OVER THE EDGE
November 7-21, 2007

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19

POETRY B’ isa CONROY, Cotumnist. BACKGROUND -BY Becky Buixrup,. CONTRIBUTER, PICTURE | ALTERED BY TyLer CLARKE,

The Un-Trip. How I spent Last Summer -.
and .- well virtually every summer !

Where are we going, she inquired?

I'll tell you when we get there,.| hedged.
How tong will:it take?

Not long.

| don't like mysteries, she ala Is there a place to 5 pee? 1 There heed to bez a

place to pee; a
Yes, there’s a place to pee, i sald persuasively.
On the way?

Yes on the way.

I'm worried about you, she intoned.
What? | countered. fs,
You bought me coffee, she led.
Sure;I’m anice guy. «=
But it's not decaf — | always take dacat"

So today you're living on the edge, |_said.

I'll-just have to peé more and sooner, she ended:~

Also, you didn’t bring anything to eat.

We'll pick something up later, | encouraged.

That's a recipe for disaster, she fo pun sateritey: -
None taken, | replied.

I'm worried about you, she intoned
What? | countered wondering, what now?
Your memory — it's following your hairline, she jabbed.
No need to get nasty, | retort.

it's just — so — so noticeable, she expanded,

Thanks for nothing, | snapped.

Don't be so defensive, she said. Lots of men lose i hair, It's not - met * bad {

I'd rather lose my mind, | pouted.
Be careful what wish for, she cautioned.

I'm worried about you,"she repeated.

You already said that, | sighed.

It's'your hearing, she shouted.

You don't have to shout — |:hear what | want to hear.

Ah — selective hearing, she intoned.
| can't hear you, | broadcast. :

You Know. A
No, | don’t know.
Yes you do.

Z L-can’

I'm Worried about you, she droned. You don’t believe in anyihing.
Hmm, you're right I said. Everyone should believe in something. | believe.

have another beer.

_ You should get that checked, she prescribed.

lm wored about y you, she echoed.

‘ow. what | don’t know i is my y feeb rep
Well, if | must, she said. There’s your aversion to: 0

Telephones are merely a means to invade my privac
And of course there’s your extreme dislike for Celebrities
So, | can’t stand Britney, Paris or Madonna — * aud ge
And — there’s poor Celine, she adds, So

| rest my case, | triumphed.

ae And there's your refusal to ‘adopt politically correct termi
~m _ you catch fish, you - are - a - fisherman, | justified.

... Hopefully

no =

That brings us to your drinking;:she impugned.

| Knew that was coming. | drink because | don’t have any other vices and Hes
“besides Jesus died for our sins so I’m just supporting his efforts.

Home, | groaned.

| have to pee. Now where are we going, she inquired?

THIS 1S THE LAST IN A SERIES OF INSTALLMENTS OF ALAzar SHaam Semere’s nove. Sones ano Sotrrupe. SEE PREVIOUS ISSUES OF OVER THE EDGE FOR THE PREVIOUS 4 INSTALLMENTS.

6:50 am: Poached Eggs and Pineapple Juice

She has red hair and blue eyes; she’s a couple inches taller
than me. Her name is Carly. She makes friendly conversation
as she checks my blood pressure, pulse, and swaps in a fresh
batch of intravenous drugs, then she’s off to see my roommate,
whose sleep apnea proved not to be fatal. Here’s the doctor,
and he looks the same as always: tired, harried, and bearing
bad news. Same deal from the folks down south; I’m here for
another day. And here’s Dad, on his way to work, here to say
the same thing he said yesterday. And here is breakfast: eggs,
peaches (J think), that looks like oatmeal, and some kind of
juice that I am not going to touch. Another day here, another
exercise in killing time. But I made it through yesterday, for
what it’s worth, and that’s one less day I’ll have to spend here,
in the long run. But it’s still another day.

Scratch that. Today brings something new: a blood trans-
fusion. They make me sign a form that says I can’t sue them if
I get Hepatitis C and that I have no religious grounds on which
to refuse treatment (although I did consider becoming a Jeho-

vah for a few minutes to freak ‘em out) and they hook me up.
Somebody else’s blood starts flowing into my veins and im-
mediately I feel drowsy. A lab tech comes in and takes a blood
sample, and for a moment I feel like a human conduit. I make
a comment on the irony of the situation, and I get a strange
look instead of a laugh. Either she doesn’t know I’m joking
or she doesn’t realize how funny I am. Then she’s off and CSI
is on. Overly Cool Middle-Aged Guy is standing over a body
and taking pictures while Overly Gruff Old School Cop Guy
is making some comment about how bad the dearly departed
stinks. A quick pun, a cut to opening credits, and then it’s back
to the show. Overly Good Looking Southern Jock Guy has
found some evidence with Way Too Hot To Be Someone’s
Mom Even If She Was A Stripper Lady. Said evidence was
turned into Moodily Lit Forensic Lab, and now Overly Geeky
Lab Tech Who Wants To Be A CSI Guy is explaining how the
bullets match those found at another crime scene two years
ago in a currently unsolved mystery. And the final Dynamic
Duo of Token Black Problem Gambler Guy and Would Be

Fairly Hot If She Wasn’t Such A Cast Iron Bitch Lady are in-
vestigating a double homicide. In the next forty five minutes,
I am led through the unbelievably gritty streets of Las Vegas
and to the inevitable conclusion that it wasn’t Deadbeat Dad
who killed the daughter; he truly loves her, he does! No no,
it was Rich, Friendly Uncle who was caught having an affair
with Trampy Mom by said daughter. The logic only makes
sense for a few minutes, but that’s enough because we’re off
on another case! This time the body is in the dumpster and the
head is in the trees. Overly Gruff Old School Cop Guy drops a
quip about a head in the clouds, and The Who are asking who
Jam. At this point I am forced to believe that Vegas would be
far less populous if this show was in any way accurate.

I turn down the volume and watch a stranger’s blood run
through a tube and underneath the back of my hand. I close my
eyes and take a heavy breath. I know it’s eight in the morning
but I am tired. Christ, I am tired.