Robert did not really ‘wake’, but rather came to. It was as if he had been staring at the wall for the last who-knows-how-many hours when the gears of his mind finally started catching. He knew not to move. Not too much. Not yet. Remain still. Make a plan.
“I really overdid it this time.” He thought to himself.
Even these thoughts seemed to threaten the calm. Once he began to move, he would immediately feel what he figured to be a record hangover. He could not remember the last time he had drunk so much. Nor what all he had drunk. He knew he had dipped into his expensive wine, but what of the liquor. Did he drink anymore after he had completed his work? He would assess the damages after he tended to himself. Last night was a battle and he had won.
Rob blinked at that idea. He had won? Had he really won? Last night he had to force himself to produce an absolutely uninspired heap of cow manure and advertised it as ‘art’. Robert’s left hand stirred, but he stilled it. He was dangerously close to beginning this hangover and did not want to interrupt the stillness before he could plan out his next moves. Yes, he thought, my next moves.
The artist was accustomed to such nights of forced creation and the amounts of after disaster control afterward. After several such incidents, he had prepositioned several contingency items throughout his apartment in the eventual case that he needed to recover from such a night.
“Ok,” Doddson thought out loud. “The ibuprofen is in the drawer next to sink. The glass is on the sink itself. All I have to do is get out of bed, steadily and not too quickly. Then I go to the bathroom. Handle my business, and sit in the shower till this all blows over.”
These thoughts had started the drums in his head to beat. No more thinking, he thought, now I need to move before I won’t be able to get out of bed. Robert slowly, but steadily, pushed himself up off of his mattress and into a sitting position. From the sitting position, he pushed his body up from the bed and to a full stand. This was a mistake, his mind registered. The drums in his head amplified and set his stomach from still to churn. Robert began his steps towards the master bathroom. Already his stomach sent signals to his back teeth.
“Not good.”
Before he could further react, his stomach went full fountain. His hands did their best to hold his mouth closed and the contents in, but there was too much. The fountain of his body immediately began spilling out his hands, leaving a trail behind him. As the moment was no longer slow and steady, Robert quickly made his way to the toilet spilled the remaining contents of his hands and stomach into the bowl. This took several long minutes. Minutes that Rob didn’t even bother to count. The illness continued long after his stomach had contents to produce. All the while he remained at the toilet, periodically flushing and resting in between retches.
Eventually, the fountain subsided. Rob quickly moved from the toilet to the sink. Cool water. Not cold. To the face. To the neck. To the chest. In the cup. Set the cup aside. Open the drawer. Head is pounding. Grab the one and only pill bottle. Open it. Four tablets this time. No more. Brain is thundering. Take a sip from the glass. Stomach is ok. Fill mouth with water and add the tablets. Swallow. I am being shot in the head over and over.
Like a zombie, Doddson moved to the shower and turned the dials. His hands knew the right combination, so he didn’t have to worry. He did have to wait the customary five seconds for the water to reach the right temperature. Though he let a lot of water spill out of the spray, he left the door open while he waited with his hand in the stream. Once the water reached the right temperature, he stepped in and allowed the water to work its magic.
It was forever and a day before his mind regained clarity. The hot water and magic medicine finally worked its magic. The thundering and drums eventually subsided, leaving the artist to bathe. The all-organic scent began to work their magic as well. Helping to bring Robert D. Doddson back from the destruction. The Darkness.
“I love this part,” He thought. “This is where I feel alive once again.”
It was like a reset. A cleansing. To dive in those disgusting recesses, and afterward cleanse oneself of that taint. Quickly he felt his keen senses return. Always smell first. The stench of his vomit reaching him through the shower and his soaps. His hearing. The muted noises of the Atlanta Ave. outside. Then his touch, realizing the water is too hot, by design, made him adjust it to a much lower setting.
This last bit let him know that his recovery was complete enough to know that he was now in the clear. Most of the hangover now rested down one drain or another. Robert completed his shower and dried. There was a vial of bleach and wipes he kept under his sink for such occasions. He employed these and the offending bile and smell were shortly dispatched.
Robert’s cellphone was dead. He plugged it into the charging station he had next to his bed before he made breakfast. Biscuits. Bacon. Eggs. And in that exact order. The biscuits took the longest to make. The bacon you eat while you are waiting. The eggs you make to finish once the biscuits are done. Once all of these were completed, Robert looked at his clock that was mounted over his stove.
“Eleven O’clock,” he said.
Though it had not taken as much time as his mind believed, Robert powered on his phone. The charge showed 6%, but more than enough to check messages.
“Awesome work!” Amabelle said.
“A very solid piece.” The client responded. “I look forward to its release.”
Of course, you do, Rob thought of his client, you uneducated moron. Art could murder every one of your family, spit in your face, be tried for its crimes, sentenced to death, and you’d still think its the greatest thing since air conditioning.
Doddson sat on the floor, staring at the biscuits baking behind the heat-tempered glass, munching on his bacon. There’s got to be a better way, he thought. Every piece I have done has been marketable garbage and I have to nearly poison myself to death just to make it. The throbbing, though much subsided, was still present and made chewing a little bothersome.
“There’s got to be a better way.” He said aloud this time.
James C Gilliam 