Atlantic Canada Tales by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Formication on Fundy

by Mike Bozart

© 2024 Mike Bozart

The north shore of Cobequid Bay across from Burntcoat Head on Trunk 2 highway. It’s a snow-scattered, gusty-at-times, early April morning in 2023. Recently retired, widowed, Nova Scotian, sexagenarian George G. Gerrish IV, scratches the back of his scalp once again as he reads about his strange condition on a discounted-upon-closeout, chartreuse-shelled, dusty laptop computer.

Formication, [noun] an abnormal (imagined) sensation of one or more tiny insects/arachnids crawling on or under one’s skin; a type of tactile hallucination.

This term is derived from formica, the Latin word for ant. Known causes of formication include: (a) onset of menopause; (b) pesticide exposure; (c) mercury poisoning; (d) diabetic neuropathy; (e) skin cancer; (f) syphilis; (g) Lyme disease; (h) hypocalcemia; (i) herpes zoster; (j) neurocysticercosis; (k) methamphetamine, cocaine, or Datura intoxication and/or withdrawal; (l) withdrawal from, or sharp intake reduction of, alcohol; (m) benzodiazepine withdrawal; (n) withdrawal from SSRI/SNRI antidepressants and tramadol; (o) possible side-effect of opioid analgesics; (p) static electricity; and (q) acute phase of psychosis.

George ponders the possible causes while sipping from his Halifax City SC mug of hazelnut coffee. Well, I think we can certainly rule out (a). [internal chuckle] Can also safely rule out (b) and (c); haven’t used any pesticides in decades, and no known exposure to mercury. Rarely ever eat fish from the Bay [of Fundy] anymore. And not drinking the ‘blood’ from analog thermometers. Yet. [internal chuckle] Boy, I’m in a silly mood today. Wonder why. Didn’t eat any THC gummies.

Weird. Ok, not diabetic; can cross off (d). No, really doubt that I have skin cancer at the cowlick; it’s not (e). And it’s definitely not (f); last time I had sex with Amélie was when?

A decade ago? Probably. Why bother counting at this point?

[groans] No ticks; cross off (g). The calcium/blood level is fine; therefore, strike through (h). Shingles? Nah; scratch (i).

Larval cysts of the pork tapeworm? Hmmm … a slight possibility. Better remember (j). Wonder what happened to Jay? Did he go astray? Or make a play? What nonsense I now think. Ok, not a meth-head, coke fiend, or moonflower connoisseur; thus, we can cross off (k). Woah, brightly highlight (l); put that one in 1st place – top of the list – the leading candidate. Think this is day 23 without drinking any form of alcohol. And this formication madness started about three weeks ago. Yeah, bet that’s it. Wonder when it subsides. Can cross out (m); no Valium or Xanax since the Toronto days, 30+ years ago. Wonder what happened to crazy American Steve. Did he make it to Guam? Who

knows? Lost to time. We can also eliminate (n) – nope, not on any antidepressants. Not yet! [internal chuckle] No opiates since the back surgery eleven years ago; thus, line out (o). Static electricity? Nah, haven’t gotten a zap from touching a doorknob in months; the relative humidity in here is too high. Just another unlikely cause to ignore; scratch (p).

And finally we get to (q). Surely we can cross this one off.

I’m not hearing voices or talking to the walls. Well, not yet.

[internal chuckle] So, what is the leading suspect again? Oh, yeah; it’s (l). Jeez, the very-short-term memory sure aint what it was since that third bout with Covid. What day is it?

[internal chuckle] No, really. Is it Wednesday? Or Thursday?

The fickle-pickle lamentable ‘joys’ of retirement. Such a tidal bore: me now and that day then. Almost five years ago now.

[Amélie, his Québec-born wife, died in a freak boating accident on the Salmon River in May of 2018.] Not sure what I’m living for now. Ok, snap out of the funk. Let’s try to write that haiku poem today. Though, it seems that was on the to-do list yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before –

<ding><dong><dinggggg> Who could it be? A delivery? Have I ordered anything in the last month? Don’t think so.

George makes his way to the front door from his compact den/office. He peers through the peephole. Wow! It’s Dave.

[a longtime, 64-year-old, nearly bald, baseball-cap-donning friend] Why is he stopping by unannounced? Has something bad happened? Did his old car slide off the road into a ditch?

/ Hope I didn’t spook him. But, this is the best – and maybe the last – opportunity. Wonder how George will take it.

Stoically? Perhaps. Though, no telling.

“Why, look who has stopped by unannounced at 9:37 AM on a weekday? Is this a wellness check? Those rumours going

‘round are almost true.” George chuckles. Almost? He’s as odd as ever. Nothing has changed.

“No, not a wellbeing checkup, old buddy. Just got a few things to tell you.” Not good.

“Well, step inside,” George implores.

Dave enters and takes a seat on the Lawson sofa.

“Tea, coffee, orange juice?” George asks. “I would offer you a mimosa, but there’s no liquor in the house. I gave up alcohol a little over three weeks ago.” Wonder why.

“I’m fine. So, were the hangovers becoming too brutal, George?”

