Billy squirmed in his seat. There must be a way out of this! No, he corrected himself, this a good thing. Uncle Roy had been diagnosed with colon cancer at his age, and a family history of the disease increased his chances of having the disease too. Come to think of it, his uncle Roy had been killed in a car crash by a drunk driver immediately after his diagnosis. Uncle Roy had always been the lucky one in the family, Billy thought wistfully. He once won a wok in a charity raffle.
Billy decided not to worry about the exam. It would be over in a second. Procedures That Must Not Be Named happened every day, he reasoned. The secret was to not make it a big deal. For the rest of the bus ride, Billy made a mental list of things to talk to the doctor about during the sure-to-be-awkward part, to make it less so. After all, it couldn’t be the highlight of the doctor’s day either.
At the corner of Wide and Spread—how could he have not noticed these names before?—Billy rang the bell, then stepped out onto the street and gazed up. Waterhouse Five was one of the most beautiful buildings in town. Twenty-five stories of elegant art deco architecture sat atop a wide portico emblazoned with a large number five in a wonderful terracotta sunburst design. Art deco was Billy’s favorite style of architecture, and there weren’t many better examples of it in town. Sometimes he came by the Waterhouse just to appreciate its beauty and walk through its majestic interior. To Billy, it was a work of art. For a moment, he forgot himself and his anxiety.
Billy passed through the well-appointed lobby, tripped on his shoelace, and almost molested an eye-poppingly buxom blonde. After a quick and sincere apology, he made his way to the elevators. He pushed the Up arrow, entered the elevator, and pressed 14. Most buildings don’t have a thirteenth floor based on some silly superstition, Billy remembered. He guessed the Waterhouse was no exception. But what does it matter, he thought, thirteen or fourteen, misfortune doesn’t have a favorite number.
When Billy got to the doctor’s office, there seemed to be a crisis of some sort.
“Hello, Mr. Jonah, it’s been a while,” said the receptionist, Sally. Or was it Sandra?
She looked like a Sandra, but her name was Sally. Some people, Billy thought, are cursed with the wrong name. He always felt a little sorry for them.
“Yes, I guess it has been a while.”
“Well, you can just sit down there. We’re in the middle of a little disaster. The phone system and the computers are down. You’re our last appointment. We probably would have had to close down if this had happened earlier. You’re lucky.”
Billy smiled warmly. He actually began to relax in the plush waiting room chair. It’s all good, he thought to himself, it’s all—
“Mr. Jonah?” The sound of the receptionist’s voice made him jump.
“Yes?”
“Examination room A, please.”
Billy ventured down the corridor, saw the door marked “A,” and sat on the examination table inside. Strumming his fingers on the table with a practiced nonchalance, he looked around. Nothing unusual. Your basic examination room. Poster of the nervous system on the wall, tongue depressors and lollipops in a glass jar on the desk. His eyes caught the box of rubber gloves sitting beside a tube of lubricant just as Dr. Feldman walked in.
“Billy, long time no see.”
“Yes, yes, long time…” Billy had a hard time swallowing.
“Any problems? Anything causing you trouble?”
And just like that, the examination was under way. Family medical history, blood pressure cuff, heartbeat check, abdomen palpated. Everything was going smoothly. In fact, the doctor commented on how optimal Billy’s blood pressure and heart rate were for a man of his age.
Then it was time.
“All right, Billy, if you can pull your pants down and lie on your side on the table with your knees drawn up.”
“Sure,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” He unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants, and lay on the examination table. There was a knock at the door and Sally/Sandra poked her head in.
“I was just going for coffee. Would you like anything?”
“No, but thank you,” Billy said.
“Uh…I was talking to the doctor.”
Feldman laughed. “No, in fact you might as well go home for the day. You can’t do the billing till the computers are back up.”
“Lovely, my lucky day. See you tomorrow. Goodbye, Mr. Jonah.”
“Uh—yes, bye.” Billy had never felt more vulnerable. He hoped the flush in his cheeks hadn’t traveled to his…cheeks.
The door clicked closed. As Billy lay on his side, knees raised, staring at the wall, he could hear the snap as Feldman put on the rubber glove. It was not a comforting sound. Billy readied himself with the first topic on his Procedure That Must Not Be Named conversation list. “Looks like the Leafs may do well this year, huh? The defense looks solid. Maybe just need…”
But Dr. Feldman wasn’t a hockey fan. He didn’t care about the Leafs and what they needed, because at that moment he was being professional and concentrating on what he was about to do next. He thought to himself, “Remember to tell Billy what’s about to happen,” but he was so focused on the job at hand, he forgot. It was an unfortunate turn of events. Had Dr. Feldman reviewed Billy’s medical file more closely, he would have noted that Billy suffered from hyperekplexia, an extreme startle response to noises or other disturbances typically found only in babies. Unfortunately for the good doctor, he was disturbing Billy mightily right then, and Billy’s hyperekplexia kicked into high gear.
