Flyswatter

 I wake up feeling deeply exhausted and dissatisfied with everything. For the first time in a while, I have no desire to write down anything. When I force myself to do so, I feel like I’m trudging through tar.

This is partially due to the heat, which has been relentless, and today the air smells of smoke from the forest fires that are consuming much of the state. One of my coworkers says it’s probably from an Italian restaurant that had burned down across town days before. Between the heat and being tired of wearing this cast, I don’t have a lot of patience for the idiocy that seems to surround me at work. 

Happily, it’s my day to leave early for my appointment. I find myself attended to by Alan and Nurse Sponge, who seems much more confident today, and even cracks some jokes. It’s been interesting seeing someone develop over the past few weeks from a terrified fledgling to a member of the team. I guess I’ll start calling her by her name, which is Kim. Alan makes her do almost everything and watches carefully, answering her many questions. She’s conscientious but extremely slow, and this ends up being my longest visit ever. 

“This looks beautiful. I’m thinking maybe another couple of weeks,” Dr. Ronda says. “As for this other one,” she points at my right pinky toe, “A week of antibiotics and you’ll feel like a new man.”

“Good, because I’m really tired of the old one,” I say. I feel like crying and probably look like it. She looks at me sympathetically, and leaves while they prepare my leg for the new cast.

When I leave the hospital, a woman is crying on the curb a little ways down from the bus shelter. A man approaches her and sits a little ways away, talking to her. She quiets down a bit, then continues to wail. We all watch, unsure if we should do something, relieved that someone else is dealing with her. An enormous pile of garbage spills off a nearby bench; I assume it’s connected to the woman, though there’s no evidence of this. 

One of the bystanders is a tiny woman with insect tattoos on both her shoulders. When we get on the bus we make eye contact a few times. She’s pretty but extremely skinny; her ankles are so thin I could encircle one with my thumb and forefinger. She only rides a few stops but I keep glancing at the empty seat. 

The next day I wake up feeling deeply exhausted and dissatisfied with everything. Once again, I have no desire to write down anything. I was hoping for a story with a linear narrative but instead I find myself writing in circles. 

When I get to work, I find a cheap plastic tennis racket sitting on the desk in the control room. It’s fluorescent orange, with a black and lime green handle. The color of parties, of Xtreme sports, of action. Cheetos and Mountain Dew. In the middle of the screen is the letter Z. Then I realize what it is. It’s not a Z, it’s a lighting bolt, and this garish object is an electric flyswatter. I feel nauseous. “Are there really that many flies in here?” I ask no one in particular. The other officers are delighted as they are by any new toy, especially one with violent capabilities. 

To try to cheer myself up, I spend a lot of the time in the galleries, giving breaks and looking at the art. I try to help a lot of people and succeed some of the time. I crack a lot of stupid jokes, with about a forty percent success rate. Thirty percent. I have a spirited discussion with an outspoken performance artist from Oakland named Bonsai, or perhaps Banzai. The museum is packed with beautiful women, who have dressed taking the weather into account, and by the end of the day I feel pummeled by the twin fists of loneliness and desire. I sit at my desk and try to find a path out of this labyrinth of misery but I find myself writing and writing in circles. I hear the cat thumping around in the other room; she’s caught a June beetle and is ecstatically torturing it as it tries to buzz away. I consider trying to rescue it but figure what’s the use.