What Hides Within (9 page)

"Have a seat," the woman said. "The doctor will be in to see you shortly." She exited the room, closing the door behind her.

"Have a seat where, exactly?" Clive studied the room. His sole option was that dubious, paper-covered exam table that could be scaled with ease only by an Olympic high jumper. Combining its lack of back support and all-around discomfort, the chair-bed-table thing lacked any redeeming qualities. He wondered if they changed the paper on it after each person visited. He imagined he could detect the scent of the sick, bare, diarrhea-spraying ass that had sat on it before his unlucky arrival, permeating off the paper like an ungodly potpourri. Clive decided to stand.

"At least I don't have to wear one of those awful gowns," Clive thought aloud. Walking around with his cartooned boxers sticking out for public scrutiny had no appeal. He already regretted losing his fifteen dollar co-pay to this miserable experience, considering it an unfortunate but necessary evil.

A knock came at the door, and Clive was pleased to think that his wait was over. His hopes were quickly crushed. It was the nurse-secretary returning, not the doctor, opening the door without waiting for a response.

"I almost forgot," she said, handing Clive a folded blue cloth. "Put this on." She disappeared as abruptly as she had arrived, leaving a disgruntled Clive standing speechless with hospital gown in arms.

You've got to be kidding me. He's an ear, nose and throat doctor. Why do I need to take any clothes off? It's not like I came in wearing a ski mask to foil my own examination. Maybe I should take off all my clothes and wrap them around my head. That'll teach him not to make me where this stupid thing.

Clive looked at the flimsy gown, weightless and exposing. With sadness, he concluded that fighting the system would get him nowhere. He reluctantly undressed.

Another hour passed, which he partly spent defiantly wiping his naked backside all over the sheet of paper covering the exam table, before he heard a second knock at the door.
This had better be the doctor
, he thought. He hopped off the table, placing his sockless feet on the cold and not-quite-sterile floor.

"Good morning, Mr. Menard," a tall, shrewd-looking man greeted. His thin-rimmed spectacles clung by a few skin cells to the edge of his nose. His hair was black and oily, slicked into a part from right to left, poorly covering signs of his oncoming baldness. His long, white lab coat and air of superiority told Clive all he needed to know.

"I'm Dr. Allen."

Are you sure it's still morning?
Clive kept his sarcasm to himself. He extended his hand in salutation. "Clive. Nice to meet you."

"What can we do for you today, Clive?"

"We? Am I seeing someone else, too?"

"No, I just meant it in the . . . never mind. Nope, you're stuck with me."

That should be enough chitchat
, Clive guessed. He wanted to get to the business at hand. "Well, I've been having this problem with my ear--"

Dr. Allen chuckled, interrupting Clive with curious amusement. "It says here that you're allergic to honey." Dr. Allen perused Clive's paperwork. It quickly became evident that he was paying Clive no attention. "That's too funny."

"Why? Is that a problem?"

"Hmm? Uh, no, not at all. My sister is allergic to honey. Maybe you know her. She's about your age."

Why should I know her? Because she and I are both allergic to honey? What a strange man. What's this guy think? That all people who are allergic to honey gather like bees . . . bad analogy . . . like whatever else that gathers into one big social network?

He hung his head to hide his disgust.
What a fucknut. I wonder if it's too late to see Richard Gere.

Again, Clive was polite enough to keep his thoughts to himself. "Maybe," he said, humoring Dr. Allen. "What's her name?"

"It's Margaret Bayliss now, but it used to be Margaret Allen."

Holy shit! I did know a Margaret Allen
. "Did she go to Durfee High about thirteen years ago? Distance runner for the track team?"

"That's the one."

"Well, tell her Clive Menard says, 'Hi,' would you?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that. She passed away a few years back. I just like to talk about her as though she's still with us. Makes me feel better, you know?"

Is everyone in this office a cocksucker?
"I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask how it happened?"

"Certainly."

Clive and Dr. Allen shared expressions of expectancy. After a few seconds of silence, Clive realized he actually had to ask how it happened.

"How did it happen?"

"Allergic reaction to honey."

