Flu Days

Shivering, you drag yourself, as if gun-shot, to the living room, to the old movie channel, to a Bogart festival, your mind fogged over (like the street on the screen) edging toward feverish sleep when Bogey snarls at Ida Lupino: “Of all the 14-carat saps...” Hours later when you wake, he’s smacking Peter Lorre: “When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it!” And as if cuffed, you black out, head pounding, and come to upon Ingrid Bergman and “You must remember this,” before fading again, then back to Bogey hacked to death by Bedoya’s machete, all that gold dust blown away with the whole bloody day, everything gone—gone black as your living room windows— those previews of The Big Sleep.