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John is a serious sicko.
Oh, dang, I phrased that poorly. Let me try again. John has caught a cold. And it is like no one in the history of mankind has ever caught a cold before, let me tell you. No nose has ever been so stuffy, no throat so sore, no cough closer to the grave. John is sick.
It happened about ten days after he started staying with me in East Harlem at my Mami’s house. He did start to feel the after-effects of eating so much Colombian and Borinquen food around his waistline in no short order. He thought he wouldn’t like the food as much as he did, and he’s a healthy boy is our Juanito, so we figured we should start running again to stay in shape and it helped his mood. I warned him to carry a sweatshirt because the chill in the fall evenings was very real and the sweaty dampness in his t-shirts was just as real; I was worried he was going to get sick.
“You can’t get sick from wearing a sweaty T-shirt in the cold, that’s an old wives’ tale,” he blew me off, dismissively.
And here we are now. Day two of this cold. A super soldier with rhinovirus is sleeping in my bed and now I’m on the floor. My best guy friend, Chuy, called me up and asked me if I wanted to go dancing. And in case you’re wondering, he is definitely a guy friend. Chuy isn’t interested in women, so he’s been my perfect wingman for years. I’ve been his “beard” at certain events. It works perfectly when we need it to. It killed me to have to turn down a stellar night of fun, drinking, and dancing. Instead, I’m picking up tissues and carrying in bowls of caldo de pollo (chicken soup) and strong café con leche.
I tried to move out of that room, to be honest. I didn’t want to catch it. I was going to sleep on the living room sofa. But then I’d hear it, the call from the other room, plaintive and weak, like a plague victim on his last legs. “Liluana? Are you there? I’m thirsty.”
“I left bottled water by your bed, John!” I called from the living room where I was trying to catch a nap.
“It’s too warm.”
There was a long pause before I could muster a “Be right there.” And into the kitchen I went, filled up a sippy cup (I was being a smart ass with that one) with some cold water from the fridge, and went into the isolation ward.
In fairness, John still was a little glassy-eyed and feverish-looking. I sat down on the edge of the bed and handed him the sippy cup. He looked at it strangely.
“Why do you have a sippy cup?”
“In case I have to take care of toddlers. How are you feeling?” I asked, pretending I didn’t just sideswipe him with an oblique insult. I put my hand on his forehead, a very scientific method of gauging a fever. He did feel warm still. Crap. I was stuck waiting on him hand and foot for at least another day. If I’d wanted a baby, I would have had one by now. Instead, I got hominus infantilus to worry about. Manbaby.
“I still don’t feel good. Is there any more of that chicken soup? And maybe some tea with honey? I’d love some more of those arepas things, too.” Oh, he didn’t want much, did he?
“I think it’s feed a fever, starve a cold. Or is it feed a cold, starve a fever? Well, in any case, you have to wait until Mami gets back for arepas. I’ll check the fridge for chicken soup, there should be some left, if not I’m sure we have some in a can.” But he pulled a face.
“Can? I want some that your mom... your Mami... made. I don’t think I can go back to canned chicken soup again. Don’t you know how to make it?” He looked at me like I was withholding sex or state secrets or the mystery of whatever was in Al Capone’s vault, like how could I hold out on him like this.
“Bro, no, I can’t make it. I’m a sniper, remember? Pew-pew? I can’t cook for shit. I split my time between this house and my dad’s house and I tried not to cook as much as possible. If we need more soup I’ll get take out.”
“Take out?” he moaned. “But...”
“John, just let me go check, okay, I’ll be right back.” Oh my god, I thought to myself. What kind of monster has he turned into? I walked into the kitchen, looked in the fridge, and saw the soup pot. Pulling it out and putting it on the stove, I saw there was still plenty left, so I turned the flame on low and let it start to heat.
Returning to John, I told him the good news. He smiled at me and then said, “What about that tea?” Motherfucker.
Gritting my teeth and fake smiling, I said, “Sure, John.” Back to the kitchen. Back with the tea.
“I don’t know, maybe a bit more honey.” I gaped at him. Wordlessly, I left and returned with the honey bear. I held it out to him.
“Could you put it in there?” He looked up at me with rheumy eyes. I glared into them as I squeezed honey into his cup. He said nothing until I started to turn away, then he said, “My hands are so shaky, could you stir it?”
Fighting the urge to pop his eyeballs out with the spoon, I did as he asked, lips pressed thinly together, then turned away. He mumbled “Thank you.”
“I hope you choke on it,” I growled under my breath.
“What?” he asked.
Shit. “What? Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
“Did you say you hoped I choked on it?”
“Uh...”
And then he started laughing. I turned around cautiously to look at him and he had set the teacup down on the floor so he could hold onto his sides. Sure enough, a fit of coughing hit him, but he was literally locked into paroxysms of laughter.
“What the fuuuuck? Are you okay? Is it your fever? Why are you laughing like that right now?”
“I could see how grumpy you were when you came in, so I decided to fuck with you and see how far I could push it before you snapped.”
I once again found myself gaping at him. “Why the hell would you do that? Do you have a death wish?”
“Yes. I’d rather you come in here and abuse me than leave me alone like this. I’m lonely, remember? But seriously, I miss you.”
“Miss me? What are you talking about, I’m just in the other room and I’m constantly bringing you stuff.” It was perplexing.
“Yeah, but it’s been different since we’ve been sharing the room, we’re always together, and now that we’re apart, I don’t know... I guess I don’t really like it,” he shrugged. He looked a little troubled by this conclusion, too.
“Well, that must be the fever talking,” I laughed now, but he still looked bothered by something.
“Does it have to be?”
“I don’t know, John, does it?”
We looked at each other for a long moment. “Come here,” he requested of me, but despite this seeming to be leading to exactly what I wanted, at the last moment I swung wide of him.
“No. Not yet...” I shook my head uncertainly at first, then with more conviction. “Not yet. A little more time. For both of us. I’d better see if that soup is hot.”
“Ok.” He looked disappointed and then inspiration must have struck anew. “At least will you sleep in here again? I do miss the company. I need someone else to help fill the silence. Keep my head from taking over.”
I went over and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead before disengaging just as quickly, for my own sake. “I can do that. I’ll be back with that soup.” And left before he could see that my hands were shaking.
This manbaby was more man than baby. He knew what he was doing. He didn’t win the war today, but he won a key battle. It was only a matter of time before I surrendered. Or was I looking at it wrong and was he the first to have waved the white flag?