Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Edward L. Flaim

Lives of the Rich and Famous

Sid awakened with his usual banshee scream, his legs contracting spastically, whether a product of his multiple sclerosis or the liter of scotch that died last night, he didn't know. He reached for a particular vial of medication somewhere on his bed stand, knowing that his pain and virtual blindness would render this simple task the equivalent of climbing Everest. Thank God his caretaker and occasional lover, Brenda, had purchased oddly shaped and different sized containers in which to place the many medications for his frequently needed cocktails. He felt the proper vial, pulled it over his chest and dumped three 80-milligram oxycontins into his hand. Ignoring the instructions now well memorized, (that he could only read after several hours of consciousness and the medication's effects), he chewed the purple tablets like a leopard that had seized its prey, and fell back into bed with another banshee scream.

After several minutes he reached towards the vacant side of his bed. Brenda, Brenda, he thought, as he clutched the bottle of scotch awaiting him. You may be a lousy lay but you're a damned good caretaker. He popped the cork off this rare single malt and soon a third of the bottle joined last night's dead. Sobering up through intoxication. Sid smiled at the irony.

He scratched the top of his balding head, wondering how his hair had disappeared over the years. He liked his dad's explanation the best. “You didn't lose it, Sid; it merely fell through your face and became a beard.” He smiled as he tugged the scraggly growth longer than the shoulder-length hair that still grew from the sides of his scalp. Dad did have insight!

After forty minutes, Sid achieved the opiate haze he sought. He slowly sat upright, his vision now clearer, and began taking the rest of the cocktail that kept him functional: valium, xanax, provigil and lexapro. He skipped the percocet, realizing that it would provide little to the chewed up oxys. Brenda had placed his wheelchair in the proper position. He struggled but finally found himself on his mode of transportation. He flicked the proper buttons, which directed his rolling legs to the battered desk and computer, placed before a picture window that gave him an excellent view of Central Park and the ant-sized people he would never meet. He stared at the blank screen, hit the space bar, and his newest creation flashed before his eyes, "France on a $100,000 a Day: A Guide for Those to Whom Money is Merely Paper."

Tears rolled down his face, soaking his scraggly beard. He had become rich writing for the rich. Yet he hadn't left this room in over 25 years. He looked at his desk and saw that reliable Brenda had placed two bottles of single malt at the right rear corner. He grabbed one, popped the cork, drank several hefty belts and returned it to its resting place. He turned to the computer and began writing about worlds he would never see.

Copyright © 2004 Edward L. Flaim

About the Author
Ed was born in 1950. He entered the world butt-first and has since viewed the world primarily through this vertical eye. As most of those who survived the turbulent sixties, he faced several choices: death, prison, insanity or law. He chose both law and insanity. He graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School in 1984 after touring the world.

He was a well-established and recognized practitioner when diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1993. He continued to actively practice law until 1998, when his physical and mental condition said, "Screw this," and he returned to Maryland. In Maryland he vegetated until he came upon WVU and attempted to write fiction.

Ed has published hundreds if not thousands of his writings. That's only because every document he has ever filed with the courts is considered published. Thus far, publishers have been kind and printed one of his 300 story submissions. He's waiting anxiously to see what will happen with number 301, hoping it might bring him wealth and fame like Stephen King, or at the very least, a cookie.