Jonny Numb

The thing about feeling sick is: every thought and sensation becomes tinged with negativity and bitterness.

The mere thought of food and drink becomes a nausea-inducing prospect.

I used to anticipate days off school due to illness, but that was back when I had the resiliency of youth – and the convenience of grownup chauffeurs to the doctor – on my side.

It’s not good to develop a solid stance on anything – an event, a piece of art, or, God forbid, something political – when you’re feeling the effects of a virus coursing through your system.

On Tuesday, June 10, 2025, I laid down to sleep for the final night in our hotel in Leipzig, noticing a particular familiar feeling in the back of my throat – that “oh shit, is it sore from 4 days of whooping at bands and chattering incessantly, or am I actually getting sick?”

Everybody’s familiar with that feeling, and the guessing game as to whether that feeling will resolve itself after a night’s sleep, or advance onward into something unpleasant, not unlike a pushy freeloader looking for a place to crash indefinitely, is always a Grand Old Time.

“Maybe I’ll be gone in a few days; maybe longer! I dunno. Depends on how things shake out, Klaus! Anyway, rent’s due! Heh, heh.”

A too-early wake-up call on Wednesday, June 11 led us to check out of our hotel and embrace the chilly morning to catch a (Flix)bus.

I attributed my exhaustion to burnout incurred by the festival and all the “side-quests” contained therein.

That’s what I wanted to believe, anyway.

Couldn’t sleep during the 2-hour drive – via the Autobahn – to the Berlin Airport.

Arriving well in advance of our first flight (a shorter one, from Berlin to Frankfurt), we checked our luggage and waited in an irritating security line: the guy managing the (few) tubs was an asshole, and the lady doing the “body positioning” was kind of a bitch, and the “helping hands” airport staff cut no fewer than 3 people in front of everybody else, which in turn held the line up even further.

All of this made it seem like there wasn’t any real system to things, and the Helping Hands were just arbitrarily deciding to line-jump without offering an apology or explanation to those who’d been at a stand-still waiting for the staff to get their collective shit together and do their fucking jobs.

And don’t get me started on the family with 2 infants that was also permitted to line-jump and hold up the works with their bags-full-o-baby-shit.

Eventually we got through, and part of the wait was – apparently, security was rifling through what seemed to be every other bag. Lizard had picked up a cool wallet chain in the form of a spinal cord, but that was small potatoes next to the limited-edition card-games with holographic boxes (which probably gave the poor X-ray machine a seizure).

We were still so early for our flight that the all-knowing, all-wise departure board didn’t have our gate figured out. This led to some low-key wandering around the hot, over-lit shops (nothing to write home about) and finally settling on a wide, padded seat.

The overhead lighting felt abrasive and inescapable – I was sweating and already stinking (even with a generous application of Old Spice). Obviously, now I attribute this – at least somewhat – to the fever I was likely running.

As we sat, waiting, the seconds doing a slow metamorphosis into minutes which crawled toward hours, I came very close to nodding off while sitting upright (something I quite ironically cannot do on an airplane).

I felt bad for Lizard, who had reverted to a game on his phone to pass the time. Though the way I was feeling, I was more than fine with neither of us feeling obligated to make conversation. The fun part of the trip was over – we were now at the mercy of waiting-game tedium and convoluted transportation logistics to make our way home.

At some point, we ate lunch (fish and chips for me; schnitzel sandwich for him) and I managed to make a mess of a bottle of apple juice I didn’t realize was carbonated. Shake-shake, fizz-fizz!

Aside: you know you’re in Europe when nobody is at the Burger King, and the employees are standing around looking bored.

During our time at the Berlin Airport, I found myself also at the mercy of the water closet. Too much information, so I’ll only say it once: I was having bouts of loose stools (another telltale sign of illness).

That said: water closets >>>>>>>>>>>> American stalls (even the name equates humans with cattle; how demeaning can you get?).

What kept going through my throbbing skull was: Berlin to Frankfurt. Frankfurt to Newark. Newark through customs through baggage claim. Newark airport shuttle to parking lot. Parking lot to Lizard’s house. Option to crash at Lizard’s house (TBD). Lizard’s house to Home.

It seemed like a simple yet insurmountable chain of events – Home seemed far away.

Hell, Home was far away.