Dr. Allen flipped through his chart, seemingly unaware of his own inanity. Clive hadn't seen a doctor in years, so his chart was probably no more than a few blank pages strewn together behind an intake form. A confirming glance later, and Clive wanted to take a swing at the empty-headed physician.

After a few moments of perusing absolutely nothing, Dr. Allen returned his attention to Clive. "Let's have a look in that mouth, shall we?"

Here we go with this "we" thing again.
But Clive had bigger problems to tackle than Dr. Allen's grammar. He put it out of his mind.

"My problem is with my ear."

"Mr. Menard, may I remind you that I'm the doctor here."

Dr. Allen removed a pencil from his upper coat pocket. The end of it appeared chewed, and the eraser had somehow mutated from pink to black.

"Now, open wide."

Clive cringed as he accepted the pencil into his mouth. When Dr. Allen elevated to peek down his throat, Clive noticed the Popsicle stick that resided snug beside the pencil's former resting place. He realized too late that the doctor had grabbed the wrong instrument.

Fucking nasty!
Clive shrugged it off as best he could.
Well, I'm sure this guy must have a reason for checking my mouth. He wouldn't do it just to save face because I called him out for forgetting which body part I'm here for, would he?

After a cursory look, Dr. Allen was done. "Looks good," he said, withdrawing the pencil. "Now, which ear was that again?"

Asshole.
"My right ear."

"And what kind of problem have you been having?"

Asshole.
"It's been clogged for almost a week. I thought it was water at first, but now I'm not so sure."

"It could be a pebble."

"Do you think that's what it is?"

"No."

Asshole.

"Well, no sense in speculating. Let's see what's in there."

Dr. Allen withdrew an otoscope from what appeared to have been the front of his pants but what Clive hoped had been one of his pockets. He flipped a switch on its handle, activating a small light, and plunged its cold, cone-shaped nozzle into Clive's right ear.

"That's disgusting."

"What?" Clive's heart went from zero to sixty faster than a Lamborghini. "What is it?"

"Wait a minute."

Dr. Allen removed the otoscope from Clive's ear. Clive watched as he examined the earpiece. A large amount of white lint covered its tip, speckled with black crud. One of the speckles had legs, six of them, none of which were moving. It appeared to be a gnat.

"Sorry. I forgot to clean it first."

Asshole. You put a dirty tool in my ear. If I didn't have an infection before coming here, I will by the time I leave.
It was taking all Clive had to hold in his discontent.
Where did this guy get his M.D.? The same place Dr. Phil got his?

Clive's confidence in Dr. Allen hadn't been high since the doctor first opened his mouth, but it was now plunging faster than the Bush-era real estate market.
Why do I have the feeling I may need a second opinion?

Dr. Allen again proceeded to examine Clive's right ear. "Uh-huh," he mumbled, removing the otoscope to jot some notes on his chart. "Uh-huh," he repeated, looking into Clive's left ear.

"Mr. Menard," Dr. Allen began, his tone grave, "I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?"

Clive let out a deep breath. "Give me the bad news."

Dr. Allen smiled. "The bad news is the Yankees aren't going to win their division this year. The good news is there's nothing wrong with your ears."

Asshole. Asshole. ASSHOLE!
Clive was not amused.
He's probably told that joke to hundreds before me.
Dr. Allen, on the other hand, seemed to find himself utterly hilarious.

"That one gets them every time. I must have told it to hundreds before you." He giggled like a teenage girl several moments before regaining his composure.

"But seriously," he continued, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Why are you here? Your ears appear to be in perfect working order. No redness, no inflammation, no nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"This is what I do, Clive."

Clive couldn't find satisfaction in Dr. Allen's response. He required a more thorough examination to ease his mind. He decided that there was no tactful way to request it.

"Could you check up my nose? I had a problem with that, too."

Dr. Allen took the otoscope and shoved it up Clive's right nostril. He continued to Clive's left nostril, never cleaning the tool before, between nostrils or afterward.

"Nothing in there but snot and nose hair. You should trim those. There's nothing unhealthy about it, but it looks unsightly."

