Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  "Do you see any comic books?"

  "Nope, no comic books. Do they have any snacks?" he said.

  "No, this isn't the grocery store or the Speedy-Stop."

  "I know that! They still might have snacks for kids."

  "No snacks. Just shots and Band-Aids." And with this, a serious look washed over his face, the blood draining out from his cheeks, leaving chalky, white skin where healthy-looking skin once was. He looked like he had seen a goddamn ghost, what, with his little mouth agape and his eyes wide with fear and his eyebrows perched high into his forehead. He was really cracking me up although, I'm sure, he was experiencing the beginnings of a panic attack.

  "Did you say shots? Am I going to get a shot?!" he said, grabbing my bicep and squeezing the shit out of it. He had a pretty firm grip for a third-grader, I imagined, although no other third-grader we knew had squeezed my bicep before. Good ol' Sammie Boy just seemed pretty strong to me for his age.

  "I don't know if you're going to get a shot today. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. It's up to Dr. Dimes."

  My response wasn't good enough for him. He released my arm then sprinted around the other side of the coffee table--more than an arm's length away from me, just out of my reach--defiantly standing in a tough-guy stance, his fists pressing into his hips. He glared at me then said, "You didn't say anything about getting shmots. I don't want a shmot."

  "But what if Dr. Dimes says you need one?"

  "Then I will tell her I don't want one." A genuine look of dread appeared on his face and I couldn't help but feel sorry for him, really sorry. My memories of visiting the doctor at his age and refusing the reality of receiving vaccinations from long, pointy needles was still very vivid in my mind. I knew exactly how he was feeling. It was really the worst thing imaginable for him--at this moment. I wanted to reason with him but I knew reasoning wouldn't do me any good. Sometimes, there's just no reasoning with a little kid. Kids can be very unreasonable little creatures. "Daddy, please. No shots!" he said, covering the top of his left arm with his right hand, as if it could shield his skin and muscle tissue from the penetrating, pointy needle.

  "Tell you what. If you have to get a shot, and I'm not saying you will, but if you do, then I'll take you to get a donut. How's that?"

  This proposition intrigued Sammie Boy. His ears pricked up and a slight smile appeared on his face, one side of his mouth upturned. His stiff stance loosened a bit too, then he said, "How many donuts can I get?"

  "How many?! How many do you want?"

  "Ummm... 12?" he said, his slight smile twisting into a bigger sly one.

  "12 donuts?!" I said, shocked. I mean, playfully shocked, not really shocked. Sammie giggled then sprinted back around the coffee table, leaping onto the couch. He hugged me and giggled some more.

  "Just kidding, Daddy. If I ate 12 donuts, I would get constipated real bad and I don't want to get con-stuh-pay-tid."

  "Smart boy," I said, shuffling through the shitty selection of magazines, looking for another rag to dismiss. "One donut will be fine for you. Maybe two."

  "Two!" he said, inconspicuously slipping his hands between the cushions of the couch (although I noticed) and sliding them along the seams. "I want two donuts."

  "What are you doing?" I said, watching him rifle his hands deeper, hoping to find something--anything long forgotten by an exotic and mysterious stranger.

  "I'm seeing if anyone left anything in the couch," he said, turning the corners of the cushion, his hand like a shark steadily stalking an unsuspecting fish. After rounding another cushion corner, his hand stopped, as if it encountered something completely unexpected. "I feel something," he said, then pulled out his secret plunder: a Buck Knife. He looked at it with total disbelief, an illegal-looking weapon in his little, innocent hand. I couldn't believe it either. I snatched it from him as quick as I could.

  "Oh no, you can't have that," I said, then examined the knife. It was a hunting knife, the folding kind, with a thick, wooden handle and brass fittings, and a notch in the top of the blade to insert a thumbnail to unsheathe it, which I did. The blade was about four inches long, silvery and shiny and obviously very sharp. It snapped solidly into place after unfolding it, straight and long and rigid and dangerous. Sammie was amazed.

  "Whoa! It's huge! Can I have it?" he said.

