An uplifting short story to start your week

You can find this short story in the Literary Town Hall collection, conveniently listed over there on the right.

As the saying goes, never apologize and never explain.  But this short story is eight years old and I have to admit that there are parts of it that don't really hold up.  Then again, there are parts of it that, I think, hold up extremely well.

As you will probably be able to guess when you read this, much of it is based on real life events.

Also, I think there might be some swearing in there, not to mention a few disturbing metaphors.  This is probably a PG-13 story.


Gateway DrugByKyle Garret
            Iam a guided missile without the guidance.I've never been tothis doctor before.  The only thing Iknow about him is that he accepts my insurance and that his office is less thanten miles from my apartment. Unfortunately, each of those miles is shadier than the next.  By the time I get there, I'm beginning to questionthe validity of my new doctor's qualifications, not to mention the quality ofmy insurance company.            Hisoffice is in an old brown building.  There'sno sign on it anywhere that would indicate a doctor resides there, at leastnone that I can see from my car. Mathematical deduction is the only reason I even find the place; thishas to be his office because the building after his has an address that is twonumbers higher.            Ipark and get out of my car, making sure to hit the "lock" button on my carkeys.  I hear the car honk and I'msuddenly very thankful for technology. Then again, I'll draw little comfort that my car is safe if I'm beatento death inside this building.            Andthen I see the sign.  The sign is apiece of notebook paper with "Dr. Daley" written on it in blue pen.  It is taped to the front door of what I'massuming is his office.  If my wristsweren't actually throbbing as I stood there, I would have turned around.  But beggars can't be choosers and apparentlyI've turned into a beggar.  I supposeevery girl I've ever slept with would attest to that.            WhenI enter I immediately notice two things: two attractive young women who appearto be medical assistants and a framed picture of who I am assuming is Dr.Daley.  The assistants are nice to see;the picture is less so.  The photo is a pastellooking shot of a middle aged man in a shirt, tie, and cardigan sweater.  He's wearing those black, horn rimmed glasses– the kind they used to wear in the 50's and 60's.  And in the picture he appears to be aboutfifty years old.  Those pesky math skillsquickly alert me to the fact that this man could be over a hundred.            "Areyou here to see Dr. Daley?" says one of the assistants, no doubt picking up onmy look of complete bewilderment.              "Uh,yeah, I have an appointment," I say.            "Okay,just sign in for us here," she says as she points to the sign-in sheet with onehand and grabs a clipboard with the other, "and fill this out for us.  You can sit over there."  She points towards the opposite side of theroom.            SuddenlyI notice that there are, in fact, chairs in this room.  I hadn't noticed them before because there's no one sitting in them.  I'm the only patient.            Iput my name on the sign-in sheet and sit down, wondering how long I couldpossibly have to wait since I'm apparently the only one here.  In fact, the medical staff outnumbers thepatients in this scenario, something that really can't be good forbusiness.  Then again, maybe Dr. Daleygets a lot of wealthy divorcees who have been coming to him for decades.  Judging by the neighborhood, I tend to doubtit.            Ifill out all the paperwork that's required of me and hand it back to theassistant.  She smiles and thanks me andgoes back to talking to the other assistant. I'm beginning to wonder how many assistants this guy could possibly needconsidering his average number of patients.The door to what Iassume is the examination room opens and all of my questions are answered.            Slowly– oh, so slowly – walks out Dr. Daley. If he's a day under one-hundred and fifty I'd be surprised and it dawnson me that perhaps he's some kind of medical miracle in his own right, andthat's why he's still practicing: healing magic through osmosis.            Hedoesn't see me as he heads towards the main desk.  One assistant scurries up to him with afolder containing all of my information as the other one heads back into theexam room.  Maybe the assistants willactually examine me.  Maybe Dr. Daley isjust here to put his stamp of approval on the HMO forms.            Theassistant with Dr. Daley points in my direction and he turns to face me.  He smiles and begins to lumber in my generaldirection, much like a mummy or a zombie who's just noticed how so very tastymy brains are.  I have to resist the urgeto scan the room for something to decapitate him with.            "I'mDr. Daley," he says in that old man voice, and you know exactly what I'mtalking about.  He holds out a quiveringhand to me, undead body language for wanting to shake.  I grab his hand as weakly as possible and wedo a quick up/down motion before I let go. Depending upon which movie this is and whether or not he's a mummy or azombie, he could suck my life force away with just a touch, so it's best not totake any chances.            Hesticks his hand out as if to indicate that he'd like me to head in the directionof the exam room, as if he wants me to go in ahead of him.  My ADD and entire lack of manners would havemade this happen, anyway, as there's no way in hell I could have handledwalking behind him at half an inch per minute. So I eagerly walk past, fully aware that this could be the part where Ifall into the secret undead death trap.            Everythinghappens in slow motion.  Dr. Daley asksme my symptoms, I tell him.  He gives mewhat most folks would call "practical advice," in this case holding my armsunder cold water for forty-five minutes every night.  This is all well and good and within thebounds of what I was expecting.  I waitfor him to prescribe me some industrial strength painkillers.And then ithappens.            "Jarred,"says Dr. Daley as his assistant suddenly appears standing beside me, "with yourpermission we'd like to include you in our prayers."            Okay,so that's a little unorthodox (or very, depending upon your definition of theword), but I figure that's fine.  If thiselderly man wants to say a little something to god for me tonight before hegoes to bed, then so be it.  I imagine Icould use all the help I can get.            Butno.            "Sure,"I say.            Andno sooner is the word out of my mouth than do he and his assistant each grabone of my hands while simultaneously grabbing each other's hand – in essenceforming a circle of three.  They thenproceed to put their heads down and close their eyes.            Thereis no praying for Jarred tonight.  Therewill be praying for Jarred right the hell now.            "OurLord Jesus, through whom all things are possible," he says and my head isalmost as not down as my eyes are not closed. It's like I'm in another world, a crazy world where insurance companiesdirect you to faith healers.            "Pleasehelp our brother Jarred, who in these trying times needs your guidance."            There'san implication in there somewhere.  Iknow there is.            "Ifyou could ease his pain, Lord, make his wrists feel better."            Ionce saw a stripper put her legs behind her head while felating acucumber.  I'm more stunned now than Iwas then.            "Weare your humble servants, Lord.  InJesus' name we pray."            I'mtrying not to laugh.  I'm trying withevery ounce of strength that I have and I am not a strong man, physically ormentally.  And I feel like a total shitfor finding any of this funny at all.            There'sthirty second of silence and they both open their eyes and look up at me.  "Amen," he says.            "Amen,"I say.  I'm going to hell now.            Igive Dr. Daley and his assistants the most sincere sounding "thank you's" I canmuster and make my way for the door.  Itry not to look like I'm fleeing, although I do look back to make sure they'renot following me.  When I get outsidemy car is still there.  I pull my pack ofCamel Wide Lights out of my pocket.  Ilight up.  I had assumed I'd be going tothe pharmacy after this, that I would then go home and vegetate on federallyregulated opiates.  Instead I'm left withJesus.I'm a littleworried; I've heard he's a gateway drug.