It was a little after 7 o'clock as Dr. Cullen exited the Ravenswood Hospital a newer, high rise, dark red brick and concrete building, never looking back at the last hospital he would ever be able to work in. So enormous was the strain of guilt and humiliation our poor, dejected, Michael could not even bring himself to get into his new red BMW sports sedan, for he was sure to do so would see him come to a watery grave after he drove his prize automobile off Navy Pier and into the swirling depths of Lake Michigan. Letting out a heavy sigh Michael slipped his keys into the pocket of his blue jeans, as he headed west down Montrose for a few blocks, as he watched the golden sun set through the bright green leaves of the trees that rustled in a gentle warm breeze on this late spring evening. Michael could hear children laughing off in the distance as they played together in their yards. When he came to Ravenswood Avenue Michael turned right, going north up two more blocks to a favorite local, Lincoln Square Area, authentic Irish Pub, called O'shuagnessy's, after the owners Margaret and William, a delightful elderly couple from the old country who always had a smile, a hearty laugh and they always brought you a wee more than a pint. Michael stood out front for a moment as he saw and heard the crowd of people and the Celtic rock band playing inside loudly from the stage and then Michael realized it was the 17th, and here at O'shuagnessy's, St. Patrick's day was celebrated the 17th, of every month come rain or shine.
Undaunted to be kept from a nice glass of whiskey, Michael stepped into the bar with a throbbing in his head, a rumbling in his stomach and a shadow upon his soul. Margaret noticed the tall, handsome Doctor she had come to love as one of her own, was not standing so tall as usual, nor had he a smile upon his face, just a frown on his furrowed brow, with a terrible look of sadness on his face. As he stepped up to her crowded bar Margaret, giving a sympathetic look, asked him "What's the matter love? You look like someone just drown your puppy!" Margaret spoke loudly, to be heard over the crowd, with a look of great solace and comfort in her old Irish eyes. Her comment made Michael smile, if but for a brief moment. Michael remained silent, unwilling to talk, only shaking his head saying nothing, and that was fine by her. So the dear sweet woman poured out a Jameson's on the rocks for him, then she hurried off to tend to the rest of her happy, alcohol filled patrons. She was kind enough to leave the bottle. Michael poured out two or three shots; which he slammed back, instead of sipping; which is how whiskey is supposed to be enjoyed. The noise, the music, the laughter, the cigarette smoke made the churning in Michael's stomach all the more unbearable. While Michael was busy slamming back glass after glass, he hardly noticed the attractive, red headed lass whom had sallied up to the bar next to him. She nudged the tall, blond, ice- blue eyed stranger on the arm and introduced herself, a name Michael did not care to remember. It was not that she was not his type, no, she was tall, long thin legs, tiny waist, wearing a short, green plaid, school girl skirt, with a pair of black patent leather 'fuck me' pumps, and girly-white, frilly ankle socks, and a tiny white cotton shirt which was unbuttoned and tied around her ample bosom, exposing the skin of her belly and her flesh was the color of peaches and cream.
Now she gave Michael a strange look when he did not smile back, or tell her his name, then she said something he could not hear above the roar of the crowd, but he could tell by the expression on her face she was not accustomed to being ignored. So, feeling awkward, Michael leaned over and said "I am so sorry, how rude of me. Please forgive me, I am just having a really bad day." he apologized to the pretty lady offering her some of what was left of the bottle of whiskey.
She only smiled and leaned in and whispered in his ear, tickling the flesh of his neck with her hot breath, as she said "Well.., would you like to have better night?" she laughed making a purring sound as she helped herself to a glass.
Michael smiled and thought it might be a good release of tension, frustration, anger and rage bouncing this young lady around his bed for an hour or two... However, no sooner did this thought come to his head, Michael watched as his new sex partner reached into her handbag and pulled out a thin brown cigarillo, a Swisher Sweet, lighting it with her silver lighter. Suddenly the smell of the burning sickly sweet, dried tobacco smoke filled his nostrils, and the stench of the scent sent him running for the bathroom as the nausea brewing up in his belly could not be held back any further. Michael flew into the men's room throwing open an empty stall as he bent over and wretched up the entire contents of his stomach, his lunch; which was comprised of 2, 'mother-in-law dog's' from Fat Johnnie's, half a bottle of good whiskey and the partially undigested pills; which could not be absorbed through all the chili, cheese, tamales, and hot dogs. This was why the six Vicodin had not taken their normal desired effect. Michael coughed up a bit more chunks of his lunch before he flushed away the chili colored vomit, and stench, down the toilet. Michael staggered out over to the sink splashing cold water on his reddened face and fevered brow, then he rinsed out his mouth with a handful of water and liquid soap; which tasted much better than what had just come up out of his stomach. The noise from the crowd and band seemed to be increasing along with the pounding in his head, and as he bent over the sink for one more soothing splash of cold water Michael heard a familiar voice calling his name.
