PATIENT: What are the symptoms?
DOCTOR: Most people experience numbness in the limbs. Also,
delirium, mostly. A sharp pain just below the naval. Night sweats. Cold feet.
These types of things. Ring around the collar.
PATIENT: Oh. Well. Oh. Lost my appetite too. Did I mention
that?
DOCTOR: Where?
PATIENT: Somewhere around Barstow, perhaps. I met a man
there named Lois.
DOCTOR: Lois? A man?
PATIENT: Yes. A man.
DOCTOR: Are you certain?
PATIENT: Must be. And to think, this Lois could get away
with it.
DOCTOR: With what?
PATIENT: The pilfering of my hunger. You know, the removal
of instincts, and such. And stuff.
DOCTOR: Go light on the abdominal strain. No more heavy
lifting. Less time on the toilet. Go for a short jog every so often. Wear more
sweaters. That’s my advice.
PATIENT: That’s advice?
DOCTOR: Sure. I am advising you. This is my office-- the
place where I do my advising.
PATIENT: Oh. I see. My apologies.
DOCTOR: Nothing doing. Now. Let’s have a look at that tongue
of yours. Open up. There. Say…well, don’t say anything.
PATIENT:
DOCTOR: Well. Well. Well. Well. Well. Well.
PATIENT:
DOCTOR: Well. It seems you’ve got a bit of that old
brontosaurus tongue. Yep. Seen this before. Many Hypos get this. It’s quite
common among you folk. Yes. Yes. Well. Well. Little splotches of auburn here
and there, that blotchy swollen umber quality to it all. The thinning
eucalyptus-bark texture. Oh. Gee. Well. Oh God. Whoops. Sorry about that.
Little sting there, huh?
PATIENT:
DOCTOR: Um. Well. Golly my Molly. Well. Well. That’s enough.
PATIENT: Thank you. So. I’m…normal…
DOCTOR: Normal? Ha. Far from it, buddy boy. But, well,
there’s still hope. Hypos are still alive, and therefore we must let them
believe that they can be fully functioning hot-and-cold running individuals who
add to the reaped benefits of society, for the sake of the rest of us.
PATIENT: The rest of who?
DOCTOR: Oh. Well. Never mind all that. Now. Tell me
something else that you think might be advisable to help me determine the
extent of your…um, condition.
PATIENT: I write postcards to myself and then take them out
of context. You see, stuff like, “the hurry is what runs from falling apples.
The slash and whip of a driving rain. The mulch that’s warped and warped again.
My sister’s moved to Guatemala, praying, ‘Internal organs, don’t fail me now.’
Trains are halted by herds of buffalo.” It’s not as jumbled as all that though.
Not really.
DOCTOR: Hmmm. Well. Well. Tell me less, and make it seem
like more.
PATIENT: Oh. And there was this message I received
yesterday, on a note clothes-pinned to my sneaker, “The latch has been removed
from Door #7. Peeks for a buck apiece are no more.”
DOCTOR: Yes. Very consistent with these cases, I’ve found.
PATIENT: Really?
DOCTOR: Yes. Does that help?
PATIENT: Strangely, it does.
DOCTOR: It helps strangely? Or do you find it strange that
it helps?
PATIENT: Both.
DOCTOR: Good. Now. What were you thinking while you were
waiting for me to arrive today?
PATIENT: Me?
DOCTOR: Yes. You.
PATIENT: I was just thinking about how I really wish it’d
make up its mind about raining today. Just to sneak to the corner store for
soap was becoming a challenge this morning; and my gasmask has gone out of
style. I was thinking about that too. And then, ‘Carried with thoughtlessness
through glass doors, stones for a catch, lump apart what’s not money anymore,
in the tromping in and off to do nobody’s business.’ And those thoughts came
right before these other thoughts. Stuff like, ‘I really don’t understand the
rain, at all. I’m almost made of matches, and I’m basically living on road
games and extra innings. Typos abound in purgatory, and insomnia is as
contagious as stomach flu.’
DOCTOR: You are deemed cured, by yourself first, in this
instance, if you’d like, or are capable of such things.
PATIENT: If I were then why would I be here?
DOCTOR: Yes. Exactly. You’ve dismantled your own bupkis.
That’s nothing more than the nightmare of reason pointing a pistol at your
back, or is it just a finger in a coat pocket, a drive-by-day murderer
rummaging through your symptomatic indecision in hopes of delaying your day of
rest one more week?
PATIENT: I’m less confused than that. Really. I know why I
don’t know what’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with me. What’s wrong. Wrong.
What’s…
DOCTOR: I’m sorry. Are you talking to me?
PATIENT: I don’t know. I’m queasy again. I’m difficult
again. The pangs of prostatitis, or maybe just a lodged kidney stone, or a
inguinal hernia of some sort. Shit, doc. I’ve got the weakest intestinal
fortitude on the block. What’s right with me today? Nothing and everything. The
usual. And there’ll be no mess to clean up after I’m gone. My life is simple
subtraction without ever dividing. Open me up and all you’ll find in the
autopsy is a pinball game gone rusted shut with no balls.
DOCTOR: Ahem. Well. Well. Ahem. I think that you’re being
less or more specific, or getting there, or close, all the time. And we’re the
ones unable to meddle in the scope of this you you’ve come to be, arriving
here, today, just to be where you currently are. I think our business is better
left on the lanai, for the moment, and we’ll just leave it at that. Feel
better?
PATIENT: Hard to tell. I can always find something wrong
with me, no matter what. My testicles ache. My toe hair feels like it’s on
fire. But, yes. I feel better.
DOCTOR: Well. Well. That’ll be all for today, then. Drink
plenty of fluids and don’t read the newspaper. Call me in 14 weeks if you’ve
seen no improvement. Oh, and stop cutting your own hair. People are just being
nice when they say it looks good. Splurge a little; go to a professional, will
you? Trust me. It’s worth it. That’s why we have people who are trained to do
these things, right? Well. Well. Take care. Or leave it. Whatever. You’ll be
fine, kid.
PATIENT: Thanks.
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