I waved, I pointed at my constipated larynx. The band assumed I was commenting upon their playing and collectively fliped me off.
I reached into my throat, jamming my entire right hand into my mouth.
Nothing - I pounded my chest to no avail.
I began to feel light-headed. No one knew, no one cared. I tried to scream, but nothing came out except a tiny spray of red droplets that lightly dusted the dung-brown carpet, then disappeared.
The band played on - stupid, relentless. I fell to my knees and reached into my mouth again, like some circus freak performing a trick.
I touched the pick. It turned sideways and allowed a zephyr of fresh air to enter my pleading lungs, but the same air betrayed me immediately, turning the pick flat again like a carburetor shutting off my air and my hope.
I saw large patterns moving around my sweating, expiring face. I could no longer stand. I waved weakly "goodbye" to everyone as they got fuzzy and faded away.
Suddenly, violent, cold air revived me. Someone slapped me on the back as I knelt on the ground. The slap hurled me forward and I smacked my head on the carpeted floor.
I sat up, coughing, gagging, reeling but not rocking. A delicious sharp pain gripped my throat. The pick lay upon the carpet glistening with red slime.
"I, I can breathe!" I exulted above the din, finally silencing it.
"Is that a song title?" asked the drummer.
"Are you puking again, you wuss?" sneered the bass player.
"I couldn't breathe. I almost died. I swallowed my pick. Who hit me on the back?" I yammered.
"No one hit you, man. We've been playing, in case you hadn't noticed, and no one else could fit back here in this rat hole. I thought you were tossing cookies, or praying or something. You're always doing something weird," replied the other guitar player.
"Well who...." My voice trailed off as a cold ammonia sweat erupted from a thousand pores and the wind outside whispered, "No, no, no. You're doing it the hard way. Let me show you...."
Article comments
1 - Craig Lyndall
This is a great story. Very nice work!
2 - Eric Olsen
Thanks Craig! It's all true. I've led a strange life.
3 - Suburb Slim
Hey dude,....I was hanging out down in
Coventry in the Heights back in '73. We
could have been 'righteous' groovers, if our paths had crossed .
I used to play a mean 'harp' back then,....
AKA: the harmonica. I was 20 at the time
and jammed with my Cleveburg friends.
I was and still am into the (the old Black
blues musicians) like Sonny Boy Williamson. Although John Mayhall and
Paul Butterfield were the young bucks of the day. Me and my buds used to hit the bong
and groove out , later drive all over that crazy city. One dude had a place his band
rented for practice that was down near the
Flats. In the bad old days, when that wasn't the coolest place to be late at night. We used to drive to Chesterland to catch bands
play at this place called Hullaballoo, or something very '70's like that. Kent, and John Carroll, were close enough for checking out the music scene too.
All I can say is 'small groovey world',...man.
(Ala Cheech and Chong,......man.)
Great tale,.....better than choking on your own vomit like Hendrix. Artists and musicians have suffered much, on their journey towards greatness or mediocrity.
Fate had better plans for you.
4 - Eric Olsen
thanks for the very kind words Slim! And the great old blues is no less great than it was 30 years ago! We may well have run into each other, especially down in Kent. I also recall when the Flats were seedy as hell. Very nice to hear from you