Meatballs

       I have an appointment with the infectious disease doctor, whom I really like. He’s a fellow artist, and we always end up talking about art. I unwrap my foot and he looks at it and says, “Wow. This looks much better than it did a month ago.” He asks how I feel about doing one more round of antibiotics. “I mean, at this point there’s no way of telling if they’re even doing anything,” he says, “But as long as you’re not having any side effects, I’ll give you one last refill, then we’re done here. Hopefully next time I see you will be at the museum.” 

        I head across the street to Wound Care, where they said they wanted me to pop in so they could do a quick dressing change. A. repeats what they told me Tuesday that it will most likely be at least a few weeks before they can squeeze me in. We talk about the multi-person chamber at Emanuel that's closing. "I worked at that hospital five years and I didn't know it was there," he says. "It's in a weird kind of mobile home type of thing. You can read in that one though."

        "Goddammit, I want to read," I say. 

"They make you wear a plastic helmet type thing," he says.

"I don't care, it would be worth it."

    Instead of heading home after my appointment I treat myself to lunch, then ride the train out to Hillsboro, where there’s an antique place and a coffee shop I like. At the antique place I find an old wooden meatball press decorated with a painting of a chef holding a plate with a roasted turkey on it. It’s baffling. I mean, not only should he logically be holding a pile of meatballs, but they would be easier to paint, so what the hell? Is the turkey going to be ground up into meatballs? We obviously live in a world gone mad.

        I spend a pleasant afternoon bumming around, chatting up everyone I come across because I’m so goddamn lonely. I probably seem like a desperate creep, which at this point is… pretty accurate. 

        On the ride home, a baby starts crying at the same time as a cat is yowling and the train itself is squealing where the cars connect. All three sounds are the same pitch and volume, and blend together into an unholy screech. No one looks up from their phone. 

        At home I microwave some soup and just as I’m sitting down to eat, the phone rings. I recognize the number of the wound care clinic. I wonder if I forgot something there this morning. It’s J, the hyperbaric den mother. 

        “I know this is last minute, but I wanted to know if you were available to come in on Monday to resume your treatment. We had a cancellation.” 

        “Are you fucking serious?" I honestly cannot believe what I'm hearing. Luckily they're all used to my cursing by now. "Yes, my God, yes, I will be there."

        “Oh good, I was afraid you would have plans," she says. "It’s at two, not your usual time.”

        "Look, i would come in at two in the fucking morning at this point." 

        She laughs. “It’ll be good to see you. We miss you.”

        I’m so hungry I eat my soup without reheating it. I take out my new meatball press. I don't know why I got this thing, I don't even know how to make meatballs and am unlikely to learn.  and look at the idiotically smiling face of the chef. He looks so goddamn smug. Will his guests be disappointed, or pleased by the change of menu? It doesn’t matter. We live in unhinged times. You can’t predict anything, stability is an illusion. The world is a chaotic jumble of noises that at any minute might combine into an ear-splitting cacophony. 

        And then again... they might not.