  "No," I said. "You cannot." The knife was quite heavy and sturdy, solid and well-made. It had a dangerous heft to it just like any other weapon--a pistol, a rifle, a sword, a battle ax--and I knew without a doubt that whoever was the owner of this knife would have stabbed someone or something with it, if needed for protection. Why else carry a knife like this in his pocket to a pediatrician's office if he wasn't prepared to stick someone with it? Did he intend to stab someone here with it, like Dr. Dimes? Maybe he was a jealous ex-boyfriend seeking revenge for a broken heart from a tramp like Dr. Dimes. Or maybe he just used it to open mail and it slipped out of his pocket while waiting for his daughter to finish her annual check-up and get her required vaccinations for elementary school. It was a real goddamn mystery. It's true.

  "And why can't I have it? I found it. Finders keepers, losers weepers!" Sammie said, defiant again. But I wasn't letting my third-grader take home some random, gigantic, hunting knife that he found between the seat cushions at his pediatrician's office. That would be a poor parenting decision on my part, if I ever heard of one. Right? You know I'm right.

  "I know you're proud of your discovery but it's not appropriate for someone your age."

  "And why not? I'll be careful with it."

  "No."

  "Please?"

  "No."

  "Please?!" he said, raising his voice a few octaves higher, the tail end of the word squeaking out.

  "No!" I said, raising my voice, too.

  "Then can I have a budgerigar instead? I'd rather have a budgie than a knife anyway. Please!"

  "What the..." I said, confused at his change of heart and his off-the-cuff negotiating style. I closed the knife and wedged it between my thighs, where it could do no harm.

  "So, that's a yes?" he said.

  "Now, wait a minute!"

  While negotiating with my son between taking home a dangerous weapon or owning a parakeet, a woman's head appeared in a door on the other side of the waiting room. It was a familiar face, pale skin with rosy cheeks, small eyes under thick, black eyebrows, and a full head of jet-black, curly hair: Dr. Dimes. Her shiny, bright-white teeth sparkled through her forced, professional smile, her lips lacquered with bright, red lipstick.

  "Good morning!" she said. "How are you doing, Sammie?"

  Her voice startled good ol' Sammie Boy. He dropped his hands behind his back, as if he was guilty of something and was caught unexpectedly, and turned to her. I think the idea of receiving a shot was still fresh in his mind and I could see it on his face: the fear. He looked petrified, as if he was witnessing all the kid atrocities in all of kid history right there in front of him. Poor kid. He was paralyzed with fear.

  "Good morning, Dr. Dimes. Are you going to give me a shot?"

  "That's a good question. I don't think so but I have to look at your shot record to be sure. Want to come back with me?"

  "Can my Daddy come with me?" he said, turning to me with that pained, little face of his, the fear and anxiety on full display now. He was really playing it up, too, like a real charity case.

  "Sure, he can. Let's do this!"

  Sammie reluctantly followed her and when I began to stand up, I felt the Buck knife slide down between my legs, handle-first. I was pretty lucky that it wasn't laying in my lap, blade-first. I imagined it sliding down my legs and dropping to the top of my right foot, stabbing through my shoe and into my delicate foot. It was a horrible daydream consisting of a lot of blood and limping and sliced footwear. I quickly folded the knife and slid it into my pocket before Dr. Dimes could see it.

  We followed her down a hallway with laminate flooring (the kind that looks like wood) and white walls covered
with photographs of all the children that were her patients, thousands of boys and girls ranging from new born infants to kids that looked a couple of years older than Sammie, the photos freezing their cute little faces in time--a time when they were young and innocent and compliant with their doctor's orders. I was hoping to see a photo of Sammie when he was much younger but I didn't see one, too many to sort through as we walked. Dr. Dimes 5-inch, patent red, stiletto heels clicked and clacked on the laminate floor and were very much out of place at a doctor's office. They were what some people affectionately call "Fuck Me Pumps." And when I mean some people, I am referring to hookers or strippers or floozies, not medical professionals. Her pencil skirt was a vanity-size too small, hugging her chunky ass and thighs like a pork sausage casing stuffed with too much seasoned filling. Her white blouse--the top two buttons undone, exposing her jiggly and veiny, large breasts--struggled to stay buttoned by a lone button, precariously hooked in the button hole by its teetering edge. If she breathed in too much or laughed too hard, then I could see that button launching across the hall like a heat-seeking missile. Lucky for me and my poor eyes, I was glad that struggling button held its ground. The last thing I needed to see was my kid's pediatrician's exposed boobs. It's true.

