I remember regaining conciseness, but I refused to open my eyes. I wanted to savor the sounds and smells and the low murmuring of machines and people. I was guessing they were people. My right arm ached. I could tell it was wrapped in soft cloth, The air was perfumed with Lysol which, rather oddly, smelled pleasant.

After what I judged to be hours of sensory intake, I noticed a change in the room. In between the rhythmic medical beeps, I sensed someone breathing. The air shifted with a ripple of movement; the scrape of a chair leg sounded much too close. Since I had to open my eyes sometime, I decided it might as well be then.

When I re-entered the visual world, my sight wasn’t the slightest bit blurry. In fact, I could see with amazing clarity. The few colors there were in the hospital room stood out in sharp contrast to the stark white of the bed linens and the medical device to which I was hooked up.

“Hello Mr. Clark,” said a voice to my right, a pleasant voice, feminine, mature, a voice with authority.

I slowly turned my head and stared at the woman sitting at my bedside. She wore a long, dark blue skirt and a white blouse. She was adorned with no jewelry that I could see, unless you count the white nametag with black lettering which read “Carolyn Poole, M.D.” I guessed he age to be late fifties or early sixties. Pitch-black hair stabbed with a bolt of silver framed a face that reminded me of Carolyn Jones, the actress who played Lily Munster. Overall, Dr. Carolyn Poole was a very handsome woman.

“Hello Dr. Poole,” I said without the least bit of grogginess.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked.

“Like I’m in the hospital,” I answered. A hint of a smile cracked the corners of her lips.

“And so you are,” said Dr. Poole. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I’m fairly sure it has something to do with my attempt at skin sculpture,” I answered flatly, then added, “or maybe I had a heart attack or Romanian gypsies tried to forcibly tattoo me.” I tend to push the boundaries of politeness. “Are you a surgeon?” I asked. “Or are you a forearm specialist? A chiropractor?

That hint of a smile was there again. “No, actually, I’m a psychiatrist.”

“What kind of hospital am I in?” I asked. “A psycho-pharmacology funhouse? A state-funded meat locker?”

“Actually, you are in the Baptist Hospital,” said the good doctor.

“Does that mean I can’t dance here?”

That brought a full smile to Dr. Poole’s face. “Maybe we can arrange special permission once your wound is healed,” she laughed. “For now though, I’d like to talk about you and why you injured yourself.”

Weariness overtook me, and I closed my eyes. Minutes passed; I tried to void my mind.

“Mr. Clark” said Dr. Poole kindly, “I know it might not be at the top of your list of fun things to do, but when patients come in with self-inflicted wounds, they can’t be released without a psychiatric evaluation. It’s not just hospital policy, it’s a requirement of the state. So please, let’s just talk a bit.”

I relented. “Ok, where’s my wife?”

“I sent her home hours ago. She’d been here almost two days, mostly at your bedside. She was worn out and needed to rest.”

“I’ve been here two days! Damn, I was thinking I just spent the night. Is Abby alright?”

“Like I said, she is just worn out. I’m sure she will be fine after she gets some sleep.”

I closed my eyes again and let a thick, oily wave of guilt wash over me.

“What are you thinking Mr. Clark?”

“I’m thinking that I think too much or not enough. I’ve never found purchase on middle-thinking ground. I tend to over analyze or under estimate.”

“What were you think when you cut your arm the other day?”

I took my time before answering. “I was thinking that I was conducting a science experiment; I wasn’t thinking science would hurt so much. By the way, has anyone called my office?”

“I’m sure your wife took care of that.”

Yes, of course she would, I thought. I missed her.

“Anyway, Mr. Clark, let’s talk about your attempted ‘experiment.’”

I really didn’t want to get into that. I knew she wanted introspection on my part, but introspection had led me down a bloody, tile road. “I noticed that you are an M.D.” I stalled. “Does that mean whatever I tell you, you’ll prescribe psycho drugs or sedatives instead of trying to delve into my childhood and find out when I started to pee in a porcelain bowl?”

“No.”

“If I tell you what I think you would like to hear will my chances of staying out of the nut farm increase?”

“What do you think I’d like to hear, Mr. Clark?” Dr. Poole asked, psychiatrically avoiding my question.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m just strawing at grasps. I’m stalling for time. You know, I don’t really want to talk about my feelings, emotions, or motivations. In fact, I don’t even want to think.”

“Why is that?”

“Considering my motives involves a great deal of pain. Focusing on stuff I can’t do squat about is far easier. It allows me to create truth. Can I call you Carolyn?

Dr. Poole shifted in her chair. “If it makes you more comfortable, you may.”

“You can call me Marshall, or Marsh, if you want to.”

“Fine Marshall. Now, let’s quit the mental masturbation and get down to a real conversation.”

The weird smile returned to my face. I was beginning to like Carolyn. “Ok, Dr. Poole, what do you want to know?”

















Chapter 3

We began our conversation after I insisted on a few ground rules: she could ask questions if I could ask questions; I would try not to lie if she would try not to manipulate. I would not be given any drugs without my permission, but she could take drugs at any time. She agreed and we began.

