Stray Thoughts

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.

Stray Thoughts

By Plot Roach

Jim walked down the street, whistling a tune and in a remarkably good mood. His last paycheck covered his rent, the utilities and other assorted bills and he still had enough left over to have some ‘mad money’. He texted his friend, Markus, and made plans to meet him at the local pub, promising to buy the first round of drinks. It was the thought of the origin of the phrase ‘mad money’ that stuck in his head.

“Why do they call it mad when it makes you happy”? he asked himself aloud, walking across the parking lot from his job to his car.

He tripped and fell, cursing himself for not watching where he was going, the good mood he had enjoyed a mere moment before flew from his life like a flock of sparrows. The thought of ’mad money’ lead to the thought of a phrase of his mother’s: ’mad as a wet hen’. He certainly felt angry, but could female chickens truly reach this kind of rage? He pulled himself off the pavement, went to his car and started the engine. Markus had returned his text with a message of his own: Cannot make it tonight, how about we meet at that place in Corona tomorrow?

Jim sighed, he knew the place that Markus talked about. And he knew that, yet again, Markus was planning on sticking him with the bill. I only wanted to buy him a drink, not a full dinner! Jim’s mind roared. The wet hen in his mind was replaced by a story he had heard in childhood, about a little red hen and the hard work she did and how all the other animals on the farm wanted a piece of her bread when she was done making it.

He drove in silence, one thought replacing another. Just as he was about to settle down and let it all go, another random phrase would enter his mind and either infuriate him further or take his attention off of what he was doing and goad him into making another mistake.

He missed the off ramp to his home and was forced to backtrack, getting himself stuck in rush hour traffic. Once he was back on the road and going at a fast clip, he was caught speeding by highway patrol and given a ticket. His anger, once the cop left, made him punch the dashboard of his car, breaking the air conditioner and the knuckle of his middle finger. He drove to the hospital and when asked what injury he had sustained, showed the nurse his finger. She took offense, called security, and had him escorted off the premises. He drove to another hospital, gingery showed the nurse on duty his swollen finger, and was escorted back into one of the rooms. There he spoke with a nurse in training. It was an odd, but animated interview, since the woman was a student from a foreign country here in the United States as part of an exchange program. She told him of the blood donation drive that they had, and asked if he would like to donate during his stay. He thought it might do some good, to help undo the negative karma that had been plaguing him since earlier in the day. He agreed and she gave him a sedative and told him to relax, that the doctor would be with him soon. He woke up the next day in a hospital gown, groggy and strapped to an IV.

“You’re awake! How do you feel?” Asked a nurse, walking into his room to check on his IV.

“I was only supposed to be here for my broken finger.” Jim said. “What the hell happened?”

“Oh, dear. Are you sure?” she asked, looking over his medical chart.

“Why? What do you mean ‘oh, dear’?”

“It says here that along with fixing your finger, you were here to donate your testicles.”

“What!?”

“Are those your initials?” she asked, pointing to the paperwork.

“Those are my initials, but I agreed to donate blood, not my nuts!” he yelled. And then it dawned on him that he had never read the paperwork that he had signed, he was too busy with the thoughts that had hounded him to read the paperwork properly. He hissed and rubbed his face with his hands. Even now, odd thoughts swam through his mind like barracudas in search of another meal.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“I just have these thoughts that won’t get out of my head.” he said. “It started with an odd phrase and now I’m just overloaded with them.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You do?”

“You had a random thought and paid attention to it. It’s kind of like feeding a stray dog. Once you do, it won’t go away. And even if it does, there’s a dozen more to hound you in its place.”

“How do you get rid of them?” he pleaded.

“Ever have a song stuck in your head that you couldn’t stop humming?” she asked. “I’ll see about getting you my MP3 player, it’s got a bunch of obnoxious hits from the ‘80’s. That should do the trick.”