In due time, the gate was announced, and we made our way over and had a seat.

It was at this juncture I remember my nostrils leaking clear streams of snot and running aground of the limited tissues on my person (again, too much information!). I backtracked to a kiosk with snacks and souvenirs, almost accidentally knocked over a display of cheap tchotchkes, and picked up a small, square packet of tissues, which felt like sandpaper in hundred-degree sun as I rubbed/scraped my nostrils clean.

We boarded the smaller, rickety plane for our 55-minute sojourn to Frankfurt, receiving a small snack (an individually wrapped chocolate) and a bottle of water. It was similar to 2024’s flight from Heathrow to Edinburgh, with the flight attendants doing the safety demonstration complete with seatbelt props and hand-gestures toward the exits.

Once in Frankfurt, we had to get our passports examined by border patrol – is that also known as “security”? – and then proceeded to race through the terminal to make the boarding gate for our flight.

While I’ve been going to the gym several times a week for over a year now, I still find myself caving to the siren song of sweeteners and food extras (barbecue sauce for the chicken strips; ketchup for the fries) and stuff like craft beer (because Ever Grain is the GOAT, GTFOH) and bad-tasting diet sodas that I delude myself into thinking make a difference as my metabolism changes.

All that to say: running through the terminal with a weighty bookbag on my shoulders – with a fever, no less – put me in headspace that wasn’t improved when we were told we had to stop for an additional “security check.”

I found myself annoyed at the yenta – think Ellen Burstyn in Requiem for a Dream –  in front of us, who was apparently accompanied by a Greek masseur on wherever her journey was taking her. She kept calling out –

“Oh, Christian, I can’t do this.”

“Oh, Christian, I need your help.”

– in this loud, drawling whine.

Eventually, the Greek beefcake in question raced up to join her in line, and you remember what I said at the beginning about feeling sick coating every thought and sensation in (figurative) vomitous bile?

Well, I hate feeling rushed. I hate other people (especially when they’re oblivious to how annoying they are). And I was thinking such unkind thoughts as we stood in line for what was ultimately a couple-minute wait.

There were several airline staff asking for passports, tickets, and asking people honor-system questions about weapons.

I chuckled to myself when another staffperson attempted to explain to a passenger: “Weapons. Like guns or swords.”

I mean, I think it’d be hard to hide a katana in your carryon – let alone give it a decent swing considering the cramped quarters in coach – but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

In any case, we made it through the “security check” and ran a little further to our actual gate, and got aboard without incident, even though we were late.

Lizard put his checked bag in the overhead compartment and settled in at the window, while I tucked my bookbag under the seat in front of me (which remained unoccupied for the duration of the flight).

I found myself sweating, stinking, and annoyed at both of these things as the family with at least 4 elementary-age girls in the middle section put my feverish mind awash with even more negativity as I looked at the 8+ hour flight time on the seat-monitor in front of me.

We all know how well kids sit still for short car rides, so eight hours in a fucking tin can in the sky should be a breeze (pun intended)!

Fortunately, the kids were well-behaved and I found the antics of their father – whom I mentally dubbed “Superdad” – amusing. He was unflappable and maintained this tone of friendly wonder throughout the flight.

Takeoff was delayed for 30 minutes due to what I took as “some loose screws” and a bemused memory of watching Aniara years ago sprang to the forefront of my mind – how such a simple mechanical issue sent the entirety of a spaceship-bound civilization spiraling off-course for decades (centuries?) after all the occupants had perished. Cheerful stuff!

With the loose screws tightened, I settled in with my seatbelt as I tried to assimilate my physical form to the awkward confines of the seat – the equivalent of disregarding the spinal column and contorting oneself into a well-crumpled candy wrapper on the verge of being discarded.

Lizard occupied himself with episodes of the Harley Quinn animated series (one of the recent seasons).

I watched Steven Soderbergh’s Presence, which I’d missed in theaters. I liked it, but have questions.

I then moved on to a rewatch of Randall Park’s adaptation of Adrian Tomine’s graphic novel, Shortcomings.

I then tried to adjust myself into a position that would (hopefully) invite the sleep-fairies to shutter my eyes and mind for a few hours as a reprieve from having to occupy myself whilst feeling like pickled shit. While I came close more than a few times, I couldn’t drift off into full-blown sleep before the stewardesses started pushing food under our tired noses.

