PHARMACEUTICAL DIARY PRINT
Day 1—Vicodin:
Dressed up in Santa Claus suit after drinking too much egg nog. Didn’t tell Howard I was on pills because he’d think I was making excuses for the accident. The accident happened when I went door-to-door handing out presents from underneath our Christmas tree. The neighbors thought I was crazy; this lady with a broken leg, on crutches, white fuzzy beard and red furry robe, drunken. “Ho, Ho, Ho,” Channel 7 Eyewitness News at 11 had me saying on replay. I was the lead story on the evening newscast—right after The Mentalist—which used to be my favorite show. Not since they plastered my face on the television set every commercial break for an hour: “Ho, ho, ho….”
Day 2—Tylenol Number 3:
What the hell is Tylenol Number 3? Damn doctor told Howard about the Vicodin prescription. The police made me go to the hospital for blood work. They said my blood alcohol level was 2.4. Not sure what that means. Howard poured all my remaining Vicodin down the drain. Kids are embarrassed. I sat in the closet and cried with the wind while they were at school and Howard at work. Finally showered then picked them up from school unexpectedly—sober—and took them for ice cream.
Day 3—Valium:
Meet some strange man on the street in front of the liquor store. Took me four hours to find him. Didn’t know who I was looking for. He took fifty dollars, made me wait. Doubted his return. An hour later he handed me thirty Valiums and rode away on a green bicycle. The liquor store clerk called the police and came out to scold me. I decided it was time to leave and drove home.
Day 4—Valium:
Woke up in the front yard, sleepy, covered with yellow leaves. My ears and nose were frozen, but my body was quite warm. Must have been sleepwalking again because Howard didn’t notice my absence. Snuck back inside the unlocked house, into bed. “Where did all these leaves come from?” Howard asked. “I don’t know Honey,” I lied. Slept late and made an English muffin with strawberry jam for lunch. Drank some merlot and watched the clouds from the hammock.
Day 5—Vicodin:
Long-lost friend back again! Found you from the man in front of the drug store on the other side of town. “Police are looking for me so I have to sell my bicycle,” he said. I took it home and wrapped it up for Tommy. I decided to take one little ride to make sure it worked fine. Made it a few blocks away from home when the sirens pulled me over. Another DUI. Possession of a controlled substance without prescription. Howard was not happy. Decided to stop writing in my diary to avoid making any more incriminating confessions after the house was searched by the sheriff’s office. My nefarious actions shall hereby remain unspoken. All I hear is the wind. No more incidents. No more accidents. Only repentance.
Matthew Dexter lives and writes in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. He will also probably die in Mexico. This lunatic gringo has been known to drink beer and eat lobster. He belongs in an insane asylum.