in a dry field.  No longer was it capable of emitting its choking gas powered package of air freshener.  It is now alive only by its memory.  Wheeze.  I'm looking at a zombie.

   “Did you see what I left for you on the table?”

   “Yes!  I did.  Thank you!”

   “What do you think of that? That was it wasn’t it?”

   “Yup, it sure is.”

   “So, what do you think about that”

   “What do I think?  I thought enough of it to write 1500 words about it.”

   “1500 words?  What are you going do with that?”

Wards Drunk (or, Montgomery Ward - Go ask your parents)

Wards Drunk - Written as a response to a Mike Firesmith blog Saturday, June 28, 2014 by David Tongay

Writing with the Demon Muse and The Wife Beater at Starbucks on a Saturday Morning Using a Pen.

The first drink we served up was in a wax lined paper cup poured from a sweaty 40 ounce bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.  It was kind of cold, frothy and had that taste of fermented grain that became so familiar to me.  The alcohol's efficiency and effectiveness were more than adequate since I was a mere seventeen blessed with a good circulation and a clean liver.  I had a giddiness budding in my chest wanting to get this initiation moving along.  The older guy that bought it for us was a good salesman and managed to talk another kid I worked with to joining us.  We were off the clock from our jobs at Montgomery Ward and having a little midday lunch.  What could possibly be better than enjoying food with friends and a good beer?  My bravado had reassured the guy that I knew what I was doing after pumping my age up to sort of legal.  From the start he knew he was "contributing to the delinquency of a minor."  He had challenged our manhood by asking if we had ever been drunk.  That was like asking if we ever had a "piece of ass."  Of course we had.  Lots of times.  Heck, I'd be buying beer for you if I hadn't left my ID at my girlfriend's house.  Yeah, sure, kid.  Whatever you say.

We sat under a shaded oak on a knoll overlooking the highway.  It was good spot to sit since we could keep an eye on any approaching cops or other figures of authority.  We ate our sandwiches and swilled the beer while my host entertained us with his deck of fuck cards.  Each card had a couple engaged in the act from various angles.  These were tamer images than today's fare, but hey, I got to see what really went on when this kind of thing happens.  I was still two years away from my first sexual liaison, so, I took a lot of mental notes thinking it could come in handy someday.  Some of the women on the back of the cards looked they were in pain.  Others pasted on a wistful smile more than likely a little drunk themselves.  I thumbed through them looking bored and unimpressed while trying to hide the burgeoning boner they were inspiring.  How a kid responds to these images was as important as the face he makes on his first taste of alcohol.  To look worldly and experienced as if it was all so boring was essential.  Impressing this guy was more important than the fact I was getting quite drunk and didn't know what was coming.  The sandwich my mother had packed for me buffered little and I was set for an interesting afternoon.

We returned to work on time to keep from raising any undue attention.  We tried our best to maintain our dignity and swallow our laughter since everything seemed pretty damn funny at the time.  We reported at arm's length to our supervisor and I was sent to the Will Call window.  My two drinking buddies were assigned to another area of the store and we parted ways.  As I passed the guy I was relieving on the way to the Will Call staging area he said "Hey" and I hey-ed him back.  He was taking a hard look at me as he passed.  I was unsure of what he thought he saw, but he said nothing and I parked my drunken butt on the stool provided by the store and waited for customers.

I was feeling fairly thickheaded by this time and the diuretic feature inherent in beer was beginning to make a real impression on my bladder.  I had never felt such urgency before and I was desperate for relief.  New to this aspect of drunken behavior my instincts hadn't developed what veteran drunks have over their years of making stupid decisions.  I looked around wondering where I could go, but found little in the way of legal opportunity.  Walking around the racks of merchandise in this temporary staging area I tried to get my mind off of my pain by reading labels and sides of boxes.  I sucked in my stomach in an attempt to make some room and decided I could gut this out somehow.  What I didn't understand in that near moment was this was denial sophistry at its best.  So, I sat on the stool attempting to take off the pressure with my mind frantically searching for a way I could go take a piss.  It became evident I was going to lose this contest and started looking for a urinal or toilet substitute since I could not leave my post.  Obsessed with finding a relief and finding little, I figured I could either wet my pants with what seemed like a gallon of pee or give way to a state of zero discretionary tolerance and let loose in the corner by the stool.  I chose the latter as a forceful arc of crystal clear urine saturated the painted cinder block corner of the room before I realized what I was doing.  It probably smelled, but I couldn't tell and I didn't care.  Most of my senses along with any sense of guilt and pride were gone.   The relief I felt was almost orgasmic and my head began to clear.  I had rid myself of the pain and all was well until I heard the Will Call bell ring.

I walked unsteadily to the half door and greeted the customer.  Not knowing I was reeking from beer breath as I gave him a sunny smile and asked him for his receipt.  I went back into the storage room and found his purchase with his name written on the box.  It was in the corner I had graced earlier and some of the puddle had leeched into the cardboard.  My judgment told me if I gave it to him with the stain side away he would never notice.  I made an attempt at a joke to camouflage the crime while I handed over the evidence.  He signed for his package and took it with the stain facing away from his view.  As he left the memory of my offense went with him.  I walked back to the stool in the corner and sat until I was hit again with the need to go.  Since I had marked my territory earlier in one corner I opted for the other to my left.  Staggering back to the stool I took an inventory of what I had left feeling no guilt.

