---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Reaching for the Stars” Down in the Dirt, v201 (11/22) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Paths Less Traveled the Down in the Dirt September-December 2022 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Garlic and Honey

Harrison Linklater Abbott

    I got the subway over to Joel’s place. In the shop near his flat I bought some bulbs of garlic and a jar of honey. Then I went up to the flat and pressed the buzzer. He took a long time coming to the speaker and he said,
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s me, Joel. Open up.”
    He buzzed me in and I went up the stairs and he’d left his front door open. Joel was sitting on the living room sofa. His face was puffy.
    “Did I wake you up?” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “Sorry about that.”
    “No worries ... it’s three in the afternoon, I shouldn’t be sleeping anyway.”
    His voice was all whispery. He looked at the garlic and honey I was holding and he groaned.
    “Oh,” he said, “not this shit again.”
    “Come on, Joel, you know it’s good for you. I’ll go make some doses.”
    I went into the kitchen and adopted one of the chopping boards and sliced up the garlic. Then I got a pair of spoons and slid the garlic shreds into their basins and poured the honey on them after that.
    “Medicine time,” I called.
    Joel slumped into the room. He was taller than me, even though he was slumping; and I’m over six foot. Had blonde hair and a big jaw and one of those moviestar dimples in the centre of the chin. Handsome guy.
    “Who even taught you this trick?” Joel said.
    “My mother. She’s totally crazy psychologically but she’s in her seventies and super healthy physically.”
    I gave him one of the spoons.
    “Go on, swallow it.”
    We both did at the same time. Joel’s face spasmed. Then he drank some water.
    “I dunno how you can stand it,” he said. “And you do this every day?”
    “I do.”
    “Even if you’re not ill.”
    “Yup.”
    “Madness. All right. Let’s get down to some matches.”
    In the sitting room he switched the TV and Playstation on. Joel and I had a pretty good rivalry on FIFA. I liked to think I was a tad better than him but this was probably my ego speaking and he did tend to beat me often. He had this annoying knack of scoring in the last minute. Even though I always had 60% of the possession.
    And he enjoyed winding me up about it too; he was a great shit-stirrer.
    So we played today and I was winning 1 – 0 and had almost all of the ball. Then it got to minute 89. And Joel played a through pass up to his striker and he chipped it over my goalie.
    “Urgh, you bastard,” I moaned.
    Joel jumped up and cheered.
    “Hahahaha,” Joel yelled, “the greatest FIFA player of all time, boyo. You know it.”
    And he started coughing. He was still laughing. But the coughs overtook the giggling and they kept going. His neck reddened and his eyes got watery.
    “You all right, Joel?”
    He gave me a thumbs up. Then he turned and went out of the room, spluttering all the way, and he disappeared into the toilet and shut the door. I could hear him from here. This violent hack hack hacking.
    I went into the kitchen again and filled a pint of water for him and took it to the toilet door.
    “Joel,” knocking on the door, “I got some water for you?”
    He just kept hacking.
    “Do you want something to drink, Joel?”
    “No, I’m good,” and emitting these words worsened the episode because it only got louder. And through the whooping he wrenched air back in, since he was losing oxygen, and his lungs sounded like rubber being stretched. It was petrifying for me, let alone him, simply listening to it.
    “Can I come in, Joel?”
    He didn’t respond. I rapped on the door again.
    “Is it all right if I come in? Please?”
    And then everything stopped.
    Joel went silent. And the silence filled the air with liquid threat.
    I yelled his name. Nothing. So I told him I was coming in and then I opened the door.
    He was lying, face down, on the floor.
    I put the glass of water down and rushed over to him.
    His head was lolled on the tiles under the toilet seat and his mouth was open and eyelids shut.
    I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him over onto his front. Which took some effort. And his body was totally limp.
    “Joel, wake up!” I said. “What’s with you.”
    The fan above us was humming and this toilet had an especially acidic lightbulb which burned down on his face; and in the white beam I saw just how sick Joel was, could see how discoloured his skin was, and it was all covered with spittle and sweat.
    “Not now, Joel,” I cried. I shook his torso and then I went up to his neck and felt at his jugular vein.
    Then Joel opened his eyes and said,
    “What you touching me for?” and he grinned, “Are you gay or something?”
    “Fuck’s sake, Joel.”
    “Ha. I got you.”
    “You did, yes.”
    “Get away from me.”
    I stood up from him. Completely embarrassed. Angry. Relieved, too. Joel stood up and he just kept smiling. The film-star dimple on the chin always bloomed when he found something amusing.
    “That wasn’t funny, Joel.”
    “It was.”
    “You took that too far.”
    “Oh, Jeeze, have a sense of humour.”
    He moved to go past me but I stopped him.
    “Seriously, that wasn’t nice,” I said, “I thought you were dead for Christ’s sake.”
    “Yeah well. It was probably that garlic and honey you gave me. Ha.”
    “Don’t joke.”
    “Why not? People with my condition only have a life expectancy of 40 anyway. We’re in our late twenties now. Shrug. Who cares? Why not laugh while you still can?”
    “Please don’t say stuff like that.”
    “We’ve got a FIFA game to finish.”
    Joel moved away from me and he switched off the light and I followed him back into the living room where he sat on the sofa in front of the TV and I joined him.
    I was still humiliated. And the embarrassment overrode the rage. I wanted to say something else ... but the simpler thing to do would be to get back to the videogame.
    Indeed – the fixture had paused on the goal that Joel had scored five minutes earlier. It showed the highlight of the goal from different camera angles.
    “That was quite the nice chip finish, wasn’t it?” he said. Then he pressed START. “Looks like this game is going to extra time.”
    It got to minute 92 and I had my forward in Joel’s box and I took a pop at goal and it pinged off the crossbar and went behind the net. Then the referee whistled for extra time. Joel yelled, “Yaaaay.”
    I laughed as well.
    Joel’s face was still wet from his coughing fit. He wiped it with his hands. And then ran his palms through the strands of his yellow hair.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...