It was me, the Gran Papa of Milwaukee Avenue. The Fort Dearborn Destroyer. The Baron of Bucktown. And Tiger Woods biggest nightmare. Up ‘gainst the wall.
It was those green buggers down in the pits of my lungs. Hanging out there. Not wanting to move except when beckoned by the caustic reaction between my throat and a vaccum-locked hack-up that could only muster a few flecks per minute.
The bathroom sink was not happy with me. Nor were my lungs.
And I was fucking furious. I was holed up inside the prison on Milwaukee Avenue. The same prison that gives me 3 hots, a cot and a television with nothing but Britney and Hogan’s Heroes reruns.
Are you feeling me?
Dull temps in the head just under 100 degrees. A fiery hole in the back of my throat, oozing green lava with every last hack. Eye boogers large enough to garnish your martini, body aching with every last step upon the cold wooden floor. Liquids and nothing but liquids.
DXM was no use. I tried it two nights in a row. So much for that spoonful of sugar. 2 hours on, one hour off. 2 on, one off. No sleep when needed. No motivation to call upon.
Clinically dead. Not a care.
Couldn’t get it up. Try working out into a cold sweat and having the women look at you funny at the gym. Pale & sickly.
I took up needlepoint.
And then I saw that Tiger was 5 strokes down with about 7 holes to go.
And the fever broke…
The lungs cleared.
Big Daddy was cured.
Big Daddy was ready.