by Graham Parke
It was a clinic day so I had to update my blogs and work out at least a small part of the first step of my plan to conquer Dr. Hargrove. I couldn’t show up at the clinic unprepared.
I actually wanted to tell her something meaningful today. Something she’d think about later, and then she’d remember it was me who told her.
No idea yet what this should be.
Blog entry: Didn’t get much time to worry further; a weird guy entered the store.
Some explanation is needed here. Most guys visiting my store are pretty weird. They’re basically weird by definition. They choose to spend their free time looking at this old crap that I (hopefully) get paid to look at. Instead of going home and watching TV, drinking beer, finding useless stuff on eBay, they decide to browse my crap, saying things like, ‘The detailing on this lid is exquisite,’ or, ‘Visible wear on the handles indicates moderate to active usage.’
It makes no sense to me. Why would grown men behave this way?
But this particular guy was weird beyond ‘heavily into antiques’ weird. This guy’s weirdness was amplified by three factors: First, there was the suit. The guy was actually wearing a three-piece business suit. You don’t get a lot of antiques shoppers in business suits. You get some parkas, you get some hippie-wear, and, on occasion, you get a wraparound quilt, but business suits apparently do not come with the territory.
Second, there were the sandals. Now, as a rule, sandals do come with the territory. In fact, so many sandals come with the territory that I often wonder where they come from and how they get to my store. I never see them out and about outside of business hours. I don’t see them on public transport. I don’t see them walking the streets. How do they arrive at my door? Is there some kind of time multiplex thing going on where I’m always working when sandal wearers are allowed out of their cages?
Sandals don’t go well with anything (with the exception of perhaps a beach), and they certainly don’t go with a suit. They occupy a class of their own and I’m hard pressed to understand how they don’t actually force some kind of rift in reality, causing the Universe to either implode or re-balance itself (perhaps by magically adding some afghans and a sports cap).
Third, there was the hat. Now some hats go well with business suits, most hats don’t, but nothing goes quite as badly with a business suit as a sombrero, which was what the guy was wearing. Now, don’t make the mistake of thinking that a sombrero-business suit combo is so wrong, it becomes right again. It doesn’t. It just becomes creepy. Don’t even bother imaging it.
Stranger still, the guy managed to wear his sombrero at a suggestive angle. Something not many sombrero wearers can pull off, especially when the sombrero in question is plastered with ‘I love pasteurized milk’ stickers.
So, this guy entered my store, browsed my crap in his suit, sandals, and stickered sombrero, and completely broke my concentration.
Blog entry: I followed the guy to the back with my gaze, then wrote him up in this blog entry. Then I tried again to think of a way to charm Dr. Hargrove. I had to come up with something good because our last visit didn’t go too well. There’d been a little banter, but the most I got were some sad little smiles, which disappeared very quickly. In fact, Dr. Hargrove seemed very down that day.
I suddenly realized I had my answer. This would be my way in! I would find out what was making Dr. Hargrove sad, and I would fix it for her.
I started typing excitedly, noting down my promise to myself that whatever it was, however difficult it proved to be, I’d do it. No matter how much time or money or energy it’d cost, I’d fix Dr. Hargrove’s problem and make a crack in that professional wall between us. And, if I played my cards right, I might get her to think it was her idea to break down that wall. Which would be even better!
Blog entry: Sombrero guy came to the counter to ask me about the specials.
I closed my laptop and looked around, told him everything in my store was pretty special.
He asked, “Like what?”
“Everything.” I pointed out a turquoise vase by his feet. “Like that, for instance. That’s pretty special.”
“What’s so special about it?”
I shrugged. “The stitching.”
He frowned, examined the vase, then asked about the house recommendations.
Several very personal recommendations sprung to mind but I decided against them. Instead I took a different route and pointed out more random crap around the store.
“Yes,” he said, taking in each item, “that’s all good stuff, I suppose.” Then, without making eye contact, he asked; “Have you ever seen Driving Miss Daisy?”
I have to admit I was temporarily taken aback. I’d heard a lot of crazy stuff in my store, but this was an entirely new level of crazy. Sombrero guy waited for an answer, so I said, “I have. When I was young. And stupid. And very, very bored.”
“Aha!” he said, “but have you seen Driving Miss Daisy, The Last Stand?”
I hadn’t.
He laughed slyly, handed me a business card with only an address and a phone number, and told me to come over to watch it, once it was released. He turned on his heel and walked to the door. Just before opening it, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “They’re bound to make that movie sometime.”
He tipped his sombrero at me and disappeared.
Blog entry: Wondered whether attracting weird characters was perhaps some kind of knack, and whether this might turn out to be my only knack in life.
Found myself hoping I was wrong on both counts.
13.
Blog entry: Arrived at the clinic early. Sat in the waiting room working on my laptop. Greeted my predecessor when he came out.
He wasn’t running this time, and wasn’t being chased by two large lab assistants, which was a much better look for him. Far more relaxed and in control. Before I knew it, though, I’d been staring at him a little too long. He glared at me. I was about to diffuse the situation with an innocent remark when, sadly, nothing came to mind. Not so much as a comment on the weather. My mind was a blank canvas. Meanwhile, I was still staring, because I’d thought I’d come up with something soon.
