Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold (13 page)

Tonight would be his fifth night at Amanda’s apartment and there was absolutely no sign of impending sex.
What’s the point of being sick if you get absolutely no TLC at all?
He couldn’t answer that. In fact, Jason could barely formulate the question. He began to wonder if they were also drugging him with some mind-altering serum — some exotic elixir that fogged the brain and turned normal men into zombie convicts. Maybe he would become a mindless prisoner who’d bounce a tennis ball off a brick wall for hours on end, like the irritating no-necked kid.

Jason felt like a zombie. Why couldn’t he just walk out?
Zombies aren’t allowed
to leave
.

What would break his evil spell?
Probably need magic stronger
than the witch’s.

Was he truly one of the undead under a spell? Or was he still so sick that his fevered brain imagined most of this?
Hmm
.

Time passed. Jason might have dozed briefly while sitting on the floor with his ear to the door.
Not sure
. He listened for sounds from the art meeting. Silence in the main rooms. He got up stiffly, opened the door, and crept down the short hallway to check the kitchen.

“Dang it! They took all the food scraps with them!”

Witches…
again!

Jason peeked inside a decorative bag left on the table. Makeup! The
art meeting
was a make-over party! A receipt was underneath the bag. Over $48 for that little bag of cosmetics. The other women probably bought at least that much. At least $200! That fifth woman was an artist, all right — a con artist! She’d bilked Amanda out of nearly fifty bucks for two hours of laughter and insincere flattery. Jason and two buddies could duplicate that with a twelve-pack of beer!
Would’ve saved a lot of money.

He peered more closely inside the little bag. Interesting colors. Jason wondered if any were edible.

* * * *

Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold

Day Five

Just a very short addendum.

Our patient suffered through a full day of no A/C in this August heat.

Why would
Marty
put up with these discomforts? Inquiring minds want to know.

Ladies: this portion’s lesson is that a man will believe almost any lie… provided it’s unbelievable enough. The key is to go boldly where no prevaricator has gone before and come up with a fantastic lie. The little, simple lies are fairly easy to disbelieve. But the whiz-bang whoppers just swoop away these guys and carry them off for a marvelous ride.

I gorged myself on snacks tonight at the make-over… couldn’t leave them for
Marty
. In addition to everything else, I ate four Southern Lassies and took home three more. That’s nearly half a pecan pie!

Log on tomorrow for more updates on the Scare-Cure for the man-cold.

Almira
Gulch

Chapter 9

August 15 (Saturday)

In the coffeemaker Amanda brewed some very weak green tea, which made a nice sputtering sound. But she knew Jason wouldn’t drink any because it smelled vaguely like potpourri.

Shuffling slowly from the short hallway, Jason appeared in those awful clothes. Since his other set was still in the dryer from yesterday’s wash, Amanda knew these were different items. But they looked identical to what he’d worn for the previous five days.

“Do all your pajama bottoms look exactly alike?”

“Uh, what do you mean? The style?”

“Don’t get me started on
style
. I’m talking identical — color, pattern, everything. Right down to the sprung-out waistband. Why do you wear them so dang loose?”

“Blood flow to my lower extremities. Cuts off the blood supply if the elastic’s too tight.”

“Well, you’ve got at least six inches there.” She pointed.

Jason seemed caught off guard by her observation, but then he looked distinctly proud.

She sighed through her nose. “I’m talking about your waistband. You’ve got six inches of slack from that sprung-out elastic.”

His face showed immediate disappointment and he raised his pajama bottoms up about an inch. Now they were temporarily about four inches below his navel.

“I can’t believe these jammies sag as much as your other ones. Maybe worse!” Sometimes Amanda couldn’t drop a subject. “I’m bringing home a set of suspenders.”

He shrugged. Most likely, after he’d realized his favorite topic was not even in the conversation, Jason had lost interest and shifted to something new. “I had the strangest dream last night.” He didn’t even pause to see if she was interested. “Dreamed I was asleep. I woke up, in my dream, with a small panther on my chest. Purring and digging its claws into my pecs.”

