That’s what life was, a long series of things that didn’t go down the way you thought they would.
JAMES SALLIS
The stench of summer clung to the cityscape like snot to a kid’s mitten, carried by the river roads and their shimmering waves of light and gasoline. Seagulls had chased away the pigeons and established shrill primacy, and the streets squawked day and night.
I hadn’t slept in years.
Smog hung low above the water each morning. The weather report didn’t bother much with warnings anymore. Smog had become the default condition. They’d let us know, said the weather people grinning sadly, if a clear day was on the horizon. I tried to remember what the city looked like before the smog came. I pictured it from the air, buildings rising from the soaked streets to the sky, fearsome and sharp.
I didn’t think much of the headaches at first. Everyone had one that June. You couldn’t buy Aspirin anywhere. The whole city was on edge – baristas argued with customers, people screamed at each other in line, cars honked incessantly while sailing through intersections. One guy in the Annex shot a cashier for overcharging him sixty cents on a bag of potatoes. They arrested him in his kitchen, slicing his Yukon Golds to make home fries.
But when July came and the wind picked up and the hazy crown over the city mercifully lifted, my head was still throbbing. And I’m not talking mild pain in the temples or sinus blockage. This was crippling cranial pressure. Felt like there was an animal growing in my head, stretching its limbs and slapping stupidly at the walls of my mind. Sometimes it got so bad I couldn’t see, had to limp my way home guided only by the sound of lapping water in the canal to my right and the sweet smell of the deserted bakery I lived above.
When August came and there was no improvement, I made a doctor’s appointment. I’d been canoe-jacked a few weeks earlier (my head so scrambled I’d forgotten to lock it up) so I surfed a shopping cart down College Creek. At Bay Street an enormous child smoking a pink cigar helped me onto the curb. He pointed at my bobbing buggy.
Can I have it? he asked.
Naw, I said. I need it to get home.
He looked at me strangely. In this current? With no oars?
Tell you what. You can have it if you give me a ride home on it.
Deal! the kid said excitedly. Then he caught my arm and handed me a dripping business card. It was too soggy to decipher.
I can’t read this.
Really? You speak like an educated man.
Well, I can read. I just can’t read this. The ink’s running.
He frowned. Damn.
I gotta go in. I got an appointment.
I’ll wait for you, he said.
‘preciate it, I said.
He docked the cart expertly and nodded.
In a waiting room striped in venetian glare a man with one leg struggled toward me and asked me if I knew the time.
Naw, I looked around. Clock on the wall says ten though.
Clock’s broken, he rasped. The secretary glared at him. S’been ten o’ clock for twenty minutes. How d’you figure that one?
I clutched my screaming head. Sorry, I said. I can’t help you.
You’re the one needs help, he hopped back to his seat. I just wanna know the time is all.
Fuck the tyranny of waiting rooms and the bovine, vulnerable way they make one feel. Looking around at all the other assholes, wondering who’s got the clap and who’s dying. Waiting for your name to be called like it’s high school graduation.
My doctor was cold and thin. Do you smoke, he asked, frowning at my chart.
How did you get my chart, I said. I’ve never been here before.
Answer the question.
Answer mine, I said. This is my first visit. How did you get my chart?
He turned the clipboard toward me. It was a blank piece of paper. I need to look like I’m listening, he explained. Like I’m taking notes. So I sketch Calvin or Hobbes while people go on and on about their problems.
I was a bit shocked by his confidential manner. B-but…it’s not like you’re not a psychiatrist.
No, I’m not. He began doodling.
These are medical problems people come to you with. You’re a doctor.
Yes, I am.
Shouldn’t you pay more attention?
Yes it is, he nodded. Now tell me. Do you smoke?
No, I lied.
Have you recently visited China?
Nobody’s recently visited China. They closed their borders when the U.S. dollar collapsed.
That’s true, he shrugged, scribbling Calvin on a toboggan.
Matters progressed. He used his stethoscope and listened to me breathe. I told him it felt like my head was in a vice. He shrugged, like people came to him with brutal migraines all the time. I asked if he maybe knew what it was. He shook his head. He either couldn’t figure me out or didn’t want to.