“So Marshall, why did you carve up your left forearm?” Dr. Poole didn’t pussyfoot around. “Where you trying to commit suicide?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. If I had wanted to kill myself, I would have used leeches.”  My answer received a reproachful look.

“Have you been feeling depressed lately?”

“Yes, between bouts of melancholy, depression has paid me visits.”

“What do you feel when these ‘bouts of melancholy’ occur?”
 
“I feel selfish,” I said a little too defensively. “I feel I’m entitled to answers to questions I haven’t even asked. I feel guilty that I am sad about it.”

“Can you give me a little more detail,” asked Dr. Poole. “For instance, do you recall, specifically, what you were feeling right before you cut yourself?

“To the best of my recollection, and my recollection isn’t the best, I recall feeling angry about feeling depressed. I was tired of my brain battling my mind, and I was very pissed that I was not able to control my emotions. I was tired; I was worn out, and I wanted to get through a day without thinking that I’m going crazy. As I was standing there, looking out the kitchen window, I also thought the pool needed cleaning. Then, I stopped thinking.”

Dr. Poole pursed her lips for a moment, and then asked, “As I understand it, you’re a journalist. Isn’t being inquisitive part of your nature, or at least a requirement of your profession.”

I laughed. “The only thing I know about my ‘nature’ is that it is phucked up, if you’ll pardon my Cambodian. And, I was never a ‘journalist.’ ‘Journalist is a bullshit word that some writers call themselves when they want to try to impress people. I was just a guy who wrote about stuff for a newspaper. Now, I own a small company that makes commercials and industrial films about things I have no interest in. It seems all my inquisitiveness is directed inward now days. What about you, Carolyn, Is it your nature to heal people or to understand them?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” said Dr. Poole. Without pausing, she plowed ahead, “You mentioned your brain battling your mind. That speaks of conflict. Care to elaborate on what you were conflicted about?”

“I’ll have to think about that.” I deadpanned.

“Does the conflict have anything to do with your wife, Abby?” She wasn’t going to let it go.

“No!” I answered a little too quickly. “I didn’t say there was a conflict, you did. If I do have a conflict, it’s probably between good and evil, Abbot and Costello, the Bloods and the Crips, or paper versus plastic. Hell, Abby’s the only good thing I’ve got. There are times—and they been increasing—when I feel like a millstone around her neck, but she’s always been my life preserver. The only thing I truly regret about slicing myself is that I did it where she would find me. That’s not the kind of thing a person does to someone he loves.”

Obviously Carolyn read my agitation, so she changed tack. “Marshall, are you a religious man?”

“What?

“I asked if you were religious. Do you go to church or synagogue; do you have any spiritual…uh…beliefs?

Fucking shrinks. “Yeah, I do. I believe in spirits, mainly the distilled kind. Jesus…oops, sorry, what kind of question is that? Do you want to know if God told me to mine for corpuscles with a razor blade? Sorry to disappoint you, but the great mass murderer in the sky doesn’t talk to me…or anyone else for that matter. Do you believe in God?

After a brief pause, Dr. Poole said, “Yes, I suppose I do believe in a god.”

“A god? Which god would that be, the God of the bible, the god of lichen-encrusted waterfowl, or perhaps the god of pancreatic cancer?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” she smiled. Anyway, let’s move on. How’s your sex life?

Great, from God to sex; the two are usually tangled up somewhere along the Western mind. I contemplated her question for a moment then said, “Well, I like to smoke cigars and eat donuts with Sigmund Freud.” This elicited a laugh from Dr. Poole.

“You know what I mean,” she said with a chuckle.

“I love having sex. I love it even more when I’m not the only one participating. Abby and I have always enjoyed making the beast with two backs. The frequency of our…uh…coupling has slowed a bit, but I think that’s due to aging and the fact we are both very busy with our work. We’ve been thinking of having libido transplants from young, healthy, Swiss ski instructors.”

“You’re a bit of a smartass aren’t you Marshall?”

“Only when I’m trying not to be.”

At this point, a middle-aged nurse named Phil entered the room and informed me. “It’s time for your medicines.” Phil looked like a guy I see downtown harassing people for spare change.

“What kind of medicine?” I asked.

“The kind of medicine that will knock you on your ass,” said Phil. He didn’t ask me for change.

Being knocked on my ass appealed to me so I accepted Phil’s present. Before I drifted off, I asked Dr. Poole if I could borrow a piece of paper and a pen. “I have a question for you, and I want to write it down before I go to the cosmic Wally World.”

She handed me a small tablet and a pencil. I made an effort to concentrate as I wrote: “Am I a twenty-first century cliché?” I handed the implements back to the doctor and prepared for a short trip down a long road.

Just before I faded to black, I noticed a small figure in the doorway. At first, I thought it was a child, but I had no idea if it was a boy or girl. As Dr. Poole rose from her chair a started to leave, the figure moved away from the door. I could swear it was a dwarf.