Thursday, July 12, 2018
Ken Trimble #29 Plastered
I had just broken my foot. I left the ashram to follow a woman to Kolkata. That's how it goes I guess. The first night I screamed the hostel down with profanities. I discovered new words for fuck. In the morning I sat around in agony resting my foot on a chair surrounded by a bevy of beautiful Bengali women. That didn't do it for me. An American saw me and wanted to pray over me. I said sure , go right ahead. After the hospital and after Ashoka I found myself in a small hotel getting drunk. It had been six weeks since the plaster. Time to take that fucker off. I took out my penknife and cut and swore till the shell fell onto the floor. It hadn't healed. I screamed in agony placing my foot in a wash bowl. I tried Indian porn to get my mind off the pain but that didn't work either so I drank some more. I decided to come home. I was beaten. At the airport I was wheeled out to the plane waiting for me on the tarmac. I looked up at the steps they seemed like Everest. The guy said , can you make it up there. Are you kidding. Just then four burly Indians lifted me with me still in the wheelchair and carried me high above their heads onto the plane. I left India like I was the King of the world!