Two more customers came and went just as before; happy face and a wet box.  Then, the phone rang.  It was my supervisor telling me to report to his desk.  Normally, Will Call is an outpost position where a changing of the guard is necessary to keep the area secure.  All I could think about was I'm being relieved.  I didn't wait.  I knew there was a bathroom on the way and walked hurriedly toward it, then ran.  Once inside, things began to unravel further as I began to feel nauseous.  I kicked open the stall door and fell on my knees splashing my head about two inches into the toilet water.  I pulled my head up as I vomited up most of my sandwich and what seemed to be the entire amount of beer I had for lunch.  I was left with a caustic acid feeling in my throat and the fragrance of stale malt, barley, wheat and stomach lining filled my nose.  Slowly I began to feel better and my head began to clear.  I stood up and pissed one last time.  Again, it took forever to empty my bladder.  A buddy of mine came into the bathroom and looked at me with concern.  "Man, what are doing?  Are you fuckin' drunK?  Mateo is gonna kill you, man." I mumbled something back to him trying to convince hi of my innocence.  He wasn't having any of it and devised a plan.  "Look, I'll tell him you got sick and were feverish.  He'll agree with me that you needed to go home.  Now, get the hell outta here, man!"

I shuffled my way out to the parking lot illuminated by a bright sun that had turned into an obscenity.  I was blind and fought for my survival.  I fumbled for keys then my sunglasses in the visor of my car.  The metal temples and frame were hot from sitting in the summer sun.  I sat for a moment trying to regain some semblance of composure before recklessly deciding I could drive.  The heat accelerated my budding inaugural hangover as I started to obsess about what my parents would say if I was caught.  As I took to the road I found myself incredibly thirsty for anything wet.  My first hangover headache was starting to take root in the center of my brain.  I was dehydrated and still drunk.  I drove home slowly and with caution hoping to avoid any confrontation. 

My plan was to walk in like nothing was wrong and head upstairs to my room.  I would play the role of a sullen teenager, close my door and fire up my stereo.  Fortunately, no one was home and I sat in darkness sipping water and soda until my head cleared.  Eventually, I fell asleep on my bed until my step-sister came home from school.  Somehow, I managed to pass her inspection and felt confident I could get past the parents since she noticed nothing amiss.  I mean it's not that they would notice, anyway.  I found as time ticked on I was getting better.  I felt as though I had won the battle and would live to fight another day.  This getting drunk thing wasn't what I expected at all.  However, for some reason I liked the way it made me forget about my troubles.  It had helped me forget the pain of the constant insults and threats from my step-father.  For that drunken period of time I was emboldened to be my own man and not have to listen to what he thought I should do with my life.  The fuse was lit and burning. 

Later, in my life, I developed the necessary acting skills to avoid so many of the penalties of drinking in excess.   I was lucky my friend at Wards had kept my secret since my boss never did find found out who had pissed in all the corners of Will Call.  Since I wasn't the only one that serviced the area everyone was under suspicion.  We were all asked in private if we knew who had stained all that merchandise.  All I had to do was lie which came easy enough.  I didn't like it, but it saved my job and kept my collapsing home life in check for just awhile longer.  I was fortunate I had not been stopped on the way home and arrested for so many violations.  No, nothing like that happened.  I managed to walk the wire that day and avoid the penalty.  However, it set me up for a new life as someone I felt I had to be in order to survive if I was to do this on a regular basis.  I hid from all telling none except those that were partners in my other life where we met in darkly lit smoky barrooms, basements, garages and loud parties like a cabal of insiders. Ah yes, my drunken friends and me.  We knew the life.  We hated it no matter what they will tell you, but we lived it nonetheless laughing and joking our way to the same loneliness we felt just before the first drink hit our throats.  They were the friends of my mind that never left me alone.  We were funny, witty and urbane to a fault.  Wherever I went I had a party in my head with these guys.

Eventually, my addiction became my scorned woman.  I would call her "Whore" and "Bitch" as if she lived within me like an entity.  I could feel her breath on my neck early in the day as a reminder of what was to come.  She promised to stay with me as a loyal entertainer might to a king professing she did it all for me.  Cold and calculating she undermined everything I held dear planning to steal it all in a daylight heist that would be both brazen and final.  She carved her initials in me like a lover might try to impress a paramour in the bark of a tree.  Eventually, she became a sulking brooding lover suspicious of anyone or anything that might interfere or change the course of the dark journey she had planned for me.   She was always there where her jealousy percolated on the back burner like a thick hot sauce that would bubble and splash if anyone tried to interfere.  During the non-drinking hours she was never far away from the center of my attention pacing back and forth in her captivity waiting to be freed and fed.  Waiting for that look of recognition from the bartender who always knew what she wanted and then much to her delight seeing it set in front of me.  And we would live for the moment sure of our direction and the goal we both sought...to be painless and free from the depression of the moment. This devoted monster lived inside me as an insidious, cold, determined evil caring for nothing other than my center and soul.  Eventually, she made a fatal mistake and made me an honest man by giving me the discovery of the true meaning of denial and why it should matter to me.  She pulled off the heist leaving me with nothing.  I lost my wife, my marriage, my home and my ability to see my children while they slept before I went to sleep in my own bed.  I was forced to leave my home and find another.  However, she did leave me with one conclusion.  We had to give each other up.  Could I hate this bitch, this whore and blame her for all my troubles?  Not likely.  She was only a means and a tool I would use to avoid my own issues for so many years.  During the night of our break up she faced me forward into an unknown where I was afraid and rudderless.  I knew something had to be done about her, but I didn't know what.  So, I decided it was time for us to divorce.  That day occurred October 19, 1995 when she took it all, but left me with everything.  I hated this chapter in my life, but I had to live it to be here, today.  I'm still amazed I made it this far.