  Dr. Dimes glanced over her shoulder at good ol' Sammie Boy and said, "What grade are you in now?"

  "The third grade!" he said proudly, the fear of a shot replaced with pride and joy.

  "The third grade?! My, how time flies, doesn't it?" she said. I assumed she was talking to me since kids don't really have any perception of time flying anywhere. Kids are always in the present. All they think about is shit like being hungry or boredom or exhaustion or happiness or sadness. The contemplation of time and their place in it is reserved for much later in life, particularly after having their own children. That's when time seems to be sliding into oblivion faster than you can imagine. "I remember when you were much younger, in diapers no-less. Don't you, Mr. Burchwood?"

  "Yep, seems like yesterday," I said. And it did just seem like yesterday that my boy was crapping his pants and slamming his face in a plate of pureed green beans and creamed corn and Cheerios and goo goo and ga ga'ing all over the place. Where did all that time go? Flushed down the toilet of history, that's where.

  "Come over here so I can weigh you," she said to Sammie. She motioned toward a scale and he stood on it. She asked him to take his shoes off and he did, tossing them to me one-by-one in a frenzied manner. Standing on that scale--bright diamonds of canary yellow and baby blue on his cherry red argyle socks peeking out from underneath his Levi's--it seemed like the most exciting thing to happen to him since he found the Buck knife. He stood there at attention like a foot soldier, proud that he followed orders and was dressed to impress. One of his socks had a hole at the tip, his big toe protruding out. "Wow! Seventy-five pounds. What have you been eating? Rocks?"

  "Why would I eat rocks?" said Sammie, confused.

  "Oh, I don't know. To make you heavier than last time?"

  "Daddy said he'd buy me twelve donuts after my doctor appointment!" he said, beaming at me.

  Dr. Dimes followed with a disapproving look, shaking her head as she scribbled some notes on her clipboard, no doubt writing what a horrible father I was, then said, "Oh, did he? He said twelve?"

  "Yes! Twelve! And I'm gonna eat them all!"

  "Maybe one donut, if any at all. Do you know what the saturated fats in donuts will do to your arteries when you get to be my age?" she said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and leading him through the hallway.

  "Sa-chur-ay-ted what?" he said, looking at her as if she was wiser than all get-out and she was revealing the mysteries of the universe to him. Since when do doctors play dirty against parents? Since the beginning of time, that's when. It's true.

  We walked through a winding hallway that transformed from a children's photo gallery to ergonomic work stations built into the walls for nurses and office assistants and drug representatives and whoever else was on-staff. Several women were sitting around, what, trying to look busy shuffling papers and writing stuff down and organizing more papers and shuffling mail and adjusting their chairs, but I knew they weren't doing shit. I knew all the tricks to looking busy. I could tell when people were acting busy rather than being busy because I was a pro at acting busy. It really wasn't too hard to look or act busy. Managers are easy to fool. You know? Of course, you do. But these people couldn't fool me. I knew they were just waiting for me and Dr. Dimes to pass so they could go back to their computer games of Solitaire or paperback romance novels or mobile phone apps or newspaper crossword puzzles or knitting or scrapbooking or whatever they were really doing. But one thing I knew for certain: they weren't doing shit. I knew this for certain.

  Once we passed all the slackers, we followed Dr. Dimes to the examination room. Inside, there was a small desk attached to the wall (a stool in front and a chair to the side), an examination table, a small sink with a mirror above it, and a trash can for medical waste. Butterflies were painted on the walls by someone who wasn't very good at painting. I mean, I could tell they were supposed to be butterflies but they looked more like flying insects that had been placed in a microwave for ten seconds--not long enough to kill them but long enough to slightly melt and disfigure them. They looked sad and tired as they sagged above some droopy sunflowers, also looking slightly melted. It was a sad depiction for a sad place for kids. I imagined the pastoral scene was supposed to calm the kids from the terror they were experiencing: half-cooked butterflies freefalling over half-cooked sunflowers. Lame.

