NO TIME FOR ENEMAS

Based on a title suggested by Paul Rapp

Oleg Varushkin was running.  He was in a hurry.

He was going to die.           

Until today Oleg had lived simply, in a small apartment in beautiful downtown Zheleznovodsk, Russia. He lived alone so his apartment wasn’t very large.  It had a kitchen area, a sitting area where he could play video games and watch TV, a bathroom and a bedroom.  It was nothing special, but then again, neither was Oleg.   His father worked in the iron mines until he had to retire due to mine-related health issues.  Oleg swore he’d never go into mining.  Unfortunately there wasn’t much else to do in Zheleznovodsk with the exception of their excellent medical facilities.  But that took a lot of work and Oleg just wasn’t into that.  He continued not working in the mines or the medical field.  He was able to afford rent and video games by working overnight shifts at the stationary store.  Very few people came in to purchase cards at one in the morning, but the ones that did were very interesting.

On his 50th birthday, the apartment was filled with friends and friends of friends.  Mostly friends of friends.  Oleg had few actual friends.  Balloons bounced freely among the guests, who were laughing and drinking.  American pop music played from the iPod, which was plugged into a small set of powerful speakers.    Anja was sitting on his lap and the two of them were chatting with Dmitri, a coworker of Oleg’s.  They were talking about religion and politics, which made Oleg feel stupid.  He decided to refill his plastic cup with more Vodka.  Excusing himself, he inelegantly shoved Anja off his lap with a thud.   It was ok; she was laughing.  She was drunk.  Oleg wished he was that drunk.  That was partly why he had excused himself.  That and to get away from the conversation.

When he returned a few minutes later, Anja and Dmitri were lip locked.  Oleg knew they had more in common than she and Oleg ever would.  He watched them grope at each other for a few moments and then shuffled out to the balcony where all the smokers were.  Accepting the obligatory compliments for the party and for existing for 50 years, Oleg made his way around the crowd.  There, he was grabbed by the shoulders by a man Oleg did not recognize.  The man shouted Oleg’s name and hugged him.  He went on to ask what Oleg was doing here.  Oleg told the stranger that it was his apartment and his birthday party.  The stranger’s eyes got wide and he laughed.  He patted his own chest and told Oleg that he was Anton Yvgeny.  They had gone to school together.  Anton was here with a girl who had dragged him to a party (this one, as it turns out).  They caught up on all the old gang.  Anton asked about Oleg’s parents.  His parents liked Oleg’s friends, for the most part.  Their place became a hang out because his parents were so cool.  Oleg told Anton that his mother was living with her sister in Stavropol and his father was dead.  Anton was visibly saddened to hear this.  He asked for more details and Oleg told him how he had died.  He told him that his father went to the doctor regularly, ate right and exercised.  He had been shopping in downtown Zheleznovodsk, when a potato truck lost control and slammed into the tool shop he had been visiting, killing everyone inside.  He was only 50 years old.

He was only 50 years old.

Oleg hadn’t remembered it until just that moment, but his father died the day after his 50^th birthday.  The vodka decided to pick that moment to hit his brain and he promptly passed out.

When he awoke, he was on his couch in the living room.  The balcony window was open and there was a cold breeze blowing the balloons around the place.  The sky was dark and heavy looking.  It looked like it would snow today.  Slowly, he sat up and surveyed the scene inside the apartment.  It was a mess.  He decided he’d get to cleaning up before the end of the day.

The end of the day.

Why did that phrase haunt him?  He looked at the calendar.  He looked at his watch.  He was about six hours younger then his father when he died.  His heart began to race.  He knew what he had to do.  Luckily, Oleg was a real Russian and suffered no hangover.  He showered and dressed quickly, went downstairs and got on the bus to go downtown.  The bus stopped at almost every intersection to load and unload.  Time was passing.  Oleg cursed in Russian, which actually offends the ear less than English, believe it or not. 

His phone beeped in his pocket.  He pulled it out and looked at it.  He cursed again.  This time also in Russian.  It was his only language.  His calendar app was reminding him he had a physical in one hour.  He had forgotten.  A week ago, he had been at the doctor’s office, complaining of bowel irregularities.  The doctor prescribed some pills and told him to come in next week if he didn’t feel better, for an enema and an all-around physical, due to his age.  His stomach rumbled at the memory.  He thought about eating something.  He looked at the time and cursed again.  He had no time.  He had things to do. 

He had everything to do.

Oleg knew he was on borrowed time.  He understood it now.  He pushed through the crowd on the bus and exited.  He ran.  He ran to his job at the stationary store (where he’d stolen the balloons from.  Shh!) and called out his boss’s name, scaring the ladies looking at figurines.  One of them dropped one.  Another one used the distraction to slip one quietly into her bag.  When his boss emerged from the back room, still chewing his breakfast and wiping crumbs off his shirt, Oleg told him in no uncertain terms that he was a mean boss and a lousy person and that he, Oleg, was giving his two weeks notice.  Oleg’s boss loudly suggested that two weeks’ notice was not necessary and that he should feel free to commence his jobless existence forthwith.  But not in those words and with more yelling.  Oleg shrugged and left.

He ran.

He ran to Anja’s house.  Breathing hard, he pounded on the door.  Dmitri, unshaven, wearing a robe and holding a coffee cup, answered.  Oleg pushed past him and found Anja, naked on the couch.  He stared at her, his heart pounding.  She looked back at him, saying nothing.  He turned to face Dmitri and grabbed his face.  He pulled it to his own and kissed him.  The three of them spent the next hour making mad, passionate love.  Then he was gone.

