Take pill.
Eat breakfast.
Take pill.
Thomas is in the playground again, doing loop-de-loops on the swing set and projectile vomiting into a trashcan. He calls it puke-basket. It is a game. Also, he’s got a serious talent for it. If it were a sport, he’d be an Olympian. It’s actually beautiful if you get past the bodily fluid part. He’s like a spinning Venetian fountain, shooting vector arcs of chunky yellow phlegm into an aluminum trashcan. It makes a sound like a moist timpani. I’ve never seen one drop land outside the basket.
I don’t know Thomas personally yet. I only know he calls it puke-basket because every time he strolls into the little playground right next to my house, he says, “I’m going to play puke-basket. Who’d like to join me? My name’s Thomas.” I don’t even think he’s one of the neighborhood kids. But he does come by every once-in-a-while to play and I always stay home from work if I can feel it in my heart that he’s going to make an appearance.
Take pill.
Eat lunch.
Still sick.
Take pill. Kidneys hurt. See shadows. Have to wait too long.
Thomas looks into my window and sees me. He smiles at me and waves. I point to my chest, shaking. I mouth out me? and he nods. I can’t believe it. The Thomas, king of puke-basket, just waved at me. I put on my b-ball shorts cinch the waist-band with the frayed little shoelace ties.
Take pill.
Take pill.
Take pill.
I feel awake.
I jog out to the playground, scanning the neighborhood for signs of life. No one is watching. I don’t want them to think I’m creepy or anything. I’ve just been waiting for this moment for months now. Thomas sizes me up. “You look like you can play puke-basket. Do you play puke-basket?”
I don’t know what to say. I’m stammering. I want his autograph but I’m too shy to ask.”No… I’ve never played it.”
Thomas flaps his hand at me, scoffing. “You look nervous. Don’t worry. It’s easy!” He’s a good kid. He’s got a big heart. I can see it pushing its way out of his chest. It’s probably a condition. Probably a blessing. He says, “I like to play on the swing, but I got good at it by starting on the ground. Here…”
He stands in front of me and opens his stance to shoulder-width, digging his feet into the cherry-red mulch. He says, “Go down as much as you can.” Soon, half of his leg is submerged in mulch and soil. It looks like he’s on an invisible elevator. Sinking, sinking. I can only go up to my ankle. “You’ve gotta make sure you’re ‘grounded.’ That’s what my dad says.”
Oh, shit. His dad. If his dad found out I was playing this with him, he’d kill me. A thirty-eight year old guy hanging out with a little kid on a playground?
“Don’t worry about my dad. I told him about you. I told him that you stay home from work to watch me play. He says it’s sweet. He says that I’ve got talent and that’s why you want to be here with me.” He looks a ways down the block and points to a black 1993 Mercedes. “That’s my dad there. Wave!”
I wave and smile. Something flops out of the window and waves back. Then it gives me a thumbs up. I think so, at least. Thomas rustles and looks at my feet and I look down too. I’m still only ankle-deep.
“It’s okay,” he says, “you’ll get better.” So inspirational. So empathetic. He probably knows how amateurish I feel, but he’s not that type of guy to rub it in. He wants me to succeed.
“Okay, now you want to feel like you have to puke. Don’t think of anything gross. That makes bad puke for the game. You want to really think about the feeling of puking.” He closes his eyes, furrowing his brow. He tilts his head back. “You want to pretend that you’re a Super Soaker full of vomit and somebody has pumped you so much your tank is about to blow up!”
Then he lets it loose. It is thick and perfect like a sci-fi laser beam. It looks solid, it’s so well kept together. The yellow arc of vomit goes right into the trash can. Nothing but net.
“Now you try.”
I take a deep breath in. Clear mind. I feel something in the depth of my esophagus. It feels like magmatic oatmeal. I feel it swimming inside of me, twisting like a vortex just at the apex of my throat. I open my mouth as my throat contracts and let out a shotgun blast of vomit that rains over the whole playground like acidic asbestos. Some of the pills I’ve taken so far clang on the trashcan and fall to the ground, half-digested.
Thomas turns to me. “Oh,” he says. “I thought you’d be the one. I thought you could play puke-basket. You’re just a creepy old guy.” I can feel my face turn neon red.
“Just kidding!” He shouts. He puts his hand over his mouth and looks down the street at his father’s 1993 Mercedes. That distant, flopping arm points my way and then slaps the side of the car, miming laughter.
Then I hear a war siren. It howls like a wolf trapped in an acoustic black hole. Thomas reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mini fridge key chain and opens it. He smiles at it and stuffs it back into his pocket.
“I have to go now. Do you want to practice some more next time? I’m sure my dad would love to meet you. You have potential.”
I nod, nervous about meeting this kid’s dad. If this kid’s already got talent, what kind of man must have provided the seed to make this quality of progeny?
We walk over to the car and Thomas waves at the over-tinted windshield. A raspy voice says, “Thanks for playing with Thomas. He doesn’t know many people who are into puke-basket.”
I say, “It’s my honor, sir,” and walk up to the window to shake his hand. Leaning out of the car is a stuffed burlap hand. I laugh and peer my head into the car. In the driver’s seat is a stuffed man made entirely of burlap. It wears a toupee. It has no face. The hand writhes around, trying to find purchase. I grab it out of the air and shake it.
“Strong grip. I like you. Thanks again. We’ll be back some time this weekend. We’ll have more time. Hell, I’ll even come out and play some with you guys.”
“Do you mean it, dad?” asks Thomas, a smile on his face. “I sure do, son.”
I pat the door, tears streaming down my face.”Alright, sir, I’m sure I’ll see you sometime soon then. We’ll have some lunch next time you come around.”
“Sure will, uhhh…”
“Thomas,” I say.
“Good name!” We all laugh. Then he rolls the window up and they drive away.
I haven’t felt burlap in years. Last time I remember was when my father hugged me and told me he was leaving for the war.
I get back home and open my cabinet. Orange bottles sit alphabetically on the shelf. Lithium, Fluoxetine, Xanax, Buspar… All the colors of the rainbow in those bottles.
Take pill.
Take pill.
Take pill.
Take pill.
Take pill.
Take pill.
I am asleep.