Fortunately, Lizard had closed his window and managed to doze. As the one responsible for our transportation back to PA, I didn’t want him nodding off while driving.

While I sat in the unnatural position, jotting down memories of the days in Leipzig, I was thankful that our seating assignment for the flight was maybe 3 rows away from the bathrooms at the tail end of the plane, thus making breaks a little less awkward.

And I did eat at every opportunity, despite how I was feeling. I probably looked like a regular Yankee schwein to the little girls to my left, who needed that old-fashioned Superdad cajoling to finish a portion of their meals.

Once the plane came to a full stop in Newark, we remained in our seats while everyone else hurried up to gather their belongings, only to come to a standstill while waiting for the passengers in front of them to do likewise and slowly make their way out to the terminal.

Based on my experience coming home from the UK in October 2024, I was dreading a backup at customs. Much to my pleasant surprise, there was no line and we passed through the checkpoint in probably 5 minutes, easy peasy.

We hit the restroom before loitering in the baggage claim, waiting for our suitcases to make their way through the mechanized intestinal tract, out the plastic-flapped anus, and onto the slow-moving carousel below.

After unlocking this achievement, we trekked out through the automatic doors and onto the sidewalk, greeted with a blast of humid air as Lizard quickly determined the stop for our shuttle back to the parking lot. Passing the huddled masses waiting on their own methods of transport, we crossed the busy street onto a narrow concrete island, walking by dudes sprawled out on benches, settling in for the night.

I told myself: bus to parking lot. Parking lot to Lizard’s house. Lizard’s house to Home.

Then…rest, finally.

While on the bus, I was in awe of just how big and logistically complicated airports are, and how it’s kind of amazing that there aren’t more accidents or snafus given the specifics of their architectural makeup…but on the other hand, maybe that’s why there aren’t more accidents or snafus.

In any event, we were some of the last people to get off the bus, and outside of a couple minutes of panic (dude, where’s Lizard’s car?), found ourselves on the road and on our way back to the unhallowed grounds of Terror Hill, PA.

We listened to some synth-poppy male duo whose name I can’t remember (it was Blackbook – ed.), and while my conversational abilities were well depleted at this point in the journey – an entire day dedicated to travel is some tiring and trifling shit, indeed – I managed to periodically bring myself to life despite my feverish, coughing haze.

Traffic was smooth and we pulled up to his house right around midnight. After swapping personal effects in our luggage (my vinyl; his new wardrobe acquisitions), I kept my parting words brief and my diseased hug at bay.

Despite how I was feeling physically and mentally, and kind of in awe of all the miles we’d traveled – compounded by the six-hour time difference once we got back to North America – I gained a second wind on the mostly desolate roads back to Home. Aiding in my journey was a frozen Oreo-Cookie Mocha from Sheetz which, despite its name and primary ingredients, does carry the essence of a caffeinated beverage (or at least enough of a placebo effect to trick my brain into thinking so).

Another thing: after being relatively spoiled by the weather in Leipzig, returning to Pennsylvania in the midst of humid, high-80s temperatures was a rough adjustment. But I know, I know: first world problems. And that’s what criminal abuse of my car’s A/C is for.

There was a feeling of comfort as my surroundings became increasingly familiar, to the point where the drive was graceful – relaxing, even.

When I pulled into the driveway, probably close to 2am, the neighborhood was quiet and my S.O. had the porch light on.

Being anal-retentive, I schlepped my suitcase and bookbag into the house, anticipating the effects of the heat once the sun ascended in the sky.

After scrawling my symptoms on a post-it for my S.O. along with a warning to approach me with caution, I settled into my long-awaited destination, putting my head to my pillow and falling asleep with relative open-mouthed ease.

(Epilogue to the Epilogue: when I awoke several hours later on the morning of June 11, I was still feeling like shit. My temperature was 100.4 and an at-home Covid test revealed a positive diagnosis. While the symptoms contributing to the fever had mostly lifted by the following Sunday, an aggressive cough accompanied by throat-snot-goobers persisted for several weeks after. Unfortunately, despite keeping her distance, my S.O. also contracted the virus, and our symptoms were curiously complementary. In any case, I still haven’t lived down making her sick, and probably never will.)