  "Sit up here," Dr. Dimes said to Sammie, patting the examination table covered with white paper, then sitting at a desk in the corner of the room. The white paper crackled as Sammie wiggled his butt, trying to get comfortable. I plopped into a chair next to the desk. She typed something quickly on the computer then turned her stool to face my boy, crossing her legs and interlacing her fingers around her knees, locking her legs in such a way as to keep her skin-tight pencil skirt from exploding, then she said, "How have you been?"

  "Good," Sammie said, smiling suspiciously. "I feel good." His eyes darted back and forth between Dr. Dimes and me.

  "Have you been eating a lot of fruits and vegetables?" she said. She typed slowly as she spoke, like a court reporter or stenographer.

  "Yes. Tons of them!" Sammie said. He lied. He knew it and I knew it but I didn't say anything, though. I wasn't going to rat him out, not just yet. Dr. Dimes' long fingernails clickity-clacked on the computer keyboard.

  "Good! Do you go outside and play every day?"

  "Yes. All the time."

  "Do you get lots of sleep at night? Do you go to bed at a reasonable hour?"

  "What's ree-soh-nay-bull?" Sammie said, scratching his head.

  "Do you go to bed early or stay up late?"

  "I go to bed when my daddy tells me to."

  Dr. Dimes turned to look at me and said, "And what time is that, Dad?" She continued to type as she interrogated us.

  "Nine o'clock."

  "Oh," she said, typing something. "That's a good bedtime but eight o'clock would be better, if at all possible."

  "Sure," I said, knowing full-well that eight o'clock was completely out of the question. At my place with two rambunctious kids, that was practically impossible for me. Even just trying to get them to bed at that time would be a ritual in futility but I wasn't about to be disagreeable. "We'll give it a shot."

  "Lots of rest and a well-balanced diet are the most important things you should do for your child," she said, unlatching her fingers to shift her legs. Her gargantuan breasts, covered with a faded green and blue roadmap of veins and capillaries, wanted desperately to escape her blouse but the single button holding it together was doing a masterful job of keeping them imprisoned. The fashion designer of this heroic blouse would be impressed with the shirt's unintended ability to keep the doctor's semi-professional look intact. I thought for sure her tits were going to fly out
but they didn't, thank goodness. That would have been really embarrassing for her. And me. It's true. "That should be your priority, Mr. Burchwood."

  "My kids are my priority," I said before she stood up, ignoring my answer. She approached the examining table.

  "Let's see how you're doing," she said to Sammie, checking his eyes, then ears, then throat with one of those all-in-one doctor thingamajiggies: an otoscope. Good ol' Sammie Boy complied with everything she asked him to do, like a good boy, as she looked at his eyes and the various orifices in his head, sticking his pink tongue out or tilting his head when commanded. "Now lift your shirt so I can listen to your breathing."

  He lifted the front of his striped t-shirt and exposed his skinny torso--all bones and pasty skin and very little fat. Under the fluorescent lights, his midsection looked like that of a concentration camp victim. She placed the plastic and metal chest piece of the stethoscope around her next to his skin and he squealed and giggled and squirmed then said, "That's cold! It tickles!"

  "I'm sure it does. Now, try not to make a peep so I can hear your breathing and your heart beat."

  "OK," he said, struggling to contain his outbursts. He really tried his best to not laugh or squeal but I could see it was really hard for him as she touched various places on his chest and ribs and back. Almost as hard as it was for the button on Dr. Dimes blouse to keep it together. That was pretty goddamn hard. Good ol' Sammie Boy was pretty ticklish, though. I knew this for a fact. I was proud that he kept his composure as long as he did. She then raised his arms by the wrists and looked over his skin for what I assume would be weird moles or marks or sores or whatever. Finally, she tapped his knee with one of those rubber hammer-looking things and his leg involuntarily knee-jerked to life. "Ow! That hurt!"

  "I'm certain it didn't hurt but I know it feels weird. It felt weird, didn't it?"

  "Yes," he said, sheepishly. I think he was embarrassed when he realized that his body could do things without his brain telling it to. I remember having the same realization when I was close to his age. It's a really mind-blowing thing to learn for a kid, how strange and wondrous our bodies are.