Clinic Skeleton

DOC: How’re we doing today?

PAT: We, like you and me?

DOC: I’m fine, thanks; just a way of—

PAT: We’re fine, Doc, you and me.

DOC: That’s good. It’s important to be, well,

PAT: So I’m well, you’re saying, tests and all. That’s really great, because—

DOC: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

PAT: What’s that s’posed to mean?

DOC: You know that expression, ‘forest for the trees’?

PAT: No, not really.

DOC: Well, a doctor’s job—and yours, too, when it comes down to it, is—

PAT: I’m a welder, by the way. Union certified.

DOC: Hmm. Join things by melting, yes?

PAT: By ‘smelting’, we like to say. Steel and copper alloys for your ‘things’.

DOC: So, to change my analogy, you can appreciate, then, the ‘bridge for the rivets’.

PAT: I’m kinda more under kitchen sinks, if you know what I mean.

DOC: A plumber, then?

PAT: A welder.

DOC: Yes, well, you know how things work. The body is quite intricate, tubes and valves and—

PAT: Are you comparing me to a kitchen sink?

DOC: You brought that up, actually. But with a little imagination, why not?

PAT: Fair enough. I’m that, then.

DOC: Are you interested in the details?

PAT: Of?

DOC: Of your condition.

PAT: Depending what it is.

DOC: Listen, Pat, this isn’t going to be easy.

PAT: What’s that s’posed to mean?

DOC: Exactly what I said: “not going to be easy.”

PAT: You said “isn’t”.

DOC: Correct. Is not.

PAT: What isn’t?

DOC: Your life, including new limitations.

PAT: Like what?

DOC: Like giving up smoking, for one.

PAT: Booze, for two?

DOC: First things first. You have stage 3 cancer, Pat, starting in the lungs.

PAT: And?

DOC: And that’s not good. This type tends to find the lymph system soon.

PAT: And that’s when I’d have to give up booze. Down the drain, like a kitchen sink.

DOC: Is the greater reality sinking in?

PAT: Are you trying to be funny?

DOC: The opposite. I feel more concerned than you appear right now.

PAT: I feel fine, actually.

DOC: Physically? The pain kicks in at stage 4.

PAT: I rolled the better number, then.

DOC: But mentally? How are you, um,

PAT: How am I understanding things?

DOC: Yeah, how?

PAT: Like you said, the pipes need tightening. Which reminds…

DOC: Wait, what are you doing?

PAT: I don’t think you checked me enough.

DOC: But that doesn’t mean—

PAT: But this is the way it’s been done since—

DOC: Nurse, um, would you mind coming in?

PAT: Why would the nurse need to come?

DOC: Why wouldn’t, you mean.

PAT: No, that’s not what I said. Why—

NURSE: Yes?

PAT: He-l-lo!

NURSE: Huh?

DOC: Exactly. Assuming a bit much, I’d say.

NURSE: Emphasis on ‘a bit’!

PAT: What’s that s’posed to mean?

DOC: This wing is oncology; this office specializes in the respiratory system.

PAT: And lymph, right?

DOC: Awareness of—that’s always what oncologists do.

NURSE: You can get your clothes back on. Or—

PAT: Or?

NURSE: Or, Doctor, shall I bring a robe?

DOC: We’re not that far yet, only having—

PAT: We? Like all of us are stage 3?

NURSE: Is there something here I’m missing? April First, or—

PAT: There’s that ‘or’ again. You’re a mine o’ mystery!

DOC: No joking matter, Pat: you are facing a radical change these upcoming months.

PAT: Or?

DOC: Lymph, liver, brain to follow lungs.

NURSE: Stage 3’s for catching these.

PAT: That’s why you need to check me.

DOC: In due time, in due time.

NURSE: So what should I prep?

DOC: Nothing yet—got to go through the paperwork.

PAT: The paperwork! That’s what you have in your hands already.

DOC: These are your MRI results, Pat. They needed their own paperwork, remember?

PAT: Paperwork for paperwork. Thought you docs and nurses were in this for the action.

NURSE: What’s that s’posed to mean?

PAT: Hey, now you’re speakin’ my language.

DOC: Pat, let me ask you a question.

PAT: Shoot.

DOC: Do you presently have a significant other in your life?

PAT: You’ll have to ask the nurse.

NURSE: Huh?

PAT: Can’t stop the feeling, can we?

NURSE: We can’t. No, can. Won’t!

PAT: See? Got you discombobulated, baby.

DOC: I think we need to get that robe, after all.

PAT: We again—oh, goody!

DOC: It’s really about you, Pat. You need help right now.

PAT: Don’t we all!

DOC: Healing—that may begin with a little cooperation.

PAT: Ever heard that saying, ‘physician, heal thyself’?

DOC: Sure, but—

PAT: Think it works?

DOC: If I had stage 3 cancer, I’d seek out other doctors.

PAT: So it doesn’t work.

DOC: What?

PAT: Self-healing.

DOC: As I said, you’re going to have to cooperate. For now—

PAT: We’re gonna have to—

DOC: For now, take a breather. Let the system function, paperwork and all. Good?

NURSE: Robe is ready, Doctor.

DOC: Can we secure a suitable room?

NURSE: Fourth Floor, I think.

DOC: You got it. Pat, you coming? Pat? Pat?

NURSE: My God!

DOC: Fainted? or faking it?

NURSE: Maybe both.

DOC: What’s that s’posed to mean?

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2020)

The Mockingbirds

            Since 1938, the Society of the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America (SPEBSQSA) has tried to be a wide, open tent.

