Buyer's Remorse

It's not deep, my friend Michael tells me, gingerly feeling the jagged, three inch gash on his forehead, probably won't even leave a scar.


I shrug and think better of telling him that it looks like a blood stained lightning bolt and most certainly will.


I've found him at noon, still in bed and in a tangle of sheets, wearing nothing but his designer black briefs and matching socks. He's sickly pale and bleary-eyed, having a bad case of buyer's remorse and a little memory loss. After only four drinks (experience tells me this really means seven or eight, he tends to be revisionist about this kind of thing), he fell either getting into or out of the old Suburban. It doesn't happen often these days (at least not anymore) but this time it's a humdinger, as my old grandmother might say. His skull is cracked, both hands are badly bruised and swollen, his hip aches. He's lost one of his rings, and not just any ring but a family heirloom and quite valuable. I don't just dig for sympathy - I have to dredge - and come up empty-handed.


In a moment of charity ( which, I remind myself, he doesn't deserve) I start the coffee and scratch around until I find the aspirin bottle, then coax the dogs downstairs and out to the side yard. They romp happily enough while I smoke a cigarette and when they tire themselves out, I lead them back upstairs, secure the gate behind them and slip out.


Later that day there will be admissions of stupidity and carelessness, a renewed vow of abstinence. This time, he'll assure me, he's learned his lesson. For a man who's spent his lifetime cultivating vanity - he spends more on a few months of makeup than most people make in a year - there's a karma-esque justice about it all.

Won't scar, my ass.