Monday, November 16, 2009

METAMORPHOSIS - I

It hit me on a Friday evening, how it becomes impossible to turn around on your heels without hurting your back and starting anything new, anything at all, ever. Apart from the rotten joint in one of your knees or that strange tingling in your molar that you have been ignoring for the past eight months, the strain from the last year's right foot fracture to the back that will give way the minute your spine takes the shape of an airplane's economical seat, there is something else that gives way when a particular Friday evening hits you the way it hit me.


You see, I the twenty nine year old, sports columnist, ill-equipped traveler, trained corporate lawyer, amateur golfer, wine hater and nicotine addict, had a sudden, if you may allow me, itch to wheel around my black carrier, step off the escalator, throw the Blue Label at the ninety year old woman on the wheelchair (waiting for her loved ones to join her through immigration) and exit through the sliding doors, back to where I came from. Obviously, it was impossible as I would indeed need to go down those very metallic stairs, board the sterile flight and make it through a another set of sliding doors to be anywhere close to back, back to where I come from.


Things couldn't get any worse, considering I was complaining about nothing, yet, the black cloud descending on my not so black heart was beginning to trouble me. I had eight hours of flying, one twenty milliliters of whiskey and a bad Nicholas Cage movie ahead of me, but my feet seemed to not really care. They should, faced with the imminent danger of me getting either sucked inside the escalator shaft or being mercilessly thrown all over the red white tiles. There was the Blue Label also fighting for its existence. I still had a few seconds on my side, so I decided to regress into my past when my limbs had decided to freeze of their own accord and I had overcome the disability.


Drawing upon that wisdom seemed pertinent today, but for the lack of time. My enemy, my sole enemy, the invisible enemy, crawling upon my years like an incurable cancer, marking me with dark circles per annum like aging trees, stretching the nerves of my eyeballs to near breakage, stealing away precious moments a man devotes to his penis, all but for him -- the lack of time. And since he had reared his ugly head once again, and I had failed to find a cure for my newly acquired invalid status, I hereby lay sprawled on the shiny concrete, watching the ugly air-conditioning ducts hidden behind a honeycombed ceiling, but not for long as people had begun to gather and block my view with their oddly raised eyebrows on expressionless faces.


I expected the control of my limbs would have returned post the trauma, but as my lifeless fingers felt the trickle of golden whiskey grow into a puddle, all thoughts did a reverse osmosis on me and began to trickle out of my brain. I decided I am fainting and it would be futile to recall a previous fainting spell and save myself public embarrassment as there again was not going to be enough time to draw upon my memory’s rich advice.