A Character Sketch / A Sketchy Character

Do you ever wish that your whole life could be just like a prescription drug commercial? No, you probably don’t. You probably wish for your six figure income to become seven. You probably dream of your gorgeous girlfriend wearing sexier lingerie for your tri-weekly sexscapades. Maybe it’s just me, the guy with his feet up on the coffee table, robe spilling open over his stomach. The guy whose carpet smells like feline urine, though I have no cats, whose idea of dining out requires tapping a straw against the table to remove its paper shell. Maybe it’s just me with my thumb on this remote that has such inane television fantasies about the honeyed moments of those soundtracked drug advertisements.

Anyone would have to admit the ads are alluring, though. All those meadows and red checked picnic cloths, men with women hugging firm on the back of motorcycles. It’s always a family get together or a formal wear special occasion. Kids in bubble baths and slow dancing with strands of pearls. So many rosy-glowed images of scrapbookable moments—weddings, funerals, and holidays. Sigh. How I envy them.

It took me a while for it to really sink in that these shiny, happy people in these spots are sick. Well, not really. They’re actors but they are actors pretending to be sick, struck down with serious disease and misfortune. Misfortunes of various types and severities: allergies, erectile dysfunction, arthritis, herpes, depression, obesity… My personal favorite is “Do you ever have trouble concentrating? Do you ever feel overwhelmed or anxious about facing everyday life? Are you often tired or lack energy?” No, no. I’m always perfectly whelmed, thank you. Why don’t they just come out and ask, “Are you human?” Why don’t they just say, “Pop our pill in the hope of android-like perfections and perpetual smiles. Soma, the face of the future!”

And the actors never seem to suffer from the side effects so speedily read over scenes of bicycling through vineyards or of sun on a beautiful face, wildflowers. No nausea, dry throat, scratchy eyes, loose bowels, irritability, mild swelling, tingling, hair loss, loss of appetite, bleeding ulcers… And remember! Those with erections lasting more than four hours should seek prompt medical attention. Because three hours, three and a half, that’s perfectly alright but four—now it’s a problem.

Shiny, happy people in big straw hats, gardening. Goofy, grinning people who can again take charge of their health/enjoy their life/not let [insert condition] get in their way! Happiness for sale, a smile a ‘script, but only for those without liver damage, high blood pressure, glaucoma, or family history of stroke and seizure. Oh, and those taking MAOI inhibitors, whatever on earth those are. Every commercial for every yummy little drug prohibits those MAOI-ers. Poor folks, unable to pop any of those fun-filled capsules of sunshine and acceptance. And remember! It’s unsafe to suppress your herpes outbreak when suffering from late stage HIV or AIDS. I don’t know if herpes suppression would top my list of life worries if I was in that situation. It wouldn’t even be #1 on my list of STD dilemmas.

Even if I do realize that, yes, I do hold a certain advantage over these ill people with their sparkling eye, it’s not an advantage I crave. Alone, unhealthy but in a broad and general sagging skin and mood sort of way. But if I was one of them, I could be loved and glowing with a cool, attention-grabbing and very fixable disease. And I mean fixable in a way that doesn't require any effort on my part. See, if I was taking this Procrit to increase my red blood cells after chemo, you know, so I could attend my nephew's soccer game... that's not such a bad life really. You'd have a nephew and mowed grass and snapshots and a feeling of defiance, the glow of someone who has both stopped fighting the inevitable but also knows they are strong enough to face it.

At the point of my life depicted in this kind of commercial, I know that I could be preplanning the final moments. I would be relishing that pale-faced movement of leaning forward, clumsily patting a teary-eyed loved one’s hand and whispering last words. Carefully scripted and poignant last words worthy of being echoed around the Thanksgiving table for generations. “Remember Uncle Clark?” “Just like my late son once said…” See, if I lived in the ads, I would be noble. I would be missed.

Then again, you probably have much more interesting fantasies, ones that don’t involve painful and prolonged illness. You can probably get attention and love from family and loved ones without resorting to diseased martyrdom. Then again, this is me. A balding ex-hypochondriac whose ass has molded this couch, whose fingers know this remote by touch.

Who dreams of a shiny, happy pill of dreams. If only they made one for what I’ve got.