I was in a pissy mood the morning after I’d been tentatively diagnosed as a type 2 diabetic. After getting my blood sugar down to a reasonable level, my doc told me to come back in the morning to check it again. And he told me not to consume anything but water in the mean time.
My morning check-in was good. My level was pretty much where it was when I left the ER seven hours earlier. I was hoping to break fast, having eaten nothing for close to 24 hours. but my doc sent me off to another ward for further testing
In addition to being great gossipers, Montenegrins are world class butt-in-skis. There is no such thing as queue management here.
Montenegrins steadfastly refuse to embrace the simple logic of such systems. Even the foreign owned companies from first world countries that understand how annoying Montenegrin queues are will not enforce queue management. Perhaps they’re afraid of alienating the locals, as if line-cutting is some form of sacred ritual. Fucked if I know.
Montenegrins are always looking for an angle to get in front of you in a queue. Even when you have waited your turn and are standing at the counter, the fuckers will slither up next to you and try to interrupt your business. In the five years I’ve been here, I’ve seen it hundreds of times. Me and Marina are the only ones who tell the fuckin’ fuckers to fuck the fuck off.
I was close to the front of the half-hour-long line when some cunt decided to make her move. There were two check-in windows for one line. She wanted to split into two lines, with her cutting in front of three or four others, including me, to get to the head of her proposed new queue. I saw her coming. I’d been waiting for it. I was in no fucking mood for any of that shit.
I gave her the straight arm
And that’s when the fun started.
She started jabbering and gesturing. I didn’t have to speak the language to know what she was saying, “But, I only want to… a new line… I just need to… ask a question….” Yeah. Whatever. Fuck off, cunt!
Some twenty-something kid immediately behind her puffed himself up, tried to look like a heavy and said, in English, “You’re not from here.”
Hahahaha. I’d been waiting for something like that for years.
I pulled out my passport and stuck it in his face, “You’re right. I’m not from here. I’m from Canada.” I could tell by the look on his face that he was hoping I was a Mairkan. He was confused. I could hear him thinking, ‘Canada? Cousin Borko lives i Canada. In Toronto. Maybe I made a mistake, but… but… but….”
I let him flail around inside his head for five seconds just to make him squirm. Then I lunged for his throat.
“I was born in 1963,” I told him, turning to the info page and pointing to the DOB, and the pic, so he knew I was me. “Do you know how much money my country has given your country since I was born?” Silence. Not just from him, but from the whole room. “Three point seven BILLION dollars, pal. We helped bankroll Tito.”
“You see that computer monitor? I paid for that. You see that computer? My family paid for that. You see that equipment the nurse is using? My friends paid for that.”
The kid unpuffed himself, but I continued the beating. “Canada has been feeding, clothing, sheltering, doctoring and burying your people for 65 fucking years. We opened our borders and took in refugees from here when you started slaughtering each other.
“You know what we’ve gotten back for all the money we’ve dumped into this place? What we’ve gotten for displaying humanity when you people forgot the meaning of the word? Sweet fuck all. That’s what we’ve gotten back from you, sweet… fuck… all
“Well, pal, I’m here to collect, and no one is cutting in front of me, because your bill is way overdue.”
No one cared to argue the point.
Having snarled, the Ugly Canadian smiled,
and turned to get what was coming to him.
I got booked for a shitload of further teats throughout the week to follow. We left the hospital, went to the closest pharmacy and bought a month’s worth of medication (50 cents). Marina went to see her family. I went home and did what I do when I need to think a whole bunch:
It did not take me long to conclude that it’s not a disease; it’s an opportunity.
I’m 26 years older than Marina. From the moment I realized that I was in love with her, and her with me, I have been plagued by the reality that, if we both live as long as we should, I will die a long time before her. And leave her alone.
There is little, perhaps nothing, that I fear in this world, in this life. But the idea of leaving Marina alone fills me with an unimaginably wretched pain. The idea of Marina experiencing the loneliness that I have felt swells my well with sorrow.
There were many nights, when this love of ours had just been born, when I tortured myself by contemplating whether or not I should spare her by walking away.
Then, on one of those endless, agony filled nights, the Evil Clown Gods Who Rule the Universe straightened me out, “Oh, shut the fuck up, you megalomaniacal asshole. You’re not that much of a catch. She’ll get over you when you’re dead, if you manage to not fuck it all up long before that day comes.”
That was five years ago. I haven’t fucked it up, yet. That’s pretty good for a fuck up like me.
But, oh boy, is this ever a chance to fuck it all up!
All I gotta do to fuck it all up is just keep being me.
All I gotta do to fuck it all up is to not take care of myself.
But even if I did that, even if I let myself become a physical invalid, Marina would keep on loving me,
keep on taking care of my worthless, corrupt soul.
What kind of asshole would that make me?
That would make me a fraud, for claiming that I love her as much as I do.
That would make me unworthy of the love that she has for me.
That would taint the pureness of this angel’s love. That would make Marina wonder if there really is such a thing as true, pure love. The commission of that unforgivable crime would make me the most heinous villain to ever walk the face of the planet.
‘No,’ I said to myself, ‘I’m a bigger man that that. I’m a better man than that. I will take care of myself.’ I dropped my half finished smoke off the balcony and doused it with my half finished beer.
It’s not a disease it’s an opportunity. An opportunity for a story that ends with HAPPILY EVER AFTER,
not THE END.
Later that night I started writing this tale. Within minutes of posting the first installment Markopalypse sent me this link
People are beating diabetes by adopting a raw food diet? Seriously?
Apparently so. It’s ten days since our night at the ER and we’ve just gotten back from seeing the doc, who stuck my fingertip with a pin, sucked some blood into his little machine, looked at the reading and smiled – 4.4!
This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever been happy to be normal.