Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal, An Old Chair, and The Stinging Wind

A GP surgery. Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal is sitting behind his desk.

Doctor: (sighing) Take a seat.

Long pause.

Doctor: Do you know one thousand individuals dictate the thoughts, opinions, customs, trends, fads of our entire world of seven billion people? What we eat, wear, read, watch, talk about, do, think?