The Doppler Affect: A Free Side Story
(unedited and not in the book...but could be)
Excerpts from the diary of Dr. Melvin Meneike
July 14th, 2006 – Today was the beginning of my career, and I’m wide awake in spite of putting in an eighteen-hour day. I want to attribute this wretched insomnia to the excitement of starting my practice after more than a decade of additional schooling. I want to, but can’t. For I know it’s really because of the odd ramblings of my first patient. I wasn’t even supposed to have a patient today, as I was still rearranging my freshly-painted office. In fact, I was in the process of hanging my credentials on the wall when the rapid knocking on the lobby door started. There was no pause by the visitor’s hand, from the moment I sat down the hammer until I unbolted the latch of the lobby’s glass door.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not open until Monday,” I said to the beefy man.
His eyes darted around the office before honing in on a framed copy of my psychology degree from UC Irvine. The tension in his face started to melt as he walked over to the empty receptionist desk. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a handful of crinkled bills.
“Won’t take much of your time, but I need to tell someone. Tell someone who is sworn not to reveal what I say, in case I’m crazy. Here’s two hundred bucks, or so.” He dropped it on the edge of the table, with most of it skidding off and floating to the Berber carpet.
He didn’t look at me as he scurried over to one of the newly-upholstered lobby chairs and plopped down. The slumped shoulders let me know the man was distraught. My need to help overrode my agenda for the day.
“Why don’t we go into my room and talk?” I asked as I pointed to the hallway door.
He ignored my words.
“I just got back from the morgue. I saw David there.” His looked curiously at his index finger. He turned the finger around as he rubbed it with his thumb. His voice went distant as he thought about something else while recalling the event. “Well, it was just his head. Disgustingly swollen from the river they found it in. But it was him. Couldn’t miss the unicorn tattoo behind his ear.”
My training kicked in, pushing me to sit down next to him and provide soothing words. “It’s hard when we lose someone, but you came to the right place. Are you sure you don’t want to go into my office? I have a brand new couch in there.”
“Lose someone? I don’t give a *&it about David. He was an $%$hole.”
The man began to pick at the front of his finger.
I clearly had made a bad assumption, and decided that keeping quiet was my best option.
“The coroner said his body had been in the river for more than a week.” The man looked up, and drove his bloodshot eyes straight through the back of my head. “I had dinner with him last night.”
Years of coursework and hundreds of hours of situational training rapidly transformed into a pile of rotting vegetables. In reality, what I thought was my beautifully-crafted garden is really a compost heap. I opened my mouth, closed it and opened it again with nothing but stagnant air rushing out.
“Know it was him, I did. Although he seemed a little strange. Maybe an imposter?”
The words didn’t flow. They were jumbled, but he was still doing better than me. He looked back at his finger, bringing it close enough to his eye that I feared he would stab himself. I went to reach for his hand, but he jumped up with such speed that I recoiled, smacking my head against the wall.
“Fingerprints! That’s it. Thanks, Doc. Hopefully I’ll be back next week,” he remarked as he charged out of the door and disappeared around the corner.
I believe my first patient is suffering from stress-induced bipolar disorder. I’m torn as to whether I want him to come back, and it’s keeping me from sleeping. Or maybe it’s the throbbing bump on the back of my head.
Excerpts from the diary of Dr. Melvin Meneike
July 14th, 2006 – Today was the beginning of my career, and I’m wide awake in spite of putting in an eighteen-hour day. I want to attribute this wretched insomnia to the excitement of starting my practice after more than a decade of additional schooling. I want to, but can’t. For I know it’s really because of the odd ramblings of my first patient. I wasn’t even supposed to have a patient today, as I was still rearranging my freshly-painted office. In fact, I was in the process of hanging my credentials on the wall when the rapid knocking on the lobby door started. There was no pause by the visitor’s hand, from the moment I sat down the hammer until I unbolted the latch of the lobby’s glass door.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not open until Monday,” I said to the beefy man.
His eyes darted around the office before honing in on a framed copy of my psychology degree from UC Irvine. The tension in his face started to melt as he walked over to the empty receptionist desk. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a handful of crinkled bills.
“Won’t take much of your time, but I need to tell someone. Tell someone who is sworn not to reveal what I say, in case I’m crazy. Here’s two hundred bucks, or so.” He dropped it on the edge of the table, with most of it skidding off and floating to the Berber carpet.
He didn’t look at me as he scurried over to one of the newly-upholstered lobby chairs and plopped down. The slumped shoulders let me know the man was distraught. My need to help overrode my agenda for the day.
“Why don’t we go into my room and talk?” I asked as I pointed to the hallway door.
He ignored my words.
“I just got back from the morgue. I saw David there.” His looked curiously at his index finger. He turned the finger around as he rubbed it with his thumb. His voice went distant as he thought about something else while recalling the event. “Well, it was just his head. Disgustingly swollen from the river they found it in. But it was him. Couldn’t miss the unicorn tattoo behind his ear.”
My training kicked in, pushing me to sit down next to him and provide soothing words. “It’s hard when we lose someone, but you came to the right place. Are you sure you don’t want to go into my office? I have a brand new couch in there.”
“Lose someone? I don’t give a *&it about David. He was an $%$hole.”
The man began to pick at the front of his finger.
I clearly had made a bad assumption, and decided that keeping quiet was my best option.
“The coroner said his body had been in the river for more than a week.” The man looked up, and drove his bloodshot eyes straight through the back of my head. “I had dinner with him last night.”
Years of coursework and hundreds of hours of situational training rapidly transformed into a pile of rotting vegetables. In reality, what I thought was my beautifully-crafted garden is really a compost heap. I opened my mouth, closed it and opened it again with nothing but stagnant air rushing out.
“Know it was him, I did. Although he seemed a little strange. Maybe an imposter?”
The words didn’t flow. They were jumbled, but he was still doing better than me. He looked back at his finger, bringing it close enough to his eye that I feared he would stab himself. I went to reach for his hand, but he jumped up with such speed that I recoiled, smacking my head against the wall.
“Fingerprints! That’s it. Thanks, Doc. Hopefully I’ll be back next week,” he remarked as he charged out of the door and disappeared around the corner.
I believe my first patient is suffering from stress-induced bipolar disorder. I’m torn as to whether I want him to come back, and it’s keeping me from sleeping. Or maybe it’s the throbbing bump on the back of my head.
No comments have been added yet.