Billy’s response was immediate and involuntarily: his knees pushed violently against the wall, propelling his body backward and driving Feldman’s finger farther inside him than either Feldman or Billy would have preferred. In agony, Billy gasped and rolled over onto his back, bending Feldman’s finger to an impossible angle, breaking it. Feldman cried out. Immediately, his broken finger began to swell.
Billy’s rectum clenched in full spasm, firmly trapping Feldman’s finger. Off balance and in considerable pain, Feldman fell to his knees, smacking his head into the examination table and knocking himself unconscious. Feldman lay on the floor, his arm raised in the air and his finger firmly plumbing his patient’s posterior. Billy lay in shock on the table, feeling more violated than he ever had before. Had anyone walked in at that moment, they would have seen something that looked like a capital H fallen on its side.
“Dr. Feldman… Are you all right?” Billy had a feeling that this was a stupid question.
No answer.
It says a great deal about Billy that at this particular juncture, his main concern was for Feldman’s well-being. After all, Billy was in a deeply compromising position. He racked his brain for a way to get help for the doctor. He breathed deeply to calm himself and tried to think clearly. Here were the facts as he saw them:
1) He had an unconscious, possibly concussed, medical doctor firmly attached to his ass.
2) There was no one around to hear his cries for help.
3) There were no working phones to make calls and no working computers to send emails.
4) His cell phone was drying out on his bathroom vanity because he’d dropped it in the toilet that morning.
Billy suddenly remembered that his dentist, Dr. Phillips, had an office on the sixteenth floor of the Waterhouse! Now, granted, this was above and beyond a root canal, but Billy surmised the physics were the same. Anyway, at the very least, Dr. Phillips could get help for the unconscious Dr. Feldman. Billy had to try.
Slowly, Billy rolled back onto his side and inch-wormed off the examination table, trying not to hurt either himself or the doctor. He managed to stand, albeit awkwardly, feet apart with the doctor lying between them. He hoped, self-consciously, that the doctor would not regain consciousness at this moment and look up.
Billy jumped up and down, gently trying to dislodge Feldman’s finger, but not surprisingly, had no luck. Then he braced his
hands on his knees and squatted, relaxing as much as he could. Again, nothing. They’d have to head to the elevator as one. He looked about the room, and noticed the doctor’s chair had wheels. It was height-adjustable, and at its lowest setting would be about a foot off the ground. Billy came up with a plan that MacGyver would have been proud of and grabbed the sheet that covered the examination table.
He wound the sheet into a makeshift rope and hung it around his neck. Putting his arms between his legs and grabbing Feldman’s free wrist, he pulled the doctor towards the chair. It was hard work, made much harder with his pants around his ankles and the fit of uncontrollable giggles that racked Billy’s body when he thought about what he was doing.
When he reached the chair, he adjusted it to its lowest height. He took the sheet from around his neck and looped it around the chair. He pulled Feldman onto the seat and wrapped the sheet tightly around the doctor’s waist, securing him to the chair back. He grabbed the end of the sheet and pulled/wheeled the slumped doctor (still firmly attached to him via his finger) out of the examination room and into the hall.
“Sally?” he called, and then thought better of it. “Sandra?” he called a little louder.
No answer.
A thin film of sweat covered Billy now, making him uncomfortable, though not as uncomfortable as having Feldman’s slumped head inches away from his crotch. Billy kept hoping that all of this physical activity would pop out the offending finger. Nope.
The worst is behind me, thought Billy without irony. Slowly pulling the doctor along, he made his way to the elevator, looking like a very odd car ornament. Thank God there’s no one around to see this, he thought. Maybe his luck was changing. He pushed the Up arrow. Almost immediately the elevator arrived, its carriage empty. Billy got them both inside and pushed the button for the sixteenth floor.
As the elevator rose, Billy felt good. In fact, he felt more than good. He felt invincible. Every difficulty that had come his way this afternoon had been dealt with. And he was moments away from rescue. What could go wrong? Superstitiously, he tried to stop that thought even as it dawned, but it lodged firmly in his brain.
What could go wrong? What did I think that for? That’s the death knell! I’ve jinxed it! Lots of things could go wrong! Billy took two deep breaths and forced himself to relax. I’ve already acknowledged the “what could go wrong,” he thought. Now I’ll be fine.
Billy was still thinking positive thoughts as he shuffled out of the elevator and into the press conference.
The city’s oldest practicing physician was turning ninety years old today, and there was an enormous civic celebration. Of course, thought Billy—Dr. Phillips’s old friend Dr. Hackett! Congratulations were in order, he thought as he spied the old doctor. Then, Billy quickly remembered himself. Thankfully, no one appeared to have seen him yet, and Billy prayed that he could step back into the elevator with the unconscious Dr. Feldman without being noticed.
Ping!
The elevator door closed behind him and pulled on the sheet. Feldman slumped forward onto the floor, his hand raised in mock salute to Billy’s ass.
The heads of all the guests and photographers turned towards him. The room fell absolutely silent.
