The Most Precious Commodity

Wow. One thing I think people just assume is going to happen all the time is their daily routine. Granted, this is a correct assumption most of the time. But sometimes, if you get too set in that routine, and the life throws you a curveball, it hits you like a pancake and you wish it happened to somebody else. And that's just what happened to me yesterday. And today, too, if you think about it, since I was planning on writing about living with a prostitute. But's that's for another day, now.

I actually managed to get around out of the house yesterday. I was pretty motivated, though, as I'd run out of my painkillers. So it really all started while I was having my prescription filled out at London Drugs. As I wandered slowly around, looking at shampoo and coathangars to pass the time, I suddenly decided to turn back the way I had come from and was suprised and dismayed to be looking at the one face I most did not want to see... Roddy McAmsterdam. Actually, the face I did not want to see the most was the face of that junkie who stabbed me. But Roddy was a close second.

As you may recall, Roddy McAmsterdam was my chief rival for partnership at the architectural firm that had employed us both (and may or may not still employ us both, I haven't checked on that yet). We did never got along very well. In fact, he might very well be my arch enemy. If all his schemes against me had come to fruition, I'd be unemployed, blind, paraplegic, and dead. Though all these plots were narrowly averted, he was still clever enough to conceal not only any evidence of his involvement, but any evidence that these plots occured at all. Anyway, having not seen him in almost two months, I was struck how different he looked from how I pictured him in my head. It was no one thing, really, but rather a lot of little things that worked together making him seem more gaunt and skeletal.

"Whoop, whoop, whoop" he said, which struck me as a little odd. Then I realised it was just some kid with one of those electronic toy guns standing nearby.

"Hello, Roddy." I said with a noticable lack of enthusiasm.

"Whoop, whoop, whoop" he said.

"I don't understand." I replied, then I remembered the kid with the toy. But then he really did say something. "How are things at Homolka and Kreiger?"

Homolka and Krieger, as you know, is the name of the architectural firm that we both worked for. But I knew he had to know that I'd not shown up for work in almost two months, and had no idea how things were going there. Suspicious, I assumed I'd been fired and he couldn't wait to be the first one to tell me. This was all part of his set up to maximize his enjoyment.

"Why are you asking me?" I responded, careful to not give anything away. Something wasn't right here.

"I haven't been in for a while." Roddy admitted. Or was he having some fun at my expense? I decided to change the subject. "Oh. What brings you to London Drugs?"

"I'm here to get my prescription. How about you?" he said, and a trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck. It was too much to be conicidence. Could he have been spying on me this whole time? How else would he know just the most unnerving thing to say?

"I'm also here for that same reason." I said. No point in lying when it appeared he already knew the truth.

"Really?" He said, feigning suprise. "Do you have a brain cloud, too?"

I was stunned. What other possible reaction can there be when confronted with the fact that someone has a brain cloud? I hardly knew what to say. So I just stared, and couldn't stop.

"I have six months to live... maybe."

I barely heard him say the words. I was still stunned. Brain clouds are often misdiagnosed in the early stages as mere clinical depression, but it doesn't make much difference because brain clouds are inoperable and fatal by this time anyway. I continued to stare.

"Looks like that partnership is yours after all, eh?" He said with a faint smile. I just stared at him. I was too stunned at the time to understand my failure to react to him in any way was making him angry. I guess he had misconstrued my silence as indifference or some other rudeness. He sneered and growled "Fool! I was offering peace and you reject it!? I'll write my epitaph standing on your grave! So swears Roddy McAmsterdam!"

Now I realised I'd upset him. But with a swish of his cape, he was already way past the lightbulbs and extention cords before I could say narry a word.

Sounds spilled out of my mouth anyway. "Glad I'm not that guy."

In retrospect, It's sort of good he wasn't there to hear that.

"Whoop, whoop, whoop." This time I knew right away it was the kid with the gun.

"Fuck off, kid."

"Whoop, whoop, whoop."