The Horrors of Acne

(I was a real mess back in the day.)

As a teenager, I suffered from pretty bad acne. I’m not quite as ugly as popular actor Edward James Olmos or the vulgar street poet Charles Bukowski. But I’m not going to win any beauty prizes, either. I bring this up because genetics is often a curse, and Rice-Boy Larry is getting a smattering of pimples. So I took him to the dermatologist on Saturday. We rode the bus together.

I said, “What you need to ask for is a pill called Accutane. They put you on one course for a few months, and then you’re done forever.”

“Is that what you took back when you were a kid?”

“Yes, after many years of suffering, I finally found the right doctor.”

“Why were they so stingy with the meds?”

I sighed heavily. “It all comes down to money. If they cure you too quickly, the cash dries up.”

“Do you think this guy will give it to me?”

“Give what?”

“The Accutane.”

I inspected his skin and shook my head. “No chance in hell. Your affliction isn’t severe enough. He’ll place you on antibiotics, and you’ll become a lifetime patient.”

“That sucks.”

I shrugged. “What else can we do?”

“We could shop around for other doctors until we get what we want. That’s the power of being the customer.”

I nodded. “It’s definitely an option.”

We finally arrived at the physician’s office at 9:30 p.m., and Larry was seen almost immediately. The doctor examined my boy for less than two minutes and wrote a script for an antibiotic known as roximycin. He was also given some cream to rub on the affected areas.

The pharmacy was packed. Therefore, we had to wait for twenty minutes to get the medication. We sat together and shot the shit.

Rice-Boy said, “It looks like you were right. Antibiotics.”

“No point in getting glum. The stuff works. But it’s not a miracle drug. Now you’ll be the dermatologist’s butt boy until you’re twenty-five.”

“Have you ever tried roximycin?”

I shook my head. “No. I was on an antibiotic known as tetracycline.”

“And it was effective?”

“To a point. But once you get off of it, all those zits will start coming back.”

“Man! Talk about a kick in the balls.”

I put my arm around him and gave the kid a squeeze. “Trust me. I know your pain. But perhaps being an ugly motherfucker like your dad is simply your destiny. Look on the bright side. If you had been born in Djibouti, you’d never have the chance to improve your looks.”

Later that night, I watched a couple of movies on Netflix. The first was called The Northman, and it was directed by Robert Eggers. He’s the same guy who made The Witch and The Lighthouse. The film was pretty fucking crazy. It’s about a Viking looking for revenge.

The second flick of the evening was The Whale starring Brenden Fraser. Brenden won an Oscar for his portrayal of an obese gay English teacher who is trying to reconnect with his estranged daughter. The Whale is a real tearjerker. It left me feeling like I got hit by a dump truck.

I fell asleep at midnight and dreamt about West Point. I was at the military college giving a speech about the war in the Ukraine. The audience booed me off the stage.

(Did you like this post? Then read my novel for free. Click here.) 

(Give my message board a try.)