punchy

“Honey, you need to go to the doctor,” the dirty-blonde in a green nightie said to me.

I winced at the pain in my lower back. I knew what it was, and damn it, I did not want to go pay someone hundreds of dollars to say just that.

“Fucking kidney stones,” I said. “Joyous they are not.”

I struggled out of bed and made it to the bathroom. A trickle of pee came out, pain stayed in. I’d been having stones on and off since I was a spry 24 year old that was living in the desert. I’ve always kind of associated them with the desert, even though I haven’t lived there since I was 27.

Since, I’ve had some adventures with them. My first time was expensive. No insurance, and the stupidity to believe that my soon-to-be career in journalism would one day allow me to pay off my credit cards. So, I put all the doctor’s visits on them. Specialists charged a lot in 1995 too.

Next, my urologist in Virginia was the guy who re-attached John Wayne Bobbit’s penis after it was hacked off. He made a porno, beat up another girl and disappeared. I also knew the guy who found the damn thing. Small world. Ugh.

Also in Virginia, I passed on in the office one night. I was to save it to have it “tested” the doctors always say, so I scooped it out of the urinal with my boss’ spoon for his coffee. Didn’t wash it off.

Maybe it’s Karma for that?

Soon, I was used to them. Just passing them every so often. I changed my diet. I exercised. Hell, I even gave up soda for five years. Nothing worked.

Finally, I gave birth to the biggest thing I think has ever passed out of the urethra. I passed a small one. Then hours later, passed one bigger than a peanut -- still in the shell. I looked at it and was scared of it. Actually still have it.

A few hours later, I had the best sex I’d had in a decade. Go figure.

Now, I’m here standing in the shower, doing swats under the hot water to try and get some kind of ability to move going. Every day is like this now. But I’ve found a way of relief. It’s worked once before. Failed another. It’s time for a try at No. 3.

“I just want to be un cold,” she said as we walked toward another bar. We’d never been to this one. Heard it had a tough rep. That’s what we want.

After we go in, it lives up to the rep. A very Roadhouse vibe going on. Just on blind blues guitarists to break up the monotony.

The pain shoots up from my back. It does into the leg, into the groin, into my teeth even. They come out of nowhere, sucking your strength. They feel much better when you’re walking, if only you can stand up.

They sap your strength, mentally mostly, as my threshold for pain is pretty high.

And they really taunt you when you’re one of “those people” without insurance.

The object now is to get in a fight and guarding every inch of me except where the pain is, hopefully getting punched there and dislodging it from it’s current spot.

I spot a guy, perfect candidate. He’s about 5 foot 7, weighing about 200 pounds. Fat guy. But he looks like a mean bastard. And he only with a gal.

“That’s him,” I say, pointing him out.

“Don’t point, babe. You know I hate it.”

I point at her tits. She slaps my hand away. I smile.

The waitress comes over. We order Jamesons with beer chasers. Figure I need a good buzz to have this happen. The last time didn’t work. I ended up with a bruised kidney. Had one before. Fell out of a tree as a kid. Hell, maybe that’s why this happens to me all the time?

So many theories, not enough time to research it. At this point, I just want relief.

After a few more drinks, she looks me in the eye. We only had $40 bucks, so we can’t stay very long.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Now or never, babe,” she says.

Damn she’s sexy. Red hair and pale skin. Geeky glasses and a fucking attitude. I’m the luckiest son of a bitch that I said hi to her that night two years ago. She had blue hair and was watching some reality show on TV in a small restaurant in Galax. Why was I there? To meet her. We met on the internet and I followed. She also doesn’t beat me up like others have about this epidemic of stones. We tried different diets too. They keep coming back.

“Here’s hoping it works this time,” she says with a wink.

Damn, me too. The last time it worked, when some Vanceboro redneck popped me good in the gullet in a bar in New Bern, I peed blood for a day, then a stone came out. The next week, we didn’t leave the bedroom.

I take a last swig and walk up to the guy. He’s busy watching a Duke and North Carolina basketball game. He didn’t go to either school, I assume. This is a basic assumption in shitty dives in North Carolina. Usually, the guy rooting for either team, didn’t go to school there.

“Who you rooting for beau?” I say.

He looks at me. The says “no one, I hate basketball.”

“Ahh.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“To fight your ass.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I gulp, knowing what’s coming.

The guy swings, and I duck. He’s slow and stupid. This may be tough. I go into my weird stance, leaving my kidney area exposed. He goes for my head again.

I duck, and swing at him. I connect. He falls.

“Shit,” I sigh. He’s knocked out cold.

Soon, two bouncers are on me. They grab me, look down and laugh.

“You just punched Bobby?” one finally exclaims.

“I guess,” I say.

“He’s the sheriff’s daughter, er, son.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, had a sex change.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll say. He never pays his, her, whatever, tab. Thanks!”

“Drinks for this guy all night!” he says to the barkeep.

“One for the lady too?”

“Definitely,” he says.

After taking them back to the table, I go to my new friend.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, anything man.”

“Hit me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I was just trying to get hit.”

“Uh, not really looking to do something unnecessary, sorry bro.”

“Really, man. It would be a huge favor.”

“Where?”

“Right here,” I say, pointing at my kidney, left side.

“Dude, that’s gonna hurt. A lot.”

“That’s the point.”

“You one of those kinds?”

“Nah, I got rocks in my shit.”

“What?”

“Kidney stones. This gets ‘em moving.”

“Why don’t you go to a doctor?”

“Just do it, please.”

Punch.

I fall. In a heap. It hurts. I gasp for air. All of the sudden, I need to pee. Badly. I know I’m not getting to the bathroom. It comes quickly. And painfully. The sharpness of it tells me I’m getting cut.

I smile as my pants get wet.

“You’re a fucked up dude, man.”

“Life is fucked up. Life is fucked up.”

I get up and go over to my lady. She’s laughing at my wet pants.

“Laugh it up. Laugh it up. I’ll show ya later.”

“Hope so.”