Clive was fairly certain that Dr. Allen was supposed to use a different device on his nose than the one he used for his ears. He couldn't figure out how Dr. Allen could angle his head to see through it. But he didn't question it, more or less happy for his clean bill of health, but suddenly self-conscious about his nose hair. Still, he had to make sure his health was as good as Dr. Allen claimed it to be.

"Doctor," Clive started to say, unsure if he wanted to confide in the erratic individual before him. "This may sound weird, but could something be living in there?"

"In where? Your ear? Yes, it's possible. Unlikely, but possible. I've read some articles about the occasional insect, a cockroach, maggots in an infection, and a spider once or twice. How do you think the earwig got its name? It gives me chills just thinking about it."

"Let's suppose, hypothetically, that someone came in claiming to have a spider living in his ear. Is there anything you could do for him?"

"There have only been a few documented cases of spiders living in human ears of which I am aware. One was a boy in Oregon. Doctors couldn't tell how long they had been in there. Pretty dirty if you ask me. Another was some Greek motorcyclist who noticed a problem almost as soon as she put on her helmet. Of course, it's probably far more common, with spiders just walking in and out without anyone noticing. No harm, no foul. And even if it does decide to make a home in there, it's an easy fix. You just flush it out. The boy I mentioned, one of his came out alive."

"One of his?"

"He had a pair of them living in his ear. The other one didn't make it."

"Can you do that for me?"

"Flush your ears? Sure, but you're wasting your time. For the sake of argument, let's say you had a spider in there. It appears to have already left. Your ears look clean and healthy. I see nothing clogging them."

Clive blocked his left ear with his palm and began to whistle. He noticed then, for the first time, that his hearing was back to normal. He wondered how long he'd been able to hear without obstruction, overjoyed by the revelation.
Maybe this guy isn't such a quack after all.

Still, Clive wasn't taking any chances. "Please, Dr. Allen. Could you flush my ears, just in case?"

"No problem, but it'll cost you extra."

"Seriously?"

"No. Got you again, though. I'll get the solution."

Clive waited impatiently as Dr. Allen fiddled with some bottles filled with unknown liquids by the room's sink. He returned moments later with an oversized eye dropper and what appeared to be baby oil.

"Tilt your head back," Dr. Allen instructed. Clive did as ordered. Yet, Dr. Allen stood motionless.

"Better yet, let's do this over the sink."

Clive hung his head sideways over the sink as Dr. Allen squirted solution up his ear with his giant turkey baster. The liquid rushed back out of Clive's ear as quickly as it had jettisoned up it. They repeated the process for Clive's left ear.

You're wasting your time
, a familiar voice echoed behind Clive's eyes.

"Fuck you," Clive muttered.

"Pardon me?"

"Oh, sorry. Not you, Dr. Allen. I'm--this is going to sound crazy--but I'm hearing voices, too. Well, just one voice, actually."

"And you just heard it?"

"I did, yes, for a second there. Pretty crazy, huh?"

"Mr. Menard, there are a number of medical problems that may result in hearing voices or other hallucinations. You're not necessarily insane. Only most likely. However, that's a bit beyond my area of expertise. If we're done here, I'll refer you to someone who can perform a CT scan. There will be an additional fee for that, of course."

"Ha! Not this time. I'm not falling for that one twice."

"Unfortunately, this time I'm not joking."

"Seriously?"

"No, not seriously."

"Damn, you got me again."

"Nope, now I got you. There really is a fee."

Asshole.
"Alright. Set it up, if you think it's necessary."

"Mr. Menard, if you're hearing voices, it's necessary. I'll have them rush you in early next week."

"Is that it then?"

"Yep. Your ears, nose and throat all seem fine. My work here is done. It's your head that appears to be fucked up."

"Is that the medical term for it?"

"In your case, it's close enough. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Menard. I'll have Trudy, my nurse-secretary, call you about the CT scan. Plan on doing it Tuesday or Wednesday next week."

"Will do. Thank you, Dr. Allen."
And by thank you, I mean fuck you.

"Don't thank me. Just be on your way. You're someone else's problem now."

"Why do the balls always suck so bad?"

"Are you sure it's the balls that suck?"