Dr. F-something

"We're going to put you in a wheel-barrow and leave you under that awning.  That way you can keep an eye on my new Mercedes."

Dr. F-something is a skinny Indian dude who always looks like he's midway through a 112 hour shift.  He never has anything good to say.

"You see, we're running dangerously close to hitting forty percent occupancy."

"Is my bed on fire?" I ask, plaintively.

"What are you doing with that hacksaw?  You're planning on cutting off one of my limbs, aren't you?  As long as I get some morphine, I guess it's okay," I say.

Dr. F-something flips through my chart.  He says, "How long have you been taking omeprazole?"

He stops flipping and stares directly into my eyes.  Judging from the look on his face I'm obviously having a pulmonary embolism.  I thought it would hurt more.  He stares for a couple seconds more, then says, "The bed fire can be extinguished with a pinch of baking soda."

"I read that on the internet," he adds.

Just then Dr. McQueen runs in.  He is on a butterfly hunt.  The rare creature lands on my nose and Dr. McQueen's net drops over my head.

"This will look great in my den next to the turtle," he says.

Dr. F-something and I intently watch McQueen reach into the net (and the end of my nose), grab the butterfly by the legs, and run out as quickly as he ran in.

"I need your arms for my Halloween costume.  It'll be hilarious.  And your legs go to a friend of mine, Dr. Strangelove."

299 Words

I was driving and Rush came on the XM. Geddy Lee was screeching on about a salesman over the top of unnecessarily complicated drumming, and I imagined for a moment that I was driving through the Hollywood Hills.

The 'Hollywood' sign is dangling precariously on the edge of the Santa Monica mountain range. Instead of Geddy Lee wheezing through his pie hole into a microphone and calling it a song, Hope Sandoval is singing. I think it's 'Ghost Highway.' The song isn't important. It's the mood that I'm trying to set. Substitute your favorite Mazzy Star song. Just make sure the song you pick is suitably haunting.

My girl is in the passenger's seat. The top is down - it's a convertible. A black 1952 Cadillac. I'm not traveling very fast - maybe 35 - tops. The road is very curvy. You have to keep your eye on it. I am going fast enough to mess up her artificially red hair, though.

“I'm so hungry I could eat a horse.” I say.

She pulls her hair off her face and says, “I haven't been hungry in years.”

I keep driving west until I reach the Pacific ocean. I keep driving until I can't go any farther. She jumps out of the car and starts wading into the ocean. Her dress floats on the tops of the waves. It looks like a jellyfish that had come to the surface. The Sun is setting behind her and she is in silhouette. She keeps going as I stand there and watch.

At that moment Geddy Lee managed to infiltrate my imagination, warning me of a salesman. A drummer drums his way through a complex fill. An arm comes out of a window.

“Number one with a Coke. That's $4.97.”