I walk into the
kitchen one morning and I find Bill M. cooking eggs, making toast and talking
to someone that doesn't exist. He is excitedly explaining the news business and
how to get things done.
I pause in the doorway and Bill M. notices me out of
the corner of his eye. He quickly turns, faces me and with spatula in one hand
he lifts both shoulders in a shrug that clearly say that I interrupted his
talking to his guest. He pauses for a moment, listens to the air and “poof” it’s
just the two of us in the kitchen again.
“Who are you
talking to?” I ask. Bill M. makes a face and says “Just you.” There are two
place settings on the kitchen table and Bill M. begins to spoon eggs on to both
plates. “Coffee?” he asks me walking over to a fresh brewed pot. I just stare
at him, Bill M. and I never have breakfast together, never discussed it and it
wouldn’t be in my top 100 things to do before I die. Truthfully Bill M. scares
me. It is clear that something he is doing is not working. One of his medicines
is not playing nice.
I slowly slide
into one of the chairs at the table. Bill M. pours juice and adds a piece of
toast to my plate. Sitting down across from me, Bill M. brushes the crumbs off
his hands, unfolds his napkin and tucks it under his chin. “Did you have a good
night last night?” he asks crunching into a piece of toast.
“Yeah,” I say
dragging the word out. He is creeping me out big time right now. He is staring
into my eyes and chewing his piece of toast until I am sure there is nothing
left of that toast in his mouth. Bill M. looks like the male version of Frida
Kahlo to me.
I reach out and
grab my coffee. “How was your night?” I ask. “Did you know that the Borgia’s
also poisoned members of their own family?” Bill M. says without looking away
from my eyes. He crunches another piece of toast. “Fascinating,” I respond. “Bill?”
I say, cutting to the chase, “Are you ok on your meds?”
“What do you mean?”
he asks.
“Well, you seem
to be under a great deal of pressure.” I say, not breaking his gaze.
“Pressure?” he
begins to repeat the word louder and louder and each time he says it he begins
to stand up. He has now said the word about seven times and spittle flies from
his lip.
“You don’t know the pressure!” he screams at
me. We have gone from 0-100 in five seconds.
“Bill?” I say
reaching out for his arm. The minute I touch his arm, he returns to earth but
seems to be confused by what has happened. Slowly he sits back down, picks up
his toast and begins crunching again.
“Bill, are you
taking your medicine?” I ask
“No, I don’t need
it, I’m feeling better.” he responds.
To be continued……..
.
Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.
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