31 Paradiso by Rhoda Huffey

Author:Rhoda Huffey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Delphinium Books
Published: 2022-03-30T19:14:41+00:00

8

Pills

The blue-and-yellow capsules were such an instant and complete relief that Francine wondered how she had ever lived without them. At Chauzer Impermanente Sunset on the way home from the Didwells, the closest ER, she explained to the doctor in an award-winning performance that a veritable hatchet was breaking her skull in two. She made herself believe it. By faith you could create an instant migraine. Her neighbor, one Peter across the alley, had given her two blue-and-yellow capsules one day when she had a headache, and within fifteen minutes the whole sky had changed to something glorious. Every little scrap of trash held promise. The headache had introduced her to a world of happiness: a cocktail prescription drug made of narcotics and barbiturates. Francine had dabbled in pills in the pre-Cyrus years when she was famous Waitress Seven, fastest hash house slinger in Santa Ana, California. People came in just to watch the blur of speed that was her six tables. The mini-Benzedrine that her colleague Nellie handed out in tinfoil packs of five before the breakfast shift gave you an optimistic outlook on the day: happy pills, Nellie named the foil cylinders she only sold at one per shift per waitress, and only after you clocked in; nothing for recreation. The pleasure in combining ketchups! In talking people’s heads off as their eyes went glassy. The dry mouth, so delicious. But one day Francine stopped. She simply stopped, which proved she was no drug addict.

“What’s going on?” said each new nice doctor.

“Headache,” Francine breathed out.

She never overacted. The trick was never to lie. Belief brought a strange power with it, which was how faith worked, which was why Christians didn’t allow themselves to be influenced by unbelievers. In Chauzer Impermanente, she used her faith skills. Her shoulders slumped. Her bones quivered, a little.

“What do you usually take?”

“I don’t know.” She talked like a ventriloquist. “Blue and yellow.”

The doctor named it.

“Maybe,” said Francine. She slumped down one more vertebra.

“Take one, and if needed, two,” said each nice doctor. Each one patted her shoulder. “You’ll feel better shortly.”

In fifteen minutes she was happy.

The blue-and-yellow pills were oblong, and more beautiful than anything designed by Michelangelo. With each dose, two (the label said one, but labels were conservative), she had six hours to be happy, and then she took another dose, and sometimes a third. Sometimes she lost count, and had to estimate. When the last dose of the day faded, she ate one heavy meal, takeout pulled pork from Versailles Restaurant and beer, two Coronas, and as her eyelids closed, she begged her lungs to keep breathing and closed her eyes into a great darkness.

In the morning, still alive, she swallowed two more blue-and-yellow new friends.

It turned out not to be difficult to get them, all-hours visits to the Chauzer Emergency Room, and being honest—pain was pain—was her success formula, her pure soul looking straight into the doctor’s flashlight, not pretending. Pain was pain, period.

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