Medication and memories...

After the surgery, no one warned me what anethesia does to the digestive tract. I had not gone to the bathroom in five days. I was taking laxatives, still nothing. On the sixth day I came the closest a man could feel during child birth, that or passing a small watermelon.

I was surprised that the hospital had not scheduled a follow-up visit or suggested any exercises. I was an avid jogger. I loved running up and down the St. Charles streetcar line from First St. to Nashville Ave. Every now and then I would see Greg driving home from the office. He would toot his horn and wave. It really is about the small things. I started making an effort to look for his car. It's like the feeling of spoting the one you love in a very large room or crowd.

I first noticed Greg from a French Quarter balcony during Mardi Gras in 1993 and exclaimed to my friend Clay: "He will be mine." Clay knew Greg and said he was available. Later that day, a tipsy Greg would spell his last name letter for letter and exclaim: "I'm in the book." Clay and I headed home from the French Quarter madness. I immediately ran to a phone book and flipped through the New Orleans listings and found the name I had been spelling over and over in my head on the ride back to Clay's.

The next day, at my butch job as a tire presser, I dialed the number during a break. Great, I got voicemail. Greg's voice was deep and direct as I listened: "You've reached 555-5555. WE can't come to the phone......" WE? What was this "we" shit? I hung up and called Clay and yelled: "Unless Greg has a lot of pets, or a lesbian roomate, you have some explaining to do." Clay said: "Matt, he lives with someone, but I think it's over." "YOU THINK?" I said. He assured me that I had to chase Greg if I really wanted him. I hung up and went back to the sweaty warehouse and my tires. How could I get to the tall, somewhat attached Greg? This would require all the creativity I could muster. I ruled out stalking as an option, besides it lacked originality. I looked up and saw our company logo. Hmmmm... a letter, a solicitation, one filled with hidden meaning of the Mardi Gras day we met. For some reason, the Wicked Witch of the West's words from "The Wizard of Oz" began to resonate in my head: "Poppies. Poppies will make them sleep." It was a start. But who opens the mail in Greg's house? Would the letter be tossed, dismissed as junk mail? My brain started to hurt.

I finished the letter and was kind of proud of myself. It was a very carefully worded solicitation signed by our V.P. of Sales: "Marty Graw." I held on to the envelope afraid to mail it. I finally, with a little encouragement from Clay, mailed the letter. The rest was left up to Greg or his roomate: Greg to call me or his roomate to track me down and hide the body where it could not be found.