Who Killed Me?

Tuesday, May 19th, 2009, 9:48 pm

My senior year of high school me and ten or so classmates acted in a murder-mystery play written by one of our teachers. It was one of those dinner-party things were the guests walk up to you in groups and ask you questions, and you answer them (in character) and they’re supposed to use this information to figure out Whodunit. I played the murder victim, which you might think limited my dramatic opportunities, but in the play I was able to walk and talk and answer questions. I just couldn’t say who killed me, because I didn’t know. I apparently snuffed it when I tripped over a string tied at ankle-level at the top of a long marble staircase. Never saw it coming, poor bastard.

We did the play twice–once at our local library (where Stacy, playing my non-grieving widow, went Method on me and cold-cocked me in the jaw) and once at a McMansion owned by some real-estate maven who threw a huge shindig for about 100 of his agents. The power went out right before we started and it stayed out for about two hours, during which time the putative adults in the house drank non-stop. When it came time for them to mingle and interview us their behavior was, at times, a bit inappropriate. The play had a Twenties theme–the guys were in dinner jackets, the girls in clingy dresses and heels and mink stoles. A bunch of teenagers dressed to the nines, a bunch of drunk and bored adults leering at us…things got weird a couple of times.

A woman sat next to me on a settee and closely examined the seamwork on my slacks with her left hand. Another woman, made hypercompetitive by drink, offered me money if I’d just tell her who killed me. When I said I honestly didn’t know, she offered to give me her daughter. That’s how she phrased it, “I’ll give you my daughter.” Staying in character and ignoring my own personal distaste of human trafficking I asked what she looked like. And her husband, who seemed sober both in mind and general temperment, pulled a photo out of his wallet and, good golly. A year younger than me and a total cutie. I thought he was just humoring his wife but no, the guy sat next to me and started selling me on his child, how bright and lovely and wonderful she was. I might’ve spilled my guts, but for the thought that these two would be my in-laws. And, as I’d told them several times, I didn’t actually know who killed me.

I’ve been thinking on that question quite a bit the past few days–“Who Killed Me?” Not in that play 22 years ago (oh Jesus, it really was that long ago, Jesus) but who’s responsible for the plague that’s tormented me the last six days. Who gave it to me? I started feeling off last Wednesday…that day I went for a long bike ride, didn’t feel great when I finished up. So maybe my descent had already started. The day before I spent some time at the gym, rode the elliptical…and shot some hoops. And while I was shooting these bratty barely-teens came in and harshed my mellow. Making noise and running around on the other court while I was trying to groove my jumper. I’m trying to remember a runny nose, someone coughing without covering his goddam mouth. I can’t say for sure. All I do know is that the last six days have been really, really shitty.

I’ve gotten better just about every day since Saturday. My fever broke, the body aches eased, I got some sleep. But it still hasn’t left me, not by a long shot. My doctor friend says to stay the course, rest and fluids, beat the bug into total submission. I may go to my doctor tomorrow anyway, as I’ve picked up a bit of a cough and my stomach has been a bit more upset today. Make sure I cover all the diagnostic bases and don’t get some secondary bug that re-wipes me out.

Today, I could function. If need be, push-come-to-shove, I could’ve worked today. I think this is the first day I can say that. Thing is, come next Thursday I’ll be working 50 or so days in a row. A couple of weeks ago I felt locked-and-loaded for the World Series, was prepared to airlift in and hit the ground running from Day 1. Now the mere thought of running makes me wanna barf. Gotta get my car inspected, deal with the cat, do laundry, shutter the flat, figure out what the hell I’m taking with me. I have a week to get organized, but until I feel better I’m stuck in a holding pattern. The last couple of years I’ve tried to overcome the jet lag by staying up extra-late while I’m here so the time change doesn’t cripple me. I wanted to get in a rhythm of exercise and arrive in Vegas percolating with energy. Unless my condition improves in a big hurry, that ain’t gonna happen.

Blech. Sick of being sick. Sick of talking about being sick. Sick of being cooped up on beautiful spring days. Sigh, gotta suck it up, buttercup.

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3 Responses to “Who Killed Me?”

  1. Darcy Says:

    Wow, I didn’t know you got hit on at that party, and I didn’t ever know what the guy who hosted it did for a living. I was probably saved by the protective shell of my incredibly bitchy washed-up actress character from being leered at or approached in any way, but I do remember taking credit for the posh decor that one of the guests complimented in my presence (I think in the fake play world, it was supposed to be my house?). 22 years?! No. It can’t be. Is it? Ugh. Get well soon, Geno. Chicken soup and miso and plenty of water (better for you than OJ).

  2. Gene Says:

    Fortunately is was the stitching on the OUTER seam that drunken woman was examining. I remember poor Sharon getting hounded everywhere she went. Strange night, that was.

  3. Asma Says:

    Holy shiztin, this is so cool thank you.

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