Billy looked plaintively from face to face. Oh, he thought sadly, with his pants around his ankles, this is what could go wrong. He managed to speak: “Could someone please give me a hand?”
Some wag from the back shouted, “Looks like someone already did.”
The room exploded into laughter.
Two hours later, Billy left his favorite building in the city, its memory forever tainted. Stepping gingerly onto his bus, he noticed that many of the passengers were looking at him. He looked down in a panic, wondering what evidence of his misfortune remained.
A teenager sitting near the front said, “Hey, you’re the YouTube guy!”
“What?” Billy asked weakly.
The boy turned his iPad to show Billy. Someone had shot video of him as he emerged from the elevator, capturing every moment clearly in HD.
As he got off the bus and made his way home, Billy reflected with characteristic optimism that it could have been a lot worse. Dr. Feldman was being held overnight to check for symptoms of a concussion, but aside from that, he was expected to make a full recovery. At least no one had died. At least, not yet. Billy still needed to have the examination. He was fifty, after all, and had a family history.
Up ahead, under a lamppost, Billy spied Tommy One-Bird. Well, Billy said to himself, maybe this day will end on a good note after all.
“Hey, Tommy. I’ve had a bad day. Really, really bad. I could use some cheering up. Could I bother you for a John Wayne?” Billy gave One-Bird a twenty-dollar bill. Tommy’s eyes lit up. As his mouth opened, Billy was already smiling in anticipation.
One-Bird said to Billy: “Pilgrim Poo-tee-weet?”
'Twas Not Right Before Christmas
INSPIRED BY CLEMENT MOORE’S
“’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS”
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
When the space–time continuum suffered a tear.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
iPod Touch earbuds attached to their heads.
The wife in her jammies retired with tea
While I shoved all the gifts ’neath our fake Christmas tree.
I took a short rest from the holiday cheer,
Grabbed forty winks—woke up craving a beer.
I walked to the kitchen to fetch the cold brew,
And glanced at the clock: ’twas elev’n fifty-two.
In just a few minutes, ’twould be Christmas Day,
But the whole thing felt wrong, in a temporal way—
And not just wrong time, but wrong age and wrong place!
I broke out in a sweat—my heart started to race.
I didn’t belong here, of that I was certain.
I dashed to the window to peer through the curtain.
The new-fallen snow sparkled under the stars
My street seemed so different, with odd-looking cars.
I looked at our Bose gear, our flat-screen TV,
Our Blu-ray, our Xbox, PlayStation and Wii.
I knew all their names, all the functions they had,
Yet they all seemed so modern, newfangled—“Egad!”
I said it out loud, a most old-fashioned word,
And yet as I said it, it seemed not absurd.
In fact, it felt natural, at home on my lips
Like “Good golly!” “My heavens!” and “Oh fiddlesticks!”
Something was warped here, ev’n anachronistic:
I belonged to the past, and a life more simplistic!
With mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
My brain should be settled for a long winter’s nap.
Instead I was wondering what I should do
As a strange glowing light glided into my view.
The light shimmered shapelessly over the floor,
Floating in space, between me and the door.
The light dimmed a moment, and then I divined
The shape of a man! (Was I losing my mind?)
My mouth slowly opened but ere I could ask,
I heard, “I am the Ghost of All Christmases Past.”
I stood there quite stunned, knowing not what to say.
So the Ghost went on blithely since that was his way:
“I will show you your past, where you went wrong in life.
Consumed with your business, ending up with no wife.”
“I’m sure that sounds lovely,” said I cautiously,
�
�But there’s been a small error—I’m sure you’ll agree
When you learn my wife’s sleeping upstairs in our bed,
Which is where I should be, but I’m down here instead.”
The Ghost looked askance—“Calm down, Ebenezer!”—
Checked a note from his pocket. “Oh, bloody Caesar!
A mistake at Head Office! A grave oversight!
Can they possibly ever get anything right?
I’m not even in London—” as breath he did draw—
I said, “Nope, this is Canada, place called Moose Jaw.
It’s cold and remote, with a small population,
But downtown’s quite nice, since the ‘revitalization.’”
The Ghost smacked his forehead, then took out a map.
Had a look for some minutes, then muttered, “Oh, drat!
I’m not in the right classic nor epoch of time!
I’m stuck midst a wholly wrong holiday rhyme!
“This is highly unusual, confusing, a mess.
Not sure what to do…at a loss, I confess.
Perhaps we should fly to your past anyway?
Straighten things out? Well, what do you say?”
“You visit my past. I know it—it’s boring.
I’ll stay with my family to greet Christmas morning.”
This Ghost from the past sent my sense of time reeling.
No wonder I’m caught in this awful strange feeling.
Then out in the kitchen arose such a clatter
I quickly ran in to see what was the matter,
Not sure what I’d find there… A reindeer? A sleigh?
A baby surrounded by cows and some hay?
An old man lay sprawled amid bright pots and pans
Flailing this way and that with his feet and his hands.
He said, “Sorry for coming here out of the blue.
Not QUITE the Classics Page 11