My predecessor stopped in his tracks, disbelief mounting in his eyes – What the hell’s this guy staring at? Apparently he was too shocked to say anything, so he just glared at me.
I wanted to look away but it was too late for that. That ship had sailed minutes ago. I had to say something and the longer I waited, the better the comment had to be to explain my increasingly long stare.
Blog entry: The situation continued for what seemed like forever. Time itself had come to a standstill. There was no way out.
His glare intensified, my brain thrashed around for something to say. The harder I pressed it for a comment, the more it clammed up. Meanwhile, I prayed for some kind of distraction, like a blaring car horn, a passing coffee cart, or, failing all else, the end of the world.
Eventually, Dr. Hargrove opened her office door and stuck her head out. She spotted me and pointed at her watch. “Gomez, come in please! I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes!”
I shrugged at my predecessor as if to say: Women!
He shrugged as if to say: Tell me about it!
And with that we could finally break eye contact safely. I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief and followed Dr. Hargrove into her office.
Blog entry: Right away I noticed Dr. Hargrove was still off her game. She sat down without asking me how I’d been and frowned as she went over my questionnaire. Several questions had already been answered and she didn’t look up as she fired off the remaining ones.
Part of her demeanor was caused, no doubt, by my inability to wait in a near empty room without getting into trouble, but there was more. There were traces of the same distracted sadness in her expression that had been there last time.
I waited for her to pause and look over the questionnaire, then made an appropriate little joke.
Dr. Hargrove looked up and I
immediately regretted making light of a situation I didn’t fully understand. For all I knew, her entire family had been slaughtered the week before. And here I was, making appropriate little jokes. Then she started to laugh and I forgave myself instantly. It was wonderful to see her face do that, to have her eyes rest on me while her brain sent all those happy signals around. Especially when it was in response to something I’d said. But then the laugh turned into a smile, and the smile faded too quickly. The serious Dr. Hargrove was back.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “Everything’s fine, really.” She forced a smile as proof. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Come on,” I said, “you’ve got to talk to someone. Sometimes talking to a perfect stranger is the easiest. I may not be perfect, but I’m certainly strange.”
She rolled her eyes at me, then smiled anyway. “I’m sorry, Gomez,” she said, “I just don’t know what to do…”
“I’ll know what to do,” I said. “I promise. Just tell me what the problem is and I’ll fix it.”
Blog entry: Surprisingly, Dr. Hargrove relented. She opened up and told me about this growing feeling of discomfort she’d been experiencing.
“I think someone’s following me around,” she said. “I feel watched when I go home, I feel watched when I go to work, I even feel watched when I’m alone in my apartment with the blinds closed.” She shot me a quick glance, then tried to compose herself. “That’s stupid, right?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. It’s probably nothing.”
“No, no,” I said. “You can’t be too careful with those kinds of things. It’s always best to err on the side of caution.” Not only that, I needed this to be a problem. I needed her to have a problem so I could solve it. I wasn’t going to let this go so easily. “You think you might have a stalker?”
She nodded.
Two thoughts occurred to me in quick succession: (1.) What kind of sick bastard would bother such a sweet, innocent scientist? (2.) Stalking Dr. Hargrove, now why hadn’t I thought of that? The wealth of information I could’ve gathered. The things I might’ve seen and heard. Apparently, my brain wasn’t that devious. Too bad.
“I’ll catch him for you,” I blurted out. “I’ll follow you around for a few days, at a distance of course, and I’ll find out who’s stalking you.”
Dr. Hargrove gave me an odd look. “Your solution to my stalker problem is to follow me around at a distance?” she asked. “Are you serious? You would actually do that for me?”
“Sure,” I said. “Leave it to me. I’ll find the guy and make him stop. Don’t worry.”
Dr. Hargrove looked relieved. “Great,” she said. “So in a way, I’ll have my own stalker-stalker.”
Blog entry: Dr. Hargrove took a piece of paper from her drawer to write down her address.
“No need for that,” I said. “I’ll figure it out.”
She looked up.
“Hey,” I said, “what kind of stalker would I be if I couldn’t even figure out your address?”
“What kind of stalker-stalker,” she corrected.
“What? Oh, yes,” I said, “of course, what kind of stalker-stalker. As I won’t actually be stalking you. I know. Don’t worry.”
Blog entry: Went home happy. Was finally making some progress. Had a great lead on a way in with Dr. Hargrove and, on the off chance she did actually have a stalker, I’d simply identify him and become Dr. Hargrove’s instant hero.
Things were looking up.
Blog entry: Made dinner and watched TV. Got ready to go back to the clinic and follow Dr. Hargrove home, then decided against it. That was exactly what she expected me to do. I’d read somewhere that girls prefer unpredictable guys, so I’d opt to stay an enigma and go the next day.
Blog entry: Watched some more TV. Played some computer games. Read a chapter of Warren’s manuscript.
