Let the dog out this morning. Pet her belly as she stepped through the back door into the pre-dawn light. Poured myself a Saltspring Island coffee sweetened by a teaspoon of agave nectar. Took a big black burning swallow. As I did so the Hammer started loudly vomiting outside. The sort of loud retching I have heard dying people do in the hospital. I ran to the bathroom to vomit myself. Only made it as far as the tub. I retched the vomit of the dead. Sonja heard me. Soon she was leaned over the can, filling it up, flushing, then filling it up some more. Once done, she kicked me in the ass on her way back to bed as I continued to lean into the bath wishing I was dead until I remembered this was Friday, the Friday before the Queen Victoria long weekend.
Once I too was finished, cleaned up and had washed most of my vomit down the drain I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. My weekend beer was in there. It sure looked good. I reached in and grabbed a green glass bottle, opened it and drank. Motherfuck the coffee.
I picked up the phone and pushed the buttons I have been pushing since I was a young man. My foreman picked it up at the mill. He gets to the sawmill real early to get his paper work done. I told him, "Can't make it in today. I'm sick as fuck."
He told me, "Like fuck you are."
I took the phone into the back yard and aimed the phone at my dog who was still trying to cough up some half chewed grass that extended from her belly to the dewy lawn. "Sorry about that," I told my foreman. I waited for his voice. All I could hear was the sound of him vomiting into his deskside garbage can. I hung up.
The party starts now.