I’m sending you upstairs to the lab, he said. We’ll do an MRI. Takes a day or two for the results, but that’s two weeks better than you’ll get at Mt Sinai.
‘preciate it.
Piss in this cup and leave the sample in the basket, he said. Come back and see me Thursday.
Thank you, doctor.
Oh I’m not a doctor, he said, already down the hall. Fuck the Jews, eh?
What?
I’m kidding! he yelled over his shoulder.
About the Jews or about being a doctor?
Both! he bawled, disappearing around a corner. I could hear him chuckling at his own terrible joke. Or jokes, plural.
That’ll be $300, the secretary said.
Remember when Canada had free health care? I said, taking out my wallet.
She blew a bubble till it popped. Uh huh, she said, totally bored.
Those were some good times.
Uh huh.
See you Thursday, I guess.
Uh huh.
The kid with the pink cigar was waiting for me outside.
Where to, mister? he said, horking violently into the water.
We both watched the snot bob on a weak wave.
Doctor cleaned me out, I said. I can’t pay you.
You already did, said the kid. Cart’s mine now, remember?
Oh yeah, I said grandly, choosing not to remind him that shopping carts were readily available in the canals for free.
So where to, mister?
He took me home. On the way he tried to impress his personality upon me by mentioning humorous things he’d done and interesting friends he had. I was too tired to give a shit. I held my head and muttered vowels. Pretty soon the kid took the hint and shut up.
At home I tried to make an omelet but my hands were trembling and I dropped my last three eggs like an asshole. Later that night my head entered new flood regions of pain; everything was white and slow. Life was swiftly becoming unmanageable. Hungry but too hurt to go out for more groceries – the market would’ve been flooded at dinnertime anyway – I took four Nytols on an empty stomach, went to bed and slept for 18 hours, tossing and groaning like the undead.
On Thursday the doctor greeted me stiffly and ushered me into an oak panelled office with plush carpeting, a room that seemed to have been airlifted in from some 19th-century British novel. Dark wainscots and maps of unfinished continents on the wall. A phrenology chart hung crookedly from ceiling to floor. The doctor was peevish and uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. He coughed and glanced at his watch and shuffled my chart and frowned deeply.
How’s Calvin? I asked.
He looked puzzled. What?
You showed me last time, I said. You draw things. There’s no chart.
He broke out in a nervous grin. Oh. Ha ha. Yes, well, I’ve got your MRI results today, Mr Matthews. There will be no Calvin today, Mr Matthews.
My heart sank. He was using my name too much.
What is it, I said. What’s wrong with me?
He blinked. Well, there’s no official name for your…condition. That I know of.
Condition. I had a condition. My mind flashed upon rare tropical diseases. Viruses that melted organs within hours. Oh fuck. I was dying.
Seeing the panic in my eyes, he handed me the chart. See if you can identify the problem, he said.
I looked. And froze. What’s this? I said.
The doctor stared at me.
I shook the chart frantically. Pages flapped to the floor.
What is this?
The doctor stared.
What is this?! I shouted.
You’re asking me?
Yes! You’re the doctor here! I shrieked.
He fidgeted. Yes! Well…maybe we could call a priest?
M-maybe you have the wrong chart, I stammered. Maybe there’s been some kind of mix-up?
There has been no mix-up, the doctor said, reaching for the chart back. He’d assumed confidence again. He was being a doctor again. My panic had assigned him a role he knew, that of the consoling doctor, a role he probably thought he played well.
Mr. Matthews, the doctor was saying, I won’t try to explain it, but according to your MRI…you have no brain at all.
It was my turn to stare.
There’s nothing in your head, he said, a nervous giggle escaping his lips. Empty space. You have no brain.
We stared at each other for a long time. Gradually I composed myself. Having finally told me, the doctor looked relieved. For him the worst was over.
Well, he began. Should we discuss the lucrative opportunities this presents?
I have to go, I said.
Think about the opportunities! he leered. Maybe share the wealth?
I stood up. Thank you for your vague diagnosis, doctor.
No problem! he called after me down the hall. Don’t forget to pay!
Oh I’ll pay, I called over my shoulder. In fact, I’d like to donate my not brain to science.