Trans Atlantic conversations of the sick and bedridden

I’ve been homesick the last few days, with nothing to do other than read news on the net, play downloaded music and sip a cold & Fever lemon concoction like it were some exotic Caribbean cocktail. And by homesick what I intended was sick at home and not really the traditional sick to get back home. On the contrary it is more or less bordering on ‘I am sick of home’.

Anyways here I was in my nth recursive loop of sleep after reading and drinking lemon concoction when my ‘now contesting for the most unreliable electronic device’ mobile buzzed. I was actually in the middle of a very feel good dream involving some unknown girl starring as my love interest, my mom and an alligator in a giant pond. Ok I agree it sounds kinda offbeat but when you are on unlimited rounds of LemSip, I don’t really expect plots to get any better.

I had half a mind to let the goddamn mobile keep ringing, while the story meandered into some sense of completion. At that point in time, it was really getting to be like those Italian movies nominated for the Toronto film festival where even a good hour or two later nothing really happened. But call it respect for your room mate if you want to, I stood up clumsy and walked across the room to where my phone uncharacteristically buzzed all loud and reliable.

‘Ceegee’, I drawled, like I always do when he calls.

‘You asleep fucker. And at this hour’, he asked from across the Atlantic.

‘Ya, fever and sorts. Have been in bed for the last two days brother. And how are you?

He laughed hysterically at the other end like I cracked a joke.

“Why are you laughing bugger. I said I am sick’.

“Oh yes you are. Some passing spores decide to stop over for the bank holiday weekend and you lock yourself indoors”. More laughing.

“I am out of the ER myself”, CG continued matter of factly.

“ER? WTF is that?”

“Emergency Room. Had a crazy bout of abdominal pain and the bastards reduced it to a freakin’ slapstick comedy show”

“What happened da”, I enquired like all good friends should enquire. “Was it a baby boy?”

“Fuck you”, he drawled back.

“I was sitting there screaming in pain and they thrust four forms for me to fill. One hand on stomach, the other clutching pen I wrote inanities like some Hindi film protagonist writing the treasure secrets in the climax”.

I laugh hysterically. My temperature has already dropped a degree.

“And what’s worse, when I ask them for quick diagnosis, they find my initials are not expanded and Farnborough is not listed as a valid American province”.

“It’s in the UK. And the C and the G are all bloody long and not worth expanding”, I screamed at the nurse.

“They shunted me into a room at last and then shunted me out in double quick time all because a convict had to be looked at in that very god forsaken room. And as they walked me out, the convict strides in handcuffs, cops in tow et al. That’s America for ya. I am screaming myself hoarse and who gets the treatment – him. Why? Because he bruised his finger while killing someone.”

Eons later, CG was respected with a sense of feigned urgency and a couple of CT scans and all. The doc gives CG a top down look and finally declares.

“You’re perfectly fine. Just get home and get normal”.

“As though I were a bloody convict. The convict is in the neighboring room bitch”, CG screamed at me in self pity. “I do high level design for 3G mobile interfaces”.

My temperature by now was hovering around normalcy. My stomach’s beginning to ache myself for all the laughing.

“BTW bro, one question”

“What is it?”, he asked.

“Did you fuckin’ fit into the stretcher?”

“Bye bye then. Go get some LemSip while I go play basket ball”. Phone clicks. I am blogging. And then I’ll have a LemSip and then I’ll sleep.