Blog entry: Thinking about the drugs interfering with my reasoning, I decided not to do my taxes this year.
Part tw0
14.
Blog entry: Spent the following day selling absolutely nothing to nobody. Checked the internet for cool updates but didn’t find any. Hicks complained about painful wrists from all the sweeping, so I made him clean the windows. He only cleaned the insides, though. I didn’t complain.
Went to the department store two streets down during lunch to search for stalker gear. Thought about a way of asking for such gear without using the word stalker, then opted to just browse on my own.
Blog entry: I was feeling really psyched about this new and exciting aspect of my life. There was a dark and dangerous edge to it. I couldn’t wait to enter this twilight world of barely legal nighttime activities.
Didn’t find much in the way of stalker gear at the department store. The only items that seemed at all useful were a balaclava and a pair of leather gloves. I quickly realized the point wasn’t to be unrecognizable, but to be inconspicuous, so I ended up leaving the store empty handed.
Blog entry: Closed up at five and headed to the hospital. Had some time to kill before my stalker-stalker duties so I’d try to get more information on Joseph Miller from the hospital staff. My new edgy lifestyle had me convinced that the worst that could happen would be that they’d throw me out of the hospital. I didn’t believe they had the time or resources to actually have me arrested. If they tried, I’d go for a daring escape, which would be cool and edgy also.
Blog entry: There was a different nurse at the desk this time. I asked her to let me see Joseph Miller’s doctor. I played it cool and told her I was a distant relative, managed to get her help without identifying myself. (Which was cool and edgy). The nurse talked on the phone for a bit, then gave me directions to a cluster of offices. When I got there, I had to wait in a small waiting area.
Time passed.
I kicked myself for not bringing my laptop. Why did I never see this coming?
Was about to leave when one of the office doors finally opened and a middle-aged man in a white coat with grey hair came striding out. I jumped up to block his path. “I am Gomez Porter,” I said, holding out my hand for him to shake it. “I’m a distant relative of Joseph Miller.”
“What?” The doctor stopped in his tracks, stared at my hand. “Ah, yes.” he said. “I’m sorry, you wanted to discuss the Miller case.” He checked his watch. “Please come in. This must be a difficult time for you.” He gestured me back to his office.
“It is a difficult time,” I said. “Which is probably why I forgot to bring a passport to prove I’m a distant relative. And, sadly, I have no cell with which to call other relatives so they might vouch for me.”
“I’m doctor Tiernan,” the doctor said as we sat down. “I’m afraid you caught me at a very busy time, so forgive me if I seem a little distracted.” He smiled apologetically and took a folder from a stack on his desk. Apparently he’d laid it out after the call, but then forgot about it. “Joseph’s case was a very unfortunate one,” he said. “You see, he came to us so very late. There was little we could do for him.”
“I could get my driver’s license,” I offered. “But it’s in my car, out in the parking lot, and I’m parked all the way at the back. You’d think there’d be one or two places at the front, just by chance, but there weren’t. Plus, I might’ve left my license in my other pants.”
“Yes,” Dr. Tiernan said, “that can be annoying.” He showed me a page from the folder. It had some charts on it. “Joseph had been comatose for several days,” he explained. “Without food and water, the internal organs simply shut down. It’s all a matter of getting to the patient in time.”
I nodded thoughtfully. My identity-ruse seemed to be working. I decided to relax and concentrate on the subject at hand. “Did you discover what made Joseph pass out in the first place?”
Tiernan checked a few more papers, then shook his head. “Blood was clean,” he said. “No needle marks, no contusions.” He folded his hands over the folder. �
��I’m afraid we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”
“Any signs of allergies? Animal hair, that kind of thing?”
“Sorry,” he said, “we found no indications of any such complications.”
“What about poisons? Aren’t there compounds that can knock you out and then dissolve without a trace?”
“There are,” Dr. Tiernan said, “but we found no traces of such chemicals. To be absolutely sure, you’d have to check with the coroner.”
Ah, the coroner.
“Is there anything else you could tell me?” I knew the answer to my follow up question, but I had to be thorough. “Any signs of interactions? Experimental drugs interfering with each other maybe?”
Dr. Tiernan shook his head. He browsed the file once more for good measure, and found a sticky note tacked to the back of one of the forms. “Hmm…” he said. “This is strange. I didn’t notice this before…”
“What is it?”
“One of the nurses found a bruise on Joseph’s neck. Says here, the bruise wasn’t visible when Joseph was admitted.”
“What does that mean?”
Tiernan shrugged, “Probably nothing.” He put the note back and closed the folder. “Sometimes bruises take a while to surface. Could be something he sustained in his fall, could be something that happened later. Whatever it was, it’s unlikely to have complicated his condition. Joseph died of malnutrition and dehydration. His X-rays were clean; no damage to the neck.”
“Shouldn’t we double check?”
“There’s no way, I’m afraid. The body’s no longer here. Again, you’d have to ask the coroner.”
“I guess that’s what I’ll do.” I thanked Dr. Tiernan for his time and remembered to look solemn when he offered his condolences once more.
