The ‘Vid

I’m sorry.

I really do aspire to not be that girl and discuss anything as tacky as my most recent bout of sick or how I’m feeling from it.

To be fair, it’s not like I’m looking to regale anyone with a harrowing tale like ‘how long I sat on the tarmac before my plane took off,’ or ‘uninteresting-and-uncomfortable things that have left my dogs butt.’ Both decisively cringe contenders as runners-up to your temporarily-sick stories. I’ll make this good.

It’s just that if you’re a stranger and tell story longer than two minutes about your temporary virus/cold/flu, part of my spirit will audibly exit my body, and it will only embarrass you.

… From where, you ask? How about neither of us find out since I’m at work and you can just stick to showing me your puppy pictures, hilarious memes, or any TikTok that shows kids falling off bikes or getting knocked down by cats.

I do have exceptions to this sometimes mean, non-pandering personality trait of mine: in the off chance you’re surgically attaching rabbit fur to your shins, having that third lizard-eyelid removed, or finally getting the rows of teeth growing from your palms removed, I’m so in. I wanna hear all about it. Unfortunately none of these stories have floated my way and thusly, kids getting knocked down by cats pleaseandthankyou.

If anything, I’m dying for a back scratch from palm-teeth boy..

So there I was, in an apocalyptic scene vaguely reminiscent of a country club I used to work at. The once pristine grass has all burnt to red, dusty patches, what isn’t dust is on fire, and some patches smolder with old embers still clinging for life. I survey this hellish landscape, tuck a kitchen towel into my apron’s waistband, and nonchalantly head into the kitchen of a decrepit cave.

There’s a full restaurant in swing of the evening’s dinner orders, and one table of six has put their appetizers, salads, and entrees in with the server and I’m holding a very long ticket with many items. I’m brand new here, and because I don’t know literally anything about the menu I keep chasing down a fella with a bandana on, begging him to please tell me what the antipasti plate looks like, I’ve got three on pickup..

He quietly, vacantly sets to work extinguishing the buildings interior fires as well as trying to manage a fire hydrant that’s steadily leaking water into our main kitchen and I follow him, sidestepping the interior versions of Apocalyptic fires and flood.

Just tell me what goes on the plate! Or at least what plate is it, is it this shallow, ceramic, oval thing with little handles..? Feeling like the order has been in far too long with no activity I’m near begging the guy to just tell me what to do, we gotta pick up this order…

I wake up, blurry-eyed and hot with all my joints throbbing, adjusting my position to try to feel relief but there is none to gain. My husband comes into our room and touches my clammy forehead and remarks that I’m burning up. This is day two of Covid, the first time I ever tested positive. Son of a bitch.

The following three days are a blurry mix of sweat, creepy-ass dreams, tears, and pain. My sense of smell left which was just a pisser of a realization because I season food half by smell, and we all need it to have anything taste good.

Bullshit, I muttered.

I fall back asleep in an Alena sandwich, smooshed serpentine between two big dogs and a co-dependent cat.

I’m leaving my current job now, stepping through our parking lot with a couple of coworkers. I see a crummy white panel van aggressively ramming other cars, just back-and-forth, ping-ponging around, hitting all the vans and my Jeep. My Jeep!

We boldly approach this decrepit rape mobile and one of my female coworkers, Tammy, happily hops into the front passenger seat. Following her lead, I hop behind the driver’s seat. Sitting in the seat behind Tammy is a very dead man, his face nearly flat and black from decay, the cartilage of his nose is long gone: all that remains are two burnt-out nostrils. Above the nose slits sit two hollow, moist, black holes that maybe had some eyeballs occupying ’em but look like they’ve recently hit the skids. His t-shirt was once a basic white tee but is now a battle-weary torn-up shred of cotton, the arms cut away; it’s either filthy with dirt or dried with blood. The second I open my mouth to ask a question this corpse animates and aggressively shoves his forearm up to my face. He’s furious.

“LOOK AT IT,” he hissed from something of a green crackly slit above his chin, a black tongue flicking what once were lips, holding what looks like a big burnt hot wing up to my face. His skeletal hand extends and I can see individual bones and the joints of his fingers, they crackle and chip to the floor of the van without a breeze in the air. Below the hand the tibia and fibula have what closely resemble teriyaki beef jerky loosely laced to the bone by dark red patches, and they flex with this dead mans emphatic shaking rage.

I’ve stopped listening to him, the horror before me too terrifying to comprehend any part of the English language, my whole body is recoiling, my face a ghastly sneer of disgust. I can’t look away from the hand, mere inches from my body.

Tammy hollers at me to fix my face, this guy is trying to help us understand, that I’m not making this easier. I try to close my mouth and look at him but his face is crumbling before me. Tammy *CLAPS* to get my attention and

BOOM. I’m in bed. My real bed. Blond dog is also dreaming and she’s kicking me hard like a horse at full gallop. My head hurts. I text my husband to grab me some more Tylenol, and he thankfully does, the angel.

Within five days I’ve recuperated enough to feel like I just have a bad cold, within six days I cook my first meal, within the week I’m working from home, snuggled on the couch feeling near normal.

Just as I was thankfully reminiscing about all my fever dreams, Bub went straight down into them.

The ‘Vid strikes again.