twenty minutes in an electric chair

So sue me. I have an itch to write about the events of my night.

Perhaps I should start with a synopsis of the night prior. Six kids, friends of a roommate, show up in the foyer. They gift me with cheap whiskey in exchange for a place to get a bit rowdy. They should be back again soon, and they are welcome. In the chaotic drunken exit scene they managed to leave most of the things with which they arrived. Some highly sulfurous-smelling medication, a punk-like journal, an envelope of photographs and, surprisingly enough, a french horn are neatly arranged and awaiting their claiming.

If the reader has ever graced this apartment with his presence, the reader might be startled by the phrase "neatly arranged" when referring to items within the space. Mr. Rapscallion, whose name appears on the lease, is probably the worst detriment to any sort of organization to the apartment. R. Douglas is a painter and generally has a few canvases rolled up here and there, but his main offense is where he leaves his socks. He squats our couch and could be a lot worse. Clutter has come in the form of photographs from Rapscallion's projects at school, a lot of clothing, tapes and CDs, and these notecards that are also probably used for school purposes but sometimes have these really ambiguous phrases on them. I wish I had an example, but I've thrown them all away.

Ah ha. Now it's clear. I have thrown away or retired the notecards to Rapscallion's room. The apartment is sparkling now, and it's only 3 AM. Fueled by a two liter bottle of Coca-Cola left over from last night's wild whiskey binge, I have cleaned the uncleanable. Uncleanable. Brings to mind horrible visions of filth and sin, eh? But now, I'd bring the mayor here for dinner. He'd get mac-n-cheese or a frozen pizza, but he'd be sure to comment on the previously obscured hardwood floors.

So I celebrated. After I was through filling a prescription at the local Walgreens, I would stop by my favorite sub shop for a vegetable special. The wait at Walgreens was twenty minutes, projected. There is a small waiting area beside the pharmacy counter. It appeared as though a new chair had been installed. A sign instructed, "Try a massage. Just press 'Demo.'" I had twenty minutes, and had not been to a masseuse since... Wait a minute, I've never been to a masseuse, I realized. I remembered my sister telling me she was going to one when she finished her last final exam. She, being California folk, would probably scoff at an automated muscle relaxing chair. But I was curious.

The thing didn't even demand a quarter. I hit the "Demo" button as instructed and felt the thing start jabbing my back on either side of the spine. It started at my lower back and slowly cycled upward. About halfway up, it encountered a knot of tension on my left side. It stung, but in a very lovely way. I experimented with the other buttons. There was a "Lower" and an "Upper" button. For any massaging to be accomplished with the "Upper" feature, I had to lean my neck back a bit. Eventally my drugs were bottled and stickered, and I exited Walgreens with a spine tingling with delight.

Before walking into the Walgreens/Massage Parlor, I passed the sandwich shop I was now going to enter. I had seen the resident advisor who had checked me out of my room this last Summer, after I was released from the psychiatric ward the first time. I had, that Summer, asked him in what I now suspect was earshot of the only female resident advisor, "Any hot RAs work here?... No? That's not what I saw." This female resident advisor was to become the center of my manic attention. I called her about 50 times and left messages. I seem to have to retell this story a lot. Anyway, he was at the sandwich shop, munching some cold cuts. I didn't want to see him. I may have skipped the massage and headed for the shop immediately after dropping off my prescription, but I needed to pass time so that he would finish eating and leave.

I have come to the decision that I'd rather know they know what happened, and know they don't care... than not know if they know what happened and not know if they will ridicule me when I see them. I've been seeing these Milwaukee School of Engineering folk around, and I wonder if they recognize me as that crazy guy who called the RA a godzillion times. It makes me vibrate with the same kind of nervousness as if she, the RA, was right there instead.

I passed a defunct Italian sandwich shop on the way home. The sign still said, "TRY OUR FRESH ITALIAN SAUSAGE." It's a sad little spectacle, the long since abandoned storefront. But, I walked into a clean apartment and the depressive thought soon escaped my concentration. I have an undeniable feeling that when Mr. Rapscallion returns he will be joyous at the tidiness of the apartment but will then begin exasperatedly sputtering, "Where'd you put my..." and "You touched my photos!"