Reginald Gamache

Every morning is a struggle for Reginald to get out of bed. As soon as his eyes open at 6 am he is disappointed that he must begin another day, in his mediocre life. Reginald married his high school sweetheart, and has never been with any other woman. Although, he loves his wife, he feels like he walks through his days as a zombie. He avoids looking in the mirror because he is afraid of what he will see; a middle-aged, balding man, with a huge protruding beer belly. Only thirty years ago, Reginald was any women’s dream. He had a luscious head of brown hair and a chiseled body that made the ladies swoon. Reginald and his wife have three children, all sullen teenagers. His children despise him. They don’t see the loving active father they once knew, but a depressed man who always says no.
He begins his day, just like every other day, with a shower and a grey suit, which was once a nice suit, but is now wrinkled and worn. A bowl of Raisin Bran, and a cup of decaffeinated coffee, that is always just a bit too watery. He heads out to his 1976 red Mustang, his pride and joy; it is the only thing that allows Reginald to remember the good ol’ days. The twenty minute drive to work every day consists of heavy rock, loud enough to drown his thoughts. He arrives at work and finds his parking spot next to the entrance. The parking spots aren’t designated, but Reginald arrives early enough to claim it.
Reginald walks into his building and patiently waits for the elevator instead of walking the three flights to his floor. He has given up on exercise. Once he reaches his floor, a small stubby man behind the front desk shouts, “Hey Reggie!” Every day, it’s the same, doesn’t he know by now that Reginald hates being called Reggie. A once kind and funny man, Reginald now doesn’t have time into interact. He passes his subordinates, all who stare up in fear, and makes his way to his huge office with a view. Not ever does he say hello to any of them. Reginald is the director of his department. A job that he has worked extremely hard for, but a job that has made him the man he hates to be.
His whole life, Reginald dreamed of being on top. During University, he was always the one to beat; top of his class. Now that he is right where he wanted to be, Reginald realizes it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. He has no time to spend with his wife and family, no time to exercise and no time to enjoy his life. The day ends the same way, usually not until almost 8pm. He gets back into his red Mustang and looks forward to spending the evening with his family.
The drive home is always quicker in the evening, there is less traffic. He pulls up to his three-story Victorian mansion, and parks his car in the four car garage. Reginald opens the front door, to hear his children bickering and yelling and his wife gabbing on the phone, and remembers why he hates his life.

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The hot sun soaks my skin; I can already feel it burning. The sun is so bright; it’s hard to look at. Sweat drips down my forehead, but none of this matters. I am bruised and sore, from a long week of work. The air is dry, I can taste it. I’m thirsty, but that’s the least of my worries. The ground is hard and grass is trying so hard to grow. The hot sun and lack of rain makes it difficult for the grass.

Laughter is circling me and is precious to my ears. I look around and I see sadness, sadness that is being cured for these prized few hours. I see tents, where far too many children pile into, to protect them from the dangers of night. I see a fence, to keep the kids in and strangers out. I feel a hand on mine; so tiny and calloused. She is speaking to me, in a language I don’t understand, but her words are beautiful. A cool breeze blows by, and we look at each other and smile. When I look around this time, I see smiling faces, these smiles make everything okay, and they make my sadness go away, if only for a moment.

We are in the hut now. Everyone is sitting down, patiently waiting for what is coming next. I have coloring sheets in my hands; they feel familiar, from when I was a child. I hand them out, to each and every one of the excited children, anxiously waiting to start coloring. Laughter turns into silence as the children concentrate on coloring inside the lines. The only thing I can hear is the constant sound of crayons on paper, scribbling back and forth. It is hot in the hut, hotter than being underneath the burning sun. The tarp, which is used as a roof attracts the heat and makes the air almost unbearable.

I can taste the sweat dripping down my face, I am constantly wiping the sweat a way, and it has almost become a routine. The children, aren’t bothered by the heat, they have become immune to it. They have finished coloring, and want to show me their master pieces. I admire their work. I see inside them, the joy I found in coloring, when I was a child. I forget about their circumstances, and see myself inside their big brown eyes.

Stuck with a funny face

Growing up, I was that kid that liked to pull funny faces. It was just something I did all the time, something that most kids do. To be honest, it’s something I still do.

One day, my Mom told me, that if the wind blew while I was making a funny face, my face would get stuck that way. It might have been because my family was embarrassed to be seen with a child that always had a weird looking expression on their face, had their eyes crossed or had their tongue sticking out, but I became worried. What was I going to do? Making funny faces was my trade mark! It was my best way to make people laugh. It was like telling a soccer player they couldn’t play soccer anymore, because if they did, they might fall and die or something along those lines.

At first, I didn’t believe it. How could the wind possibly make my face change? There was just no logic behind it. So, I did what any other kid would do, and asked my friends (please note this was before the internet age, so I couldn’t google it). Surprisingly, my friends had heard the same thing, if my friends believed, I had too as well, you know the whole “if your friends jumped off a bridge would you?” Yeah, these were the days when I didn’t think for myself.

So, I stopped. I gave up making funny faces. Instead, I just smiled, every day, all the time. If I had to bet on it, I would have believed that the wind thing worked for smiling as well, because my face seemed to be stuck in a permanent smile. Those were the days. Anyway, moving on with my story, every time I saw someone with a funny looking face, I was mortified. I had thought that they looked that way all because of the wind, for the longest time, it’s what I believed.

When I grew up, I realized I was told this “legend,” because I could have been offensive to some people, and it was impolite and possibly rude. It also could have been because my parents were embarrassed to be seen with me, either way, the moral of the story is, if you’re going to make funny faces, don’t let your parents see.

Can I have some more?

It’s been a long time since I've had amoxicillin, and no, I’m not allergic. If you can remember as fondly as I can the taste of banana medicine, it tasted pretty fantastic. I loved it! In fact, I loved in so much I drank a full bottle of it.

The year was 1992, I was the mere age of 3, a toddler, and I was incredibly smart or so I liked to believe. Whenever I was sick, the only thing that would make me feel better was banana medicine. I don’t mean, actually make me feel better, I mean make me feel better in my own mind. I craved it, was attracted immediately to the bottle whenever it entered my house. Nothing good ever comes from an attraction to drugs, let me tell you that.

It was an early morning, and I was running around the house, as usual- I was a pretty active baby. Gave my cat, Smokey, some attention, then made my way to the refrigerator. I don’t understand how, but I managed to open to fridge door, and to my relief, found exactly what I was looking for, banana medicine! A full bottle, screaming out to me to drink it! As I told you before, I was a smart kid. Somehow, I managed to open the child proof lock, and chug back that delicious banana concoction. I even remembered to put a little in my cat’s dish, I was also generous, I may mention.

You may begin to wonder, where my parent’s where, while I was overdosing on medicine. Well, they were getting ready for work. I found my mom in the bathroom, doing her hair, and asked her, “Mom? Can I have some more?” As banana medicine dripped down my face, my Mother freaked, and ran to the kitchen. What she found, was an empty bottle of Amoxicillin on the floor. Oh boy was I in trouble.

A few moments past, and I was dragged to the car, and racing to the emergency room. I couldn’t possibly understand what was happening; I had only drunk some delicious banana drink. I remember the hospital all too well. It was frightening, because I had no idea what was going on and what I did wrong. The next thing I know, there are tubes going up my nose, because I apparently wouldn’t drink some black gunk they were trying to get me to take. So what do they do, they put it up my nose, oh yeah, that was fun. Then I proceeded to have my stomach pumped.

I don’t understand why I remember this story so well; I guess it’s hard to forget your first overdose.