Seeing Red Read Free Page B

good counselor for me to talk to. That’s the problem with these walk-in clinics: sure, they’re free and you don’t have to make an appointment, but they offer only band-aid solutions. The doctor and I talk a little more about my anxiety attacks and frequent chest pains and he suggests I stop eating red meat because the cows are pumped full of hormones. Then he writes me a prescription for an anti-anxiety drug, one I’ve tried before. It didn’t work. He explains the proper dosage and side effects and I thank him and then leave the clinic, crumpling up the prescription and tossing it into the trash on my way out.
    Later, after a brief trip to the liquor store, I’m standing in front of my apartment door in a hallway with a crooked ceiling and stained blue carpeting. Inside, the place is a mess: empty beer and liquor bottles line the floor alongside a tower of discarded pizza boxes and overflowing garbage bags. There are dirty dishes in the sink, clothes strewn all over the furniture and burnt-out light bulbs that need to be replaced. Still no pictures or paintings on the walls. I take off my shoes and my shirt and walk into the bathroom and open the cabinet behind the mirror. On the shelf sit several vitamin supplements, cough medicines and little orange bottles with white lids filled with prescription drugs. I go through each bottle and pour pills into the palm of my right hand until there’s a large pile. Then I run the cold water and pop the capsules into my mouth and drink from the stream and swallow. Vitamins A, C, D, E, calcium, magnesium and zinc to keep my body functioning. I also take glutamine and probiotics because my gut is no doubt damaged from all the alcohol.
    I want to take a long nap. The last bottle on the bottom shelf contains extra strength melatonin. I place three circular pills in my mouth and let them dissolve beneath my tongue. They taste like breath mints. Stumbling out of the bathroom, I draw the window shades to prevent the light from getting in, then remove the rest of my clothes and collapse into bed, not to wake again until the early evening. With melatonin, my dreams are more vivid, more real, and I dream that I’m younger, surrounded by family, and that the world is still small.

FOUR
    City life is hard on the knees. The streets are laden with jagged pavement and concrete. You rely on the subway: a shaky train that wobbles and sways while your legs twist like screws, grinding the cartilage in your joints. It squeals along the track and stops and starts and you depart the car but it’s not over yet: a mad rush leaves alongside you, each person shuffling to the exit like they’re escaping a fire, and they push and squeeze together as they march up several flights of rigid stairs to the streets above. It’s nothing like Ezra Pound described. There are no goddamn petals. I’ve only lived here for a year, but with every step there’s a sharp, stinging pain between my kneecap and femur bone. Luckily, there’s a pill for that: glucosamine is said to take the pain away in as little as six weeks. I take two daily with meals.
    Tonight, however, the southbound train ride en route to Doc’s apartment is relatively stress-free. Several passengers get off at Bloor Station and I actually manage to find a seat. To my left, two people are hunched over with their heads held down, gazing at their cellphones and clicking and reading and typing text messages with both hands. Always texting. The sheep love to text. I heard in London they actually had to cover lampposts in foam padding because too many idiots, immersed in gadgetry, were walking straight into them. To my right, two friends are standing side by side, one wearing a long dark coat and staring at the Blackberry in his hand and the other dressed head to toe in Reebok athletic attire and leaning against a pole while spouting off a one-way conversation. I can’t help but overhear him say,