I can't feel my toes.
I am
shaking lightly, but
uncontrollably. My
fingers feel like thawed
sausages, healing from their
freeze.
It is
winter in Chicago again, and tonite is the first night I have ever felt actual
pain because of it. I have
hypothermia, a condition where your body temperature, simple put, is just too damn low. It's something that can be
mild, like I have now, it can be
harsh, or even
deadly.
So why was I standing and waiting at the
train stop in
Rosemont,
Illinois, on this cold winter night? Well, it's not so much a long story, but a bad one.
I was planning to see
adoxograph tonight. The plan was as usual: I would go to Rosemont via a bus to the
Division stop and then via
CTA Blue Line. Estimated time of arrival needed to be
9:20p, so
estimated time of departure (compensating for
bus wait) was
8:10.
I left. I walked to the corner of
Wells and Division and turned around before I even got to the stop to go back home to go to the bathroom. I had made
death juice (
celery +
carrot +
cucumber +
apple) earlier with my new
juicer, and, well...yeah. So I left again, and after being asked by this weird
kid if I wanted to split a
taxi (to which I replied "I think I just saw the bus coming), the bus came, and I rode to the
train.
Well, before I got on the train I stopped in this
alley to, uh, well,
alley piss (or
dumpster piss, whichever you prefer). God damn
juice.
The train ride was normal. Read my
James Burke book of choice, and rode rode rode. A while later, I arrived at the Rosemont stop. Meanwhile, I had received two calls from
adoxograph concerning her status. The first was a
slight mentioning that this manager
Chris was not back yet and that she'd keep me updated. The second call was at
9:14. It was news that Chris had still not come back and that she would be late.
Hm. What to do?
Cold train stop...juice...I went to that weird corner by the
dumpsters at the Rosemont stop that is like an
unofficial urinal (made obvious by the holes and strange formations in the
snow and repeated appearances of dudes
pissing there). All the while I am on my
phone frantically
harrassing
Saige but being too
shy and
weak to bluntly ask for
rescue, calling
Cheryl (name changed to
protect the monkeys) to no
avail (her phone was off and her home phone was busy),
pacing into the actual stop to stand under the oh-so-weak
heat lamps to try to feel my fingers, and not noticing
my toes have stopped talking to me.
The cold took over. Normally only heat can bring me to
anger, but this particular night a
wave of
impatience hit me and the cold brought me
shortness of temper. I felt bad the way I
darted around the reason I was calling
Saige, the way I talked roughly to
adoxograph, and the way I didn't bring myself into that
heat lamp more. My
temperature was dropping
as well.
The
apex of the night was when I, almost in
tears,
forfeited, and told
adoxograph that my phone was
dying and that I was going home. I (
dumpster pissed again, then) got back on the next train, after waiting a short while, during which I realized my fingers were much colder than I had realized, and that my toes were to the point of hurting from cold. When I got back on the train it only got worse. The heat on the train fixed my fingers a little, but my toes were bad, and my
upper half was starting to cool. I realized (while reading the
James Burke book of
choice) that I was shivering, and that I had a mild case of
hypothermia.
I
pondered for a minute the things I could've done with my
wasted night. I could have made more juice. I could have watched a
movie. I could have cleaned my room. I could have played
Diablo. I could have worked on
junktext. I could have made
Lego things. I could have wrapped a couple
belated Christmas presents. I could have
shut the fuck up and not worry, because the night is over and it doesn't matter. What matters is the rest of the night. What can I do when I get home?
So I eventually arrived back at the
Division stop, and took the bus home. I started the
heat (house) and started the
heat (stove) on the
water (
hot chocolate) and the
water (
ramen noodles). I am watching
High Fidelity because I just got it, I am writing this here book, and I am
wondering about what the night was and what it could've been.
But what makes this
wasted (or not?) night
different than any other?
I don't know. Probably nothing, but I have no real way of telling. So this
night falls into the ever-growing
bin of thoughtful nights.
I am now
warm. I am
fine.
Everything is ok, and I have a feeling it would've been
despite anything that might've happened this
cold night. I am good, once again. My
temperature is back up, my fingers seem un
damaged, and my toes, well, they're on the way.
Goodnight.