Doctor Pong

". . .Peaches and cream. You see, dearheart of hearts, everything will be peaches and cream." She holds up a spoonful. "A toast--I propose a toast: to peaches, cows, and the freezing point of milk." We numb-tap, tap the plastic tips together, cold liquidy tongue on my dull heat. I scrape a fingernail moon in the spoonskin dugout part of my neck. I drop the nappy plastic, no sound to speak of unless I was a goddamned little dustmite or a needler, a meddler-fly stopped to throw up on an infinitesimal universe.

"Pooky--it's gone," I say to her out of my scripted little understanding of temporal languidity.

"Well, just ask for some more, silly goob. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you!" She spot-wipes a tiny piece of sex-starved peach from her chinny-chin-chin; oh yeah, she knows how to wipe but she doesn’t know I could care less. And scrolls her eyes, her slow motion slot machine eyes till two peaches rest for a moment, barely off the mark from each other, glowing.

"Pooky-pooh--it's gone, gone, gone."

"Now what’s gone, cause it’s not the creamy-cream-cream I can see that now can’t I?" She fakes a stopped grin to look serious and play the part or part the play, whatever.

Grasping her hand I ragdoll it along the top of my craned neck to the spoony lack-of-a-knob. "Well do you feel anything? The growth--do you feel it?"

And she gets to be astonished. For once in her life she gets to taste a conscious miracle without science, a collective stream (even though it’s just us two), a tap into a wonder that isn’t explained by the next commercial after the 8pm cornfed dinner sofa diet. "Well, what does this mean?"

This does not make sense. I used to have a tumor there, a funny little sonofabitch growth that let me curse it when I wanted, think about becoming wormfood in my hometown cemetery and read about how fast it actually takes rigor mortis to set in--all that and still get to get pitied by her and her whole family, to be the attention getter even when I slept and cram drugs, and cram nightlight walks along the boardwalk in with no regard for splinters, broken bones, disease or the effects of losing myself in fuzzy nightmares. But I can feel the color returning to my face already, I don’t get off that easy. So I foray and pillage in all directions--the fine fakety-fake oaked counter, the fuzzy green covered pool table memory of smells (I wonder if felt dustmites are green), the sudden noticeable lack of ping-pong ball pops and the squelch of cheap video game speakers, the fluorescent ceiling tube flicker which is usually barely detectable and now gets to swing a slowmo cape around my neck in a swoosh-- "Batgirl, to the Batcave-"

"Excuse me—well, I’ll be!" A tasteless, familiar sterile voice, behind me. Pivoting around on the stool (I still have my motion sense, you know), I have to believe it and I don’t like it. "Doctor? You’re late. What're you doing here? Doctor--the tumor, my head is gone: why do you suppose that’s a fact?"

"Now that’s just not funny I'm not here on business. My son and I are here trying out the new ping-pong tables. He's a student here, you know." The doctor is colorful and I get to think that that is odd, really odd but it shouldn’t be since he normally scrubbed his way through honesty in my limited hospital memory. He is wearing a university sweatshirt and shorts. He beams, then contorts for a second and has the gall to beam again.

"But, Doctor-"

"Now, now, I'm off duty."

"No, you're never supposed to be off duty. Doctor--Pooky, tell him. Tell him what's happened. Doc--I’m the miracle man or the dead man--I’m an endpoint either way."

She scrolls her eyes again, but sideways this time and I’m thinking, now I should be concerned about that. "He's off duty--give him a break whadda you want him to do, give you a chemo right here on the fine fake of the oaked counter? Besides, I'd like to propose another toast--to the doctor, and-" She raises her spoon again and I swear this time I see her pause for a microsecond to note the raised plastic ridge from the factory molding on it and her voice trails off to a murmur and a lactose hiccup. She looks me square in the eyes for a moment, that faux soulmate look then the motherly disinterest takes over quick enough.

"Look, son," the good doctor interjects, still grinning as if nothing ever happened, no miracle, no anomaly, no endpoint, still in the middle. "I came over here to see if you could help me and my boy out. I'm afraid we, well, actually, I did it. I hit the damn ball so hard it just-" He sniggers and fakes embarrassment. "well, anyway, we still have a game to finish, and all I have now is a flat ball."

"What?" I want to get sick now, like I should, but I don’t really feel sick. Something is almost wrong that’s for sure. Somebody just snapped a thin piece of lightswitch twine when he shouldn’t have—

"A smashed ball. It's not exactly the first time, but--don't know my own strength. Anyway, when I saw you and her over here I thought, 'there's my answer' and so here I am. So, I will return it as soon as we're done."

"Return what?" I am suddenly cold, now, like I oughta be--a little instinct kicking in. Shivering.

"Why, the sphere, of course."

"What?"

"In your head--you know, the little ball in your head. It's the perfect size. Lucky I brought my bag with me we can use one of the tables here
in the lounge
it'll only take a second
and you'll be doing me a great favor
I think we can take the risk
I don't want to quit
I'm losing the game right now, ah, yes,
here
it is
my saw
funny I had it with me
no need for anesthetic
Pooky-pooh can hold your hand
that always works in the movies
actually I'd call it a miracle
that you were here
I'd call it a miracle--
I'd call it a miracle--
I'd call it a miracle--"