“Well, that’s certainly a good guess, Dave. But, no, it was because the sauce was causing my ulcers to bleed.” Lovely.

“Sorry to hear that. But, congrats on the cessation. Any withdrawal symptoms? You didn’t experience the dreaded delirium tremens, did you?”

“No, nothing like that, Dave. I really wasn’t drinking that much. Two pints of pilsner or two whiskey sours was the usual night; three was a big night, maybe once a fortnight.

Though, a strange condition arose that is sometimes associated with alcohol withdrawal: formication. Ever heard of it?”

“Do you mean fornication? Are you now a blue-pill-popping sex maniac? Are you plowing The Nook and Cranny?” [a pub in Truro] Dave guffaws. Oh, boy …

“Ha-ha. You’ve become a real funny guy in your twilight.

And, no, I didn’t misspeak, Dave. Formication is that bugs-crawling-on-skin sensation. Man, it’s creepy as hell. And it feels so real. You would swear that some tiny insect or spider was on your scalp.” Is George losing his marbles?

“Just tell me, George: have you been smoking meth?”

[methamphetamine] Dave guffaws again. Is he high?

“Did you consume some happy pills for breakfast?” George ripostes.

“No, but I feel strangely liberated, mate. You see, I’ve got stage-4 pancreatic cancer; it’s terminal, imminently. They say I’ll probably croak in a month, maybe six weeks. Or maybe as soon as three weeks. But, I’m at peace with it. I’m going to spend my final days in the Vancouver area with the alone-once-again ex-wife. This is why I stopped by. I’ll be leaving Maitland with my son and a vial of oxycodone within a week.” Woah! What a bomb-drop!

“Wow! I’m so sorry, Dave. I really don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, George. And, believe me; I really am at peace with it, completely. I never wanted to live past 65 anyway. So, I end up a year short. And that’s fine by me. I just hate how the body and mind deteriorate. I’m just

not into old age. Anyway, I wanted to see you one last time.”

Whew.

“Well, thanks for dropping by. Would hate to have learned of your passing years later. Hope it’s an agreeable end phase, buddy. I may not be far behind you. Say, did you ever hear what happened to Steve from Vermont?”

“He made it to Guam, married the young lady, and they had two kids. Well, as of 2008. No word since then. Now, for a morbid construction. Have you ever wondered how many people – on average – die each day?” Where is this going?

“No, not lately. But, I do find it odd that such number is rarely ever mentioned in the news. Almost like they don’t want us to know our insignificance.” Zoing.

“Well, as of last November, I saw one online estimate that put the global number at 161,803. And, you know why that number jumped out at me?”

“No idea, Dave.”

“It’s the golden ratio multiplied by 100,000.”

“Only you would notice that, Dave. Only you.”

“Ok, well, It gets better – or darker.” Dave guffaws yet again.

“Do continue.” To God knows where.

“The average casket dimensions are 71 centimeters [28

inches] by 58 centimeters [23 inches] by 213 centimeters.

[84 inches] But, let’s focus on the total width and height; the area is 4,118 square centimeters. [638 square inches] Now, let’s multiply this by the daily-death-count number. The answer: 66,630 square meters, [79,689 square yards] a 258-by-258-meter [846-by-846-foot] square. Such could quickly dam the Bay of Fundy.” Oh, dear. How grim. The fish and fishermen would just ‘love’ a dam. And so much for tidal-change tourism. Though, the barnacles …

“Yeah, that puts it into perspective, Dave. A constant conveyor belt.”

“That’s a good analogy, George. Anyway, gotta run along and start preparing for the westward departure.” Dave then seems lost in thought as he eyes a semi-abstract canvas on

the wall. “I remember when you did that one. Love those fractals. Life’s looping spirals.”

“Appreciate that, Dave. Thanks for dropping by. I hope your final days include intrigue and revelation. And ultimately, eternal peace.”

“Thanks, pal. It’s been a nice run. Though, I wouldn’t say that I wouldn’t change a thing. There are certainly some folks I wish I never wasted a millisecond on. But, all in all, pretty fortunate. Especially when I think of the extreme special-needs children that I saw at the hospital last month.”

Dave would feel death’s talons clasping 24 days later, just before sunset, in southwestern British Columbia. He would call George, as his life was down to the last hour. But there was no answer.

He then checked his text messages. There was one from George, received two days ago. How did I miss this?

Hi Dave,

Hope the grand finale is precisely that: grand. Any epiphanies? Do share.

Recently finished this haiku poem:

The ebb tide quickens / Grand Manan Island slips by / Maritime kismet

Like it? Is it too tame? Too lame? Or too much the same? Who’s to blame? [chortling]

Silt, sand, gravel, shel s, and rocks. The Bay [of Fundy] floor varies at the mouth. It’s nothing like the two eastern-fork mud flats. So, how far down would those caskets settle? How long would they endure? Still scratching the scalp. No idea why. Flummoxed.

Onward we flow.

George would be found dead in his basement – inside an improvised coffin – in mid-May. Cause: unknown.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

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Charles of Charlottetown by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | late April 2024