Undaunted to be kept from a nice glass of whiskey, Michael stepped into the bar with a throbbing in his head, a rumbling in his stomach and a shadow upon his soul. Margaret noticed the tall, handsome Doctor she had come to love as one of her own, was not standing so tall as usual, nor had he a smile upon his face, just a frown on his furrowed brow, with a terrible look of sadness on his face. As he stepped up to her crowded bar Margaret, giving a sympathetic look, asked him "What's the matter love? You look like someone just drown your puppy!" Margaret spoke loudly, to be heard over the crowd, with a look of great solace and comfort in her old Irish eyes. Her comment made Michael smile, if but for a brief moment. Michael remained silent, unwilling to talk, only shaking his head saying nothing, and that was fine by her. So the dear sweet woman poured out a Jameson's on the rocks for him, then she hurried off to tend to the rest of her happy, alcohol filled patrons. She was kind enough to leave the bottle. Michael poured out two or three shots; which he slammed back, instead of sipping; which is how whiskey is supposed to be enjoyed. The noise, the music, the laughter, the cigarette smoke made the churning in Michael's stomach all the more unbearable. While Michael was busy slamming back glass after glass, he hardly noticed the attractive, red headed lass whom had sallied up to the bar next to him. She nudged the tall, blond, ice- blue eyed stranger on the arm and introduced herself, a name Michael did not care to remember. It was not that she was not his type, no, she was tall, long thin legs, tiny waist, wearing a short, green plaid, school girl skirt, with a pair of black patent leather 'fuck me' pumps, and girly-white, frilly ankle socks, and a tiny white cotton shirt which was unbuttoned and tied around her ample bosom, exposing the skin of her belly and her flesh was the color of peaches and cream.
Now she gave Michael a strange look when he did not smile back, or tell her his name, then she said something he could not hear above the roar of the crowd, but he could tell by the expression on her face she was not accustomed to being ignored. So, feeling awkward, Michael leaned over and said "I am so sorry, how rude of me. Please forgive me, I am just having a really bad day." he apologized to the pretty lady offering her some of what was left of the bottle of whiskey.
She only smiled and leaned in and whispered in his ear, tickling the flesh of his neck with her hot breath, as she said "Well.., would you like to have better night?" she laughed making a purring sound as she helped herself to a glass.
Michael smiled and thought it might be a good release of tension, frustration, anger and rage bouncing this young lady around his bed for an hour or two... However, no sooner did this thought come to his head, Michael watched as his new sex partner reached into her handbag and pulled out a thin brown cigarillo, a Swisher Sweet, lighting it with her silver lighter. Suddenly the smell of the burning sickly sweet, dried tobacco smoke filled his nostrils, and the stench of the scent sent him running for the bathroom as the nausea brewing up in his belly could not be held back any further. Michael flew into the men's room throwing open an empty stall as he bent over and wretched up the entire contents of his stomach, his lunch; which was comprised of 2, 'mother-in-law dog's' from Fat Johnnie's, half a bottle of good whiskey and the partially undigested pills; which could not be absorbed through all the chili, cheese, tamales, and hot dogs. This was why the six Vicodin had not taken their normal desired effect. Michael coughed up a bit more chunks of his lunch before he flushed away the chili colored vomit, and stench, down the toilet. Michael staggered out over to the sink splashing cold water on his reddened face and fevered brow, then he rinsed out his mouth with a handful of water and liquid soap; which tasted much better than what had just come up out of his stomach. The noise from the crowd and band seemed to be increasing along with the pounding in his head, and as he bent over the sink for one more soothing splash of cold water Michael heard a familiar voice calling his name.
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