            At the VFW hall in Ozark, Alabama, fifty-seven men poised themselves for Loren’s direction. White-haired, tall and a youthful age seventy, Loren always blushed a bit when bringing up his hands and mouthing, ‘two, three, and—

                                    Come to me, my melancholy bay-by,

                                    Cuddle up and don’t be

—here he tiptoed with his fingertips to the baritone and tenor tandem—

                                                                            (don’t be)

then altogether, with a slide of an air trombone,

                                                                                              blue,

                                    All your fears are foolish fancy, may-ay-be,

—cringing, like Larry in the front and Buford in the back, Loren had to stop the rehearsal.

            “Listen, fellas,” he cleared his throat. “We’ve been working on this song for, what, five or six weeks. Never has it sounded this bad.” The usual bonhomie after such interludes was a bit limp tonight. “I mean, is this going to feature in our spring show or what?”

            Buford, ‘if I may’, lifted a finger: “Let’s go into sectionals, Loren, an’ figure it out.”

            “After five or six weeks?”

            “Well?”

            Sectionals were generally a pain. Buford, as a bass, could always get his troops to croak the right notes or swallow what they couldn’t sing. Larry and his tenors were a more self-conscious cluster—falsettos at various breaking points among a few virtual castratos—“Loren, we don’t really need to do this, do we?”

           

            True.

            The baritones had much to answer for. Their oldest member was Evelyn, always mentioning to newcomers that, indeed, there were a pantheon of male Evelyns who…. “I think the problem’s coming from there,” Loren determined, pointing not exactly at Evelyn. He was tone-deaf by now and only wa-ter-me-loned the syllables in sotto voce, so as not to stick out.

            By now, everyone in the room knew the fly in their Alabama ointment. It

was Russell, brought in some months ago by Dick, who was brought in a year ago by Evelyn. Russell had absolutely loved being in SPEBSQSA—“who the hell knew of such a thing!”—and told yarn after yarn about his journeys that had nothing to do with music, let alone groups with a focus. He’d often delay another guy during a cigarette break, and during this sectional Russ declared he had “to take a mean crap been holdin’ in since Tuesday.” Dick guffawed that Tuesday was either today or a week ago, to which Russ nodded ‘exactly.’

            He came back during the SPEBSQSA anthem, the standard way all chapters bid adieu:

                                    Keep A-mer-i-ca sing-ing all day

                                                                                           all day long

                                    Watch good will keep a-wing-ing on a

                                                                                                        on a song…

            Most guys scampered home soon thereafter. Loren looked to pull Evelyn or Dick aside, but they had already ducked out. It was on Loren, then, to do the dirty. “Russell,” he said, long arm on his shoulder, “you’re way outta tune.”

            “Okay. And?”

            “Um, you’ll need… to work on this, I think.”

            “Great! I think I’ll do that,” promised Russ.

            It was likely Russell did no work at all on his vocal slides, or anything else remotely musical. The following Tuesday, schmoozing at half-time, he admitted he didn’t know a bass clef from a nutsack, which he joked it looked like. “Back in Arkansas, see, there was this—”

            “Russell,” Larry had to interrupt, “you know where you’re at?”

            “Ozark. Not the Ozarks back in Arkansas. Kinda funny, that, aint it.”

            “Yeah, but I mean at a… singing club, where…”

            “You guys have opened up a world for me. Mary ’n me, really, as she loves that I found a group. I mean, belting out tunes in the shower is one thing, but to bring that nakedness out here on Tuesday nights—well, that’s the cat’s meow!”

            Larry sucked in. “But you know we got a show coming up. In costume, no less.”

            “Hey, now, won’t that be fun!”

            After a few phone calls through the week, Buford came up with a brilliant plan. He had dabbled with composition before, woodshedding with quartets, and he knew every once in a while an original piece tended to keep the chorus sharp. He looped in Larry and Loren, singing lead, and even tone-deaf Evelyn to do no harm in the song’s roll-out:

Hey, who let the magpie in

to mess with melodies?

We all love the mockingbirds

to make our harmonies.

Hey, here comes another one

screeching out a tune.

Glad we got the mockingbirds

to teach ’em how to croon.

The fifty-some other guys, reading Buford’s chicken scratch, caught on in no time:

Croon, croon, the mockingbirds!

Make ’em sing in tune!

Then we’ll love the magpies when

they finally learn to croon.

Russell was bemused. He could only read the words, of course, but sure read into them. He marched to the front and spliced himself between the quartet and the chorus. Though his mouth was shut tight, he breathed heavily and waited a few seconds after the room was silent. “Message received, ya buncha fakers. When Mary an’ I decided Ozark’d be a friendly place to retire, we knew there’d be no lookin’ back. Well, guess we’re stuck in this hole.”

            “C’mon, now, Russell—”

            “You shut up, Larry. Never wanted to shake my hand.”

            “What?”

            “Got some kind reverse homophobia, seems like—you should work on that, Larry.”
            Loren took a step in his direction, “now, this is just nonsense.”

            Russ pretended not to hear, and continued. “Dick, you had no ill intentions of bringin’ me here, and Evelyn, you taught me to see a guy for who he is, no preconceptions. I’ll always ’preciate that. As for the rest of yas,” turning to look at Loren first, then Buford, then the chorus as a whole, “I wish you the worst.”

            He stomped out, and the practice didn’t manage another note. The spring show went on, naturally, and maybe Russell even attended, adding to the somewhat naked feeling on stage.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2020)