Squatting in the Bushes

On the way to the doctor yesterday I saw a lanky fellow squatting in the junipers by the crosswalk. Hmmm, some part of my brain mused, what's a grown man doing, squatting in the bushes?

When the walk signal changed he jumped to his feet, yanked up his trousers and continued on his sauntering way zipping and buckling as he went. I guess . . . when you gotta go, you gotta go.
I think this is the same fellow who walked around town for years barefoot. A friend of mine once bought him some shoes but he didn't wear them. He seems to have found a pair he likes now, though. 
He doesn't look disturbed; he doesn't moan or drool or throw things at the cars. If it weren't for his really dirty clothes, you'd never guess he was anything other than a fairly nice looking, middle-aged man, on his way somewhere of consequence.
Anyway, true to my promise, and unable to fetch my own pickles let alone cross the room without going blue, I was on my way to the clinic where I was introduced to the miracle of albuterol. I could do without the resulting jitters and ravenous appetite, but one treatment took me from ten feet under the ocean to breathing free and clear in less than a minute. That's a side effect I can live with. 

No pneumonia, no bronchitis, no infection of any sort–just severely obstructed airways. An allergic reaction. To what? No clue. But with a few rounds of inhaled albuterol sulfate I slept for a collective eight hours last night. Seems like eons since I've slept like that. Ahhhhh. I will never take breathing for granted again.

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