It's A Process

My roommate was always ordering things online. One day, a box showed up, and from it, he pulled out what looked like a standard blender.

“Don’t we already have one of those?” I said.

“Not like this one, we don’t,” my roommate said. “It comes with a 24oz blender jar and attachments for chopping, dicing, and shredding. But really, I’m most excited by how powerful it is. It’ll be perfect for mixing up some blended drinks or making crushed ice for cocktails.”

“You know,” I said, “I don’t know too many cocktails.”

“Me neither,” my roommate said.

Just then, he set his foot down and stepped on a rusty nail on the floor, crying out in pain. “You gotta take me to the emergency room!” he cried. “RIGHT NOW!”

But I should say, I’m a bit old-fashioned. I wasn’t about to leave the house without putting on my tie.

Now, the problem was, I didn’t have a car; I had a motorcycle. Luckily, I’d installed a sidecar, so my roommate could ride in that. As we sped through the city, my roommate commented, “It’s so cosmopolitan around here.”

I scoffed. “What do you expect?” I called over the rumble of the motorcycle’s engine. “It is Manhattan, after all!”

The morning had been dark and stormy, but the worst of it had mostly cleared out. Still, clouds hung low that day, so the motorcycle was like a fog cutter, slicing through the gloom. With low visibility, I nearly ran the bike into a bramble of berry bushes, a casino, and a white Russian hatchback (a Lada, rare to see in the States).

“I know a shortcut,” called my roommate. “Just take this avenue up here.”

But I shook my head. Emergency or no, I hated avenues. I was more of a boulevardier myself.

“You really know how to pilot this thing!” my roommate said, as I weaved through traffic.

“I really know how to drive this thing, you mean,” I corrected. “It’s not like we’re flying! This isn’t aviation!”

Eventually, we got to the hospital, and I realized, in my rush to leave, I forgot my phone. “Here, use mine,” said my roommate, whose name, I should mention, was Spritz. “But would you mind freeing up some space? I’m running low on storage.”

“Sure,” I said. “Would you like me to delete one app or all, Spritz?” But he was already being led into the back by a nurse.

“Your friend will be just fine,” said the older man sitting next to me. If I had to guess his accent and his age, I would say French, 75, or thereabouts. “The doctors here are amazing. They’ve got wound dressers, and disease curers, and everything else, except maybe a corpse reviver.”

“So I shouldn’t expect any zombies to wander out, huh?” I said. We laughed at this.

I asked him what he was here for, and he said his brother had eaten a product made with peanuts despite an allergy. He shook his head, growing wistful and poetic. “Everything in life, it seems, is a pugilist, and my brother cannot sustain Planters’ punch. But we realized early enough, so he should be okay.”

And he was, as was my roommate.

“They prescribe you anything?” I asked as we walked out to the motorcycle.

“Just penicillin and a painkiller,” Spritz said.

And that was how I, Harvey Wallbanger, spent my day.

If you want, post a comment listing all the cocktails hidden in this write-up. Otherwise, buy a blender.