His phone rang in his pocket.  He lifted it to his face and saw from the caller ID that it was his doctor’s office.  He rolled his eyes and put the phone back in his pocket without answering it. 

He ran to the bank and offered everyone in line 50 rubles to let him go ahead of them.  He handed the teller his slip and closed his account.  He took the stacks of cash and stuffed them into his jacket pockets.

Stepping outside, he was struck by how dark it had gotten.  The clouds were thick with snow, ready to let loose at any minute.  His stomach gurgled.  He ignored it.  He imagined the doctor in his office, looking at his watch, waiting for Oleg to show up.   The image tickled him and he laughed to himself.  

 He ran to the Chicago Prime restaurant uptown.  Finest American food in town.  He had only ever eaten there once, when his parents took him out to dinner to celebrate his graduation from college.  He’d never been able to afford to eat there with his salary at the card shop.  But now that he’d emptied his bank account and wouldn’t be paying rent or utilities or taxes again…why not?

            He strode right in, ordered the prime rib and a bottle of the best wine in the house.  The waiter looked askance at Oleg, what with his shabby clothes and haggard appearance.  Oleg reached into his pocket and threw a wad of rubles at the man, who scampered away contentedly.

The steak was tender and delicious.  The wine was elegant and refined.  He paid without waiting for the bill.  The tip was exquisite and superlative.

            He ran.

            His phone rang again.  He stopped running long enough to look at it and see the doctor had called again.  He let it go to voice mail.  Again.  Oleg wondered why the doctor couldn’t take a hint.

            He went skydiving.  He paid the instructor a thousand rubles to go immediately, lessons be damned.  It was not as thrilling as he had expected.  With the fear of death gone, there was no adrenaline rush.

            When he had exhausted the fulfillment his long-repressed desires, he walked to the park in the center of town.  It sat between the hospital and the police department and it was an oasis of green and natural beauty in the otherwise cold and grungy town.  Oleg sat at a bench to collect his thoughts and take stock.  He opened his wallet and saw he still had 2,000 rubles.  He decided he should do one last grand thing.  Maybe he would buy a boat.  Maybe build a statue in his own memory.

Maybe he…

            Suddenly, Oleg was hit with the worst pain in his life.  His gut felt like he had been stabbed by several hot daggers.  He collapsed to the ground, grasping his belly and wailing.  He opened his eyes to seek help.  He saw his phone on the ground, buzzing.  Then he saw nothing.

            He awoke, confused.  He was back in bed.  Was today all a dream?  His mind raced with possible explanations; some bringing comfort and some dread. There was light coming from a window.  It was blindingly white.  Was it the afterlife?  He tried to roll over but his belly felt strange.  Pulling back the sheets, he saw bandages separating his top half from his bottom.  It was then that he noticed the gown he was wearing and deduced that he was in a hospital bed.  Looking around the room confirmed this deduction.  He used the little button thing to call a nurse, who, in turn, called the surgeon, who was now sitting in a chair to Oleg’s right side.

            The surgeon explained to Oleg what had happened.  He had been suffering from volvulus in the small intestine.  His guts were twisted so that he could not complete the digestion process.  You know what I’m talking about.  Yeah, that. 

            They had performed emergency surgery and he was now out of danger.  Oleg explained his death situation and asked about the blinding light from the window.  The surgeon laughed.  He would not be laughing later that evening when he found his wife had run away with an anesthesiologist, but for now he was laughing.  The surgeon kindly explained that it all Oleg had needed to do was to irrigate his bowels.  If he had done this early enough, the intestine would not have volvulized as it did.  An ounce of prevention and all that.  Also, it had snowed while he was in surgery and recovery.  A thick blanket of white covered the entire town and the sky was blue again.

            Oleg was disoriented.  He had spent all day believing he was done and now, according to the surgeon, there was no reason why he shouldn’t live another 50 years.  With a new, unexpected, lease on life, Oleg began to rebuild it.  He took care of himself.  He ran daily.   Not to hurry through life, but to prolong it.  He got annual checkups and physicals.  He took a job at Dmitri’s design studio.  He became an apprentice designer and sculptor.  He rose through the ranks of Russian design circles.  There is such a thing. 

            He had money, a home and a secure future.   He had made a name for himself designing unusual bridges, apartment complexes and office buildings.

            When he died (the day after his hundredth birthday), his hometown of Zheleznovodsk mourned for a week.  At the end of that week, the mayor held a town meeting in the park between the hospital and police station.  The entire town showed up.  The mayor said some very kind and inspirational things.  The crowd applauded and wiped their eyes.  She then directed their eyes to a large, cloth-covered lump behind her.  It was about the size of a small adult or a large child.  The mayor read a prepared statement from Oleg, written before his death.  Obviously.  It was short and well worded and brought tears to the eyes of many.  It concluded with a short poem, which the mayor read with gravitas and emotion.  The mayor then announced that the figure behind her was one last gift from the great Oleg Varushkin.  With a great flourish, she snapped the cloth off the bronze sculpture.  It was resplendent.  An enormous enema bulb, held aloft by three smiling cherubs.  The inscription on the base was in Russian, but it translates to English as:

 “Always Time For Enemas” 

           

            And no one in Zheleznovodsk ever died from volvulus of the intestine again.