“Not many panthers this close to Nashville. I think you have to go further north toward the Kentucky border for cougars and mountain lions.”

He ignored her nature lesson. “I think this dream panther escaped through the window, because I heard the blinds rattling, like the animal was whacking them or trying to tear them down.”

“You must have been sleeping somewhere else. No blinds in my guestroom. Those are curtains.”

“Well, it sounded like blinds. Maybe the panther was on your treadmill, rearranging those two hundred clothes hangers.”

“Panthers don’t tend toward domestic chores… they prefer hunting and killing.” Amanda wondered how long this conversation could last before she’d burst out laughing.

“I’m telling you, this dream was so intense I could even smell the panther’s breath.”

“What does panther breath smell like, in dreams?”

“Pretty much like stale cat food.” Jason scratched his uncombed hair. “What do panthers eat?”

“Sick humans, I expect.”

He seemed to ignore the near-miss from such danger. “What do you figure my dream means?”

Amanda thought for a moment. “The panther symbolizes your illness and it’s telling you with its breath that you’re all recovered now. With its claws, it’s saying, ‘Go back to your own apartment.’”

He studied her face briefly, evidently trying to determine whether that interpretation could possibly be correct. “Not sure. If the panther represents my illness — and it was lying on my chest — then that could mean I’m still sick. Still under the influence of the cold virus.”

“Nah. My version’s better.”

“Well, there’s something else. When I woke up this morning, there were black hairs all over my shirt, right where the panther was lying during the dream.”

“I think they call that
vivid
dreaming — when images of the dream realm actually manifest themselves in the real world.” Amanda hid her smile.

“I’ve never dreamed any animal hair onto my shirt before.”

“Okay, find another dream therapist.” Amanda sighed heavily. “And see if she’s got a spare bed in
her
apartment.”

When Jason shrugged, his stomach grumbled like the earliest beginnings of Krakatoa. “Please tell me there’s something edible in this place. I’m so weak I had to crawl down the hallway.” Jason’s exaggeration hadn’t faltered.

“You’re in luck. I found some great stuff in the nutritional aisles at the grocery yesterday. It’ll put the rose back in your cheeks.”

“I don’t want any roses. I just want something to gnaw on that doesn’t terrify my taste buds.”

“Well, I’ve never tried this myself, but it’s a highly recommended cereal.”

“Frosted Flakes? Franken Berry? Anything but the shredded wheat bricks from yesterday. That junk tasted like rusty steel wool.” He was drooling again. “Hey, how about Trix?”

“Silly rabbit. Trix are for… healthy men.” With measured ceremony, Amanda placed a box near him on the counter. “This is organic hemp with granola.”

“Hemp! You expect me to eat pieces of
rope
?”

“It’s not rope. Though I guess you could make some rope from it. This is an organic plant… substance. Besides, it’s mixed in with granola.”

“You could mix dog turds with granola, but I wouldn’t eat that, either.” He stared at the box.

“You seem awfully picky for someone so ill. I thought you’d be grateful I was providing nutritional foods instead of over-processed junk that would retard your recovery.” Amanda poured a few ounces into a bowl. “Here, try it. You might even like it.”

“I’m not going to try it.” It was beginning to sound like a famous TV commercial from several decades before. Jason peered into the bowl and poked its contents with his forefinger. He picked up one small cluster and sniffed it. “Smells just like a piece of rope.” He touched the cluster to the tip of his tongue. “Tastes like rope, too.”

“Well, enjoy your rope cereal, Jason. I’ve got to go earn a paycheck. Bye.”

“But today’s Saturday! I thought you’d be home at least today. You know, to take care of me a little… or something.”

“Sorry. I’ve lost a lot of time already this past week and this is our crunch period, with decisions coming up at the end of the month on all the applications for next fiscal year. If I don’t get them read and assessed, my boss doesn’t have anything to go on about who gets funded. Not that he pays much attention to my recommendations anyway. There’s a lot of politics involved and quotas of various kinds. Demographics… whatever. I might as well weigh them and just recommend he fund the heaviest ones.” Clearly, Jason had tuned out during her first sentence of complaint… and that peeved her. Amanda turned to leave.

“Quick question before you go. Was it cooler in here last night, to you?”

“No, pretty hot, actually. August, you know. Why?”

“Well, when I got up last night to use the bathroom — and had to sit, by the way — I felt definitely chilled in the hallway.” Jason pointed that direction. “Maybe that hall’s a cold spot. Hauntings or something.”

“Or panthers. But if my apartment is haunted, it’s by the ghost of the man-cold.”

Either he ignored the dig or didn’t get it.

Amanda rolled her eyes discreetly. “Well, chills alternate with fever during a man-cold. Like a pendulum — half a degree hot, half a degree cold.”

“Felt like ordinary apartment air conditioning to me. Felt good. I even considered sleeping in the hallway.”

“Better not. Sometimes I’m way behind schedule in the mornings and I hit that hall running. I wouldn’t want to accidentally stomp on your pills with these heels.”

Jason moved his knees together without apparently realizing it. Instinctive
.

She started to leave a second time, but Jason stopped her again. “Any chance you’ll be home by lunch? I sure could go for some Chinese take-out.”

Amanda shook her head. “Too much MSG.”

“I don’t care how much it costs. I’ll pay. I’m starving!”

“Monosodium glutamate, I think. With an illness like yours, that stuff is lethal. They’ll take you straight from the restaurant to the morgue.”
Sorry, ‘Marty’
.

On her way to work, Amanda stopped at a convenience store for gasoline, and bought a sausage biscuit with a sixteen-ounce coffee. And a Hershey bar to snack on later.

* * * *

The municipal building where Amanda worked had been originally on the square facing the courthouse, but had moved three-quarters of a mile east as the city had slowly conformed to the new dominant geographic feature — I-40. At one time that interstate was on the southern edge of the city, but now it was the relocated center. Most of the once-thriving retail businesses had drifted away from downtown and moved to the frontage roads, leaving many buildings vacant near the courthouse. Some of these had been razed to create parking lots for the numerous law offices which moved closer to court. Verdeville’s current downtown was mainly law, banking, and — at its eastern edge — city/county government. In the other direction was the county hospital, so that western half of old downtown had become doctors’ offices and diagnostic clinics. As such, reconfigured downtown thrived and parking was premium.

When she reached her building, slightly east of old downtown, Amanda entered with a punch code. It was closed on weekends, but HVAC systems were running. The elevators were also operable, but Amanda didn’t use them when she was possibly alone in the building. If anyone got stuck on a Saturday, it might be Monday before they were rescued.

She often took the stairs anyway, even on regular days. It helped exercise her legs and tighten her buns. Also worked off the chocolate bars. Plus, whenever King Louie irritated her to boiling point, those stairs helped release excess stress.

Her floor looked empty. In her office section, Amanda was by herself.
Good!
No Louis
. Maybe she could get some work done this Saturday. She checked the blog first, however.

Predictably, men’s comments were still almost a hundred per cent in support of
Marty
. Several still wanted to smack
Missy
and
Almira
. Some protested that colds hit men harder because of their hormones. Some openly wondered how hard could it be to take care of a sick man?
Ha!

Just as predictably, women’s comments were mostly on the side of
Missy
and the blog-creator
Almira Gulch
, a name Amanda still didn’t recognize. Most were rooting for them to cure
Marty
of this cold syndrome, for the betterment of all womankind.

A third large group seemed to be more speculators than spectators: They had links to a different blog running bets on how many days
Marty
could survive before he fled
Missy’s
apartment.

So much for their own blog. Next, Amanda clicked on the adjunct threads which had sprung up through links from the comments in their blog. She returned to the first they’d discovered, nicknamed Kick-Marty. That had gained over a dozen:
Kick
Marty
Out — 37
was the most recent post.