It was like Ray Milland in that old movie, Lost Weekend, with DTs and hallucinations and the whole damn thing.
Here's how it started. Last Wednesday Skeeter phoned his pharmacist and asked her to fax his old surgeon for a renewal on his pain-killer. A few hours later the pharmacist got back to him and said, "Your surgeon no longer considers you her patient and so will not renew the prescription."
Needless to say, Skeeter went ballistic; he always knew she was a cunt but did not know the profound depths of her cuntitude. So, he phoned his plastic surgeon and explained the situation. The new surgeon said, "There is not a doctor who values that title who will prescribe narcotics to you without knowing you well. If you come in on Monday, I can prescribe a few."
The problem? He was going to run out on Friday and it looked like it was going to be a looooooooong weeked. And it was, my friends, it was! Skeeter got the not-so-bright idea to get some pot from a friend. Now, he hadn't smoked up or even taken in any alcohol since he was 22 (31 years ago!) because...well he was not sure why but was sure as hell about to find out. He thought smoking a joint might deal with both the pain and simmer down the withdrawal symptoms from his previous painkiller—the dreaded hillbilly heroin, oxycodone. What did I know, when I cuddled up with him on Saturday afternoon?
He smoked half a joint in five or six deep puffs. Then, fifteen minutes later, the show began. I was already snoozing when he began to say, "Oh my! Oh my!" I looked up, his eyes were wobbly and his head was jiggling about on his shoulders. A few minutes later he was praying and, creepily, it was The Act of Contrition, the prayer the Catholics think will strip them of all sin...it's sort of a pre-death thing. I didn't know if I ought to talk him down or just keep my mouth shut. He was weirding out.
Then he said something that chilled my blood: "I don't want to kill you, Leo."
WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON HERE!!!! THIS WAS POT AND HE WAS ACTING LIKE HE WAS ON LSD!
Suddenly he jumped up, plopping me to the floor, raced to the bathroom, and for a long, long time he just scream-heaved-barfed-retched into the toilet, praying like there was a choir of angels ready to take him off. Finally he crawled back to the La-Z-Boy, picking me up on the way. There seemed to be a whiff of lucidity around him now and I said, "This killing thing..."
He laughed like a loon and said, "When I was a little boy there was an episode of the cop show, "Dragnet," and this couple smoked up forgetting they had left the baby in the tub and it drowned and they were arrested and when I smoke up I always think of that show. Funny isn't?!?!" he bellowed.
"Hi-larious," I muttered.
Then he crawled off to the bedroom, got undressed, and at three in the fucking afternoon he was in bed, muttering and blathering and slipping in and out of reality. I climbed into the bed to keep an eye on him. As he was dozing off he was saying, "Bigmistakebigmistakebigmistake...."
Indeed.
And now he has the rest of the withdrawal symptoms. He's in pain that ibuprofen and extra-strength Tylenol don't deal with. Saturday night he slept not at all and last night only a little. And to add to all this fun, he's alone with me at the end of the week and still ringing in my ears is, "I don't want to kill you, Leo."
Do you believe it? Pot! Hippy drugs! What a fucking pussy!!!!
Then he said something that chilled my blood: "I don't want to kill you, Leo."
WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON HERE!!!! THIS WAS POT AND HE WAS ACTING LIKE HE WAS ON LSD!
Suddenly he jumped up, plopping me to the floor, raced to the bathroom, and for a long, long time he just scream-heaved-barfed-retched into the toilet, praying like there was a choir of angels ready to take him off. Finally he crawled back to the La-Z-Boy, picking me up on the way. There seemed to be a whiff of lucidity around him now and I said, "This killing thing..."
He laughed like a loon and said, "When I was a little boy there was an episode of the cop show, "Dragnet," and this couple smoked up forgetting they had left the baby in the tub and it drowned and they were arrested and when I smoke up I always think of that show. Funny isn't?!?!" he bellowed.
"Hi-larious," I muttered.
Then he crawled off to the bedroom, got undressed, and at three in the fucking afternoon he was in bed, muttering and blathering and slipping in and out of reality. I climbed into the bed to keep an eye on him. As he was dozing off he was saying, "Bigmistakebigmistakebigmistake...."
Indeed.
And now he has the rest of the withdrawal symptoms. He's in pain that ibuprofen and extra-strength Tylenol don't deal with. Saturday night he slept not at all and last night only a little. And to add to all this fun, he's alone with me at the end of the week and still ringing in my ears is, "I don't want to kill you, Leo."
Do you believe it? Pot! Hippy drugs! What a fucking pussy!!!!
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