Hell of a Thing, Sixteen Stories by Michael Botur

Author:Michael Botur
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Sager Group
Published: 2020-04-03T00:00:00+00:00

DOC BE DOWN

‘How often have you been bothered by feeling down, depressed, irritable, or hopeless over the last two weeks?’

Doc’s mouth smiles but his face still looks sad. He didn’t spend his whole life healing people to end up reading some boffin’s bullshit questions off a list prompted by his computer, fiddling with cup of tongue depressors all distracted.

‘I felt down, shiiit, I guess the day after I snorted all that molly. Can’t sell it if I can’t vouch for it. Comedown was epic, Doc, epic.’

‘I’d sure love to meet Molly some day.’

‘Doc, I know you’re a Straighto, but Molly is… it’s not a girl’s name, know what I’m sayin? It’s street. You ain’t heard of the streets, have you, Doc.’

Doctor Downes is nodding, but his mind’s not registering me. He’s reading off his computer screen like a robot. Just like those slaves at Probation. Totally hypnotized. Totally corporate, hoping to get to the next miserable poor person needing a flu jab before the computer system records some fuckin’ penalty.

‘Have you experienced diminished pleasure in doing things you ordinarily love over the last two weeks?’

‘I had minimal pleasure coming here, Doc. Hell, I popped in to get a fuckin’ haemorrhoid cut out, not to get my head shrunk.’

‘I’m required to… Please bear with me till the end of the questions, it’s a requirement of our funding. Have you had trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?’

‘The gear my Mex connex get me? Damn, nobody sleepin’ on that. Score me a ten outta ten. I’m in the clubs all night every night. No time for sleep, know what I’m sayin?’

‘Working men’s clubs, presumably?’

‘Doc, you a wack mother… Listen: club-clubs. Like itty bitty titties jigglin all about-clubs. Security, earpieces, champagne, DJs rippin’ beats… I guess you more of a tennis club cat.’

‘Badminton, actually.’ Doc has a file on his desk with a lawyer’s logo on it. He winces as he lifts the stack of legal papers away from his keyboard so he can peer at the screen closer. He’s wearing a yellow boat shirt with short sleeves, except he ain’t on no boat. No tan, no muscle, and the doc’s about as stylish as a bean with glasses glued on it. He’s in an office where everyone’s pissy and grumpy and bitches kick in his door to tell him off for taking too long with patients.

‘Now, have you experienced poor appetite, weight loss, or overeating in the last two weeks?’

‘Me, I eat garbage. That’s how come I got the haemorrhoid, like we were discussin before you started getting all Siegfried and Roy on me. I live offa bar snacks, know what I’m sayin? I eat at work.’

‘Sigmund Freud I believe is the name you’re… regardless: We’ll talk about your diet momentarily, plus your other… consumptions. Now: how often have you been bothered by feeling tired, or having little energy, let’s see here… Feeling like a failure… Christ. Really one ought to turn the questions one’s self… never mind.’

I give him a hard look, like What up? A look he knows he oughta respond to.

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