I woke up at 3 in the AM this morning.
I inspected my wafers for Lenny and Squiggy and decided I needed to go ahead and change the wafers before going back to sleep.
Every three days, I apply a new wafer, but sometimes they don’t even last 24 hours.
“I just changed these things out. …3 AM, and I’m up changing wafers. Not even 24 hours out of this one,” I said aloud to myself.
I use the hairdryer to get my skin hot. Then I heat the wafer up to help it stick to my skin.
Afterward, I decided to take a drive around the mountain and see what’s out tonight.
I put my clothes on.
I check my phone and see I have a text from my Uncle, “Unc!”
That’s how you say it. “Unc!” That’s also how you spell it.
He sent me a forwarded text that originated from the Police Department.
“Be on the lookout for a White Male wearing Dark Clothes, possibly on foot, in my area.”
It was sent at 9:22 PM. I was asleep at that time. It’s now 3:30 AM.
“Tommy the Dawg” is awake, but he ain’t having anything to do with me going out at this hour. He hasn’t even moved.
I pat him on the head and pet him a little.
“Stay here, buddy. I’ll be back. You be a good dog. Okay?”
He takes a deep breath and exhales, and closes his eyes.
The moon is bright out. It’s about 90 percent full.
I pass a few deer as I drive. I then begin to feel “shaky.”
“Crap. My sugar. I need to check it,” and I put my phone up to my arm to scan my sensor. “80,” it reads.
“80” is excellent if you’re used to it. I’m not.
For me, it’s too low. I’m used to 105 – 115. Lower than that, and I get sick and shaky.
I head to the gas station at the bottom of the hill.
“Hey, how you doing, sir?”
“I’m good. Just need some sugar in me.”
I grab a Coke out of the cooler.
“Y’all not busy tonight?”
“No, sir. Weird for a Saturday morning.”
“Here, I grabbed three. Y’all got a deal. Three for Five. I’ll save the others for when my sugar goes low the next time.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. You get all ‘Shaky’ when it goes low? We have several customers that have Diabetes.”
“Yeah. Up and down, Up and down. I take insulin, but here lately, I’ve been fighting. My body must be going through something. That’s when it gets like this; when my body is going through something. Maybe fighting off something. Up and down, up and down…”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
I pay my bill.
On the way home, the Old Time Radio Show “Duffy’s Tavern” is coming on.
“Premiering 82 years ago this week,” the announcer “Greg Bell” states.
I think to myself.
“Just think, 82 years ago, some thirteen-year-old kid ran home and tuned in to listen to this show for the first time. It had never aired before then. That kid would be ninety-five years old now. I’d like to interview that guy. I wonder how I could pull that off,” I wonder as I listen and drive.
I drive around the mountain a few times to listen to the whole show and then make my way back home.
Back in my room, “Tommy the Dawg” is still asleep.
He opens his eyes but doesn’t move his head or body.
“It’s okay, buddy—just sleep. I’m going to get back in bed myself,” I say to him as I begin getting undressed.
I realize I need to “Journal” this, so I walk to my laptop.
And now that I’m through journaling, I am going to get back in bed.
After all, I’ve typed precisely six hundred and fifty-four words, and that’s plenty.
Right?
