Jacqueline Druga - The Flu

Hearing the bedroom door close, and thinking “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dylan pulled the covers up further, figured Mick was being really weird, and she went back to sleep.

Mick knew it was going to be a great day. The festival clean-up was underway. People were upbeat, and they had good reason. Flu-free. Lodi had made it. Amongst a group of people doing tear-down work, Mick paused just as he stepped into Central Park. He took a moment to look around and listen to the sounds, then he stuck a cigarette into his mouth. Striking the match while blocking the wind, Mick lit it. As he shook out the flame, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder

“I’m sorry, Mick.” Lars grabbed both of Mick’s shoulders as if trying to hold himself up.

“What’s wrong?” Mick asked.

“Nothing.” Lars shook his head. “Well, no, yes. We’ll see. Nothing.”

“Lars?”

“Have you seen Patrick?” Lars asked with a hint of a frazzled tone. “I need his help.”

“He’s probably still at home.”

“Thanks.” Lars started to take off.

“Whoa.” Mick reached out. “Something is wrong. What is it?”

“Nothing really, just probably my writer’s imagination going overboard.” Lars began to walk backwards. “I’ll keep you posted.” With a turn, Lars ran off.

“Keep me posted about what!” Mick shouted after the running man. With a grunt, Mick tossed out his hands in defeat, realized he wasn’t getting any answers, then shrugged off the incident. He wasn’t going to let an eccentric best-selling romance writer/scientist ruin what was turning into a great day.

No one could argue the fact that breakfast didn’t consist of the four food groups lumped together on one plate. Chris knew that for sure. Tigger looked like he was raring to dig into it. Dustin stared at his breakfast, prepared by Rose, in debate. But Chris debated it and decided it was indeed a balanced meal. And not a single person could ever accuse Rose Owens of not being inventive when she prepared that toasted cheese sandwich with fried hot dogs and pickles. After a shrug, a churn of his hungry stomach, and a huge squeeze of mustard, Chris dug in.

“Pretty good.” He nodded then noticed the stare Dustin gave him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re foul.” Dustin shook his head at Chris’ mustard-covered pudgy fingers. When Chris bit into his sandwich, everything flew out the back.

“What?” Chris, confused, took another bite.

Tigger picked apart his sandwich. He liked the hot dog part. “Rose, when’s my mom coming home?”

“Soon. Why?” Rose asked. “Don’t like hanging out with me?”

“No. I mean, I do,” Tigger said. “It’s just that I was wondering when she’s coming home.”

Chris paused in devouring his “breakfast” sandwich. “It’s kind of sad.”

Rose swung a jaundiced look his way. “What is? Me being here?”

“Mom and Mick getting married,” Chris stated then realized what he was implying. “No,” he quickly corrected. “I don’t mean about them getting married. I mean about Mick. I mean…” The smack to the back of his head made Chris shriek loudly and jump up and dive onto his brother.

“Hey!” Rose yelled. “Knock it off.” She reached across the table. “What is wrong with you?”

“Why’d ya hit me?” Chris barked at Dustin.

“Why’d ya say that?”

“Why’d ya hit me?”

“Why’d ya say that?”

“Enough,” Rose snapped.

“You’re rude. That’s her son,” Dustin instructed. “Saying you don’t want Mick marrying Mom.”

“That ain’t what I was saying,” Chris defended. “I’m worried. I like Mick. I like him a lot. He’s been around us all our lives. He ain’t never went anywhere. What if Mom is, like, cursed with husbands? And now that Mick has gone and married her, he’ll leave.”

“Didn’t Mick tell you he wouldn’t?” Dustin asked. “Now believe him, or I’m telling.”

“Chris,” Rose took on an explaining motherly tone. “Why would you say your mother is cursed with husbands? Your mom and dad may have had their ups and downs, but they were together for a very long time. They had you boys. They did good. Your mom’s not cursed. At least I hope to God she’s not.”

Tigger looked innocently at Rose. “Is that why my mom didn’t stay here last night? In case her curse is here?”

Chris answered, “No. It was so her and Mick could have sex.”

Dustin winced and whined. “Aw, now, see. Why would you say that? I don’t want to have that in my head when Mom walks in the door.”

“Don’t you worry.” Rose patted Dustin’s hand. “That was the last thing they were doing last night.” She saw the look that Dustin gave that all but said, ‘yeah right’. “I’m serious. Wait until you get that age. There’s a span of life where folks don’t have sex anymore.”

“Are you serious?” Dustin asked. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” Rose nodded. “Between the ages of twenty-five and sixty, people have no desire. They don’t do that stuff.”

“No one told me this before,” Dustin said.

“That’s because it’s a depressing thought.” Rose shrugged. “To know that one day you’re enjoying it, the next, it makes you nauseous to think about it. They probably played Scrabble or something.”

As if he were in school, Chris raised his hand. “And it comes back at sixty?”

“Oh, it comes back in a vengeance,” Rose nodded. “All those years plow you over. Yep. Anyone over the age of sixty is getting it.”

“Even Dexter?” Chris asked.

“Dexter more so than anyone,” Rose said. “That old man Dexter probably gets more pussy than a rich horny man in a whorehouse…” She looked up. “Oh, morning, Dylan.”

At that instant, standing in the kitchen doorway with her mouth hanging open, Dylan realized what Mick meant when he commented about breakfast with Rose.

The festival seemed to be the starting gate to a race that sent the residents onto the track of normalcy. The little corner tavern that usually housed only Lars, Mick, Patrick and a few others, was packed, too packed and too noisy for Lars. The people chattered, laughed and yelled. As if the live music of the night before wasn’t enough, the jukebox blared tunes from the big hair era. Rubbing his temples, his elbows on the table, Lars tried, but he couldn’t think.

In his peripheral vision he saw the two glasses set before him. Patrick started to pour whiskey. Holding up his hand, Lars stopped him. “None for me. You shouldn’t be drinking either.”

“It’s over.”

His hands slammed onto the table, and Lars, usually lighthearted, was heavy with sorrow. “It is not over. You know that and I know that.”

“We looked.”

“We must look again.”

“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I have to disagree. It’s your paranoia. Lars, I want all bases covered as well. But going insane over it isn’t going to do any good.”

“And pretending it doesn’t exist isn’t going to do any good either. My friend…” Lars reached over and firmly gripped Patrick’s wrist, “if there is a stone unturned, we must turn it. If we looked, we must look again. We have to know. We have to stay ahead of this thing. Elimination is the only assurance. I’m not stopping.”

“Ok.” Patrick downed his drink. “I won’t stop either.”

Lars smiled. “Let’s go.” He stood up.

“Right behind you.” Patrick started to follow but stopped. He returned to the table, poured a little more alcohol in the glass, and downed it. He had been at it for hours with Lars, and he knew that was only the beginning. But, Patrick admitted to himself that he went back for that drink because he needed it. Not for the long search ahead, but rather for fear of what they could find.