Michael K. Gause

Dis Ease

I can see it clearly. I'm just close enough. A dapper, forty-something businessman in an 80's pinstriped suit has just ordered his crap food in this crap place loudly and proudly in the company of his mother, as if it takes character to acquire a large fry. She watches him order for her with a tight-lipped beaming pride for her caring, successful son. He is happy to be able to impress her so easily and will do so for the rest of her stay. They sit and begin the traditional Scandihoovian dance of benign conversation, as I finish my second square little burger. Between the sound of pickles and meat squishing in my head, I hear her talking concretely about Angels and help from above; as she veers into instances of divine intervention, he smiles and nods with an air of superiority that comes with wealth in the presence of the previous generation. A fish-netted teen walks by, and his eyes follow her subtly from bootheel to ass. His mother tries not to notice as she continues her account of how her Henry, his father you know, was saved from the pain of this world at the proper time, when his suffering had become just too much. We are only human don't you know. His eyes glaze with thoughts of the little angels he will watch online upon returning to the office, the ones that will save him just before his 2:00 with Hoskins. This leads him to thoughts of the hummer he received just last night, the first in a while. Nice what flattery and pearls can get you these days. A true businessman, this guy, I think as I suck down my coke. In the back corner of the parking garage, he was pleased with the proper return on his investment.

I look out the window during a break in their riveting conversation, a pleasant lull as she digs into her double-decker cheese. A fat woman limps along on the other block, and the business man does not look. She is old enough to be impressed by the 2001 Dodge Daytona that nearly runs her down. I can't help but wince.

I imagine dingy rooms filled with prayers to God.

I imagine sadness passing out.

I look back just in time to see the mother looking away from me and up, which says to me she's a little guilty for passing small judgments and a little embarrassed for having been caught staring at me. Sure I look a bit odd, ma'am. I carry a small metal case for my books. Yes, I seem too young to wear an old man's hat, the kind your Henry wore back in the day before he started drinking and turned his liver into a time bomb. Thank goodness for Angels, eh? Back when you needed to know to avoid the boys who drag raced and to never let a boy get to third before knowing something about his family. No, don't worry about passing judgments here. Lord knows I've got mine. I'm making them right here. Maybe you'll stumble upon them in a million years and in some other life.

For no good reason this old woman, whose hair is far too brown to be believed, begins to infuriate me. Not her, really, but something about the life that includes her. Do I have mother issues? Am I getting too jaded to let a nice moment between family just be? Her son across from her, whose hair is not graying at the temples , but silvering, much to the joy of his superiors who planned on it, and which will ensure him a key to the executive washroom when the time is right.

As I gather my things, my stomach nicely bloated from the garbage I've eaten and the disease which made all this wasteful watching possible, I have but one lonely thought, and I will make it so. I hold my books close to me to appear even more strange and make a point of walking very close to her on the way out. I bend slightly, dragging one leg behind me a bit for effect, and test the viability of this dis ease. Maybe it’s a virus. Maybe I can share it. I'm halfway down the sidewalk before I glance back through the window. She is looking at her lovely little boy, all grown up and proud, while he glares at me like he's about to jump up and take pursuit. He wants to, but needs to stay with his mother who, to her guilty surprise, finds herself actually wondering about the slander of whispering strangers. "Your son likes little boys." She repeats in her head in silence and horror. Some part of her has never learned to trust the successful. I believe this thing is an airborne pathogen. But just like this old woman about her son I'll never know for sure.

I round the corner, laughing, feeling better than I have in days. But I know it won't last. The antidote has side effects of its own. I'll be reduced to considering what I'm too weak to do with a pain reserved strictly for religion. I'll veer toward praying and end up chanting some dirty OMMMMM crouched just behind the sun. I'll just enjoy the relief and, before giving it all up to sleep, remember that I'll pay for it, along with everyone else, in spades. There is a comfort in belonging even to this infected race, some sweet song in knowing you'll never be alone again.

Michael K. Gause lives in Minnesota. He hosts the "Disheveled Salon," a monthly happy hour gathering of local writers and is Artistic Director for Northography (www.northography.com), a showcase for regional creative writing. His first self-published chapbook is The Tequila Chronicles and his second, I Want To Look Like Henry Bataille, was published in 2006 by Little Poem Press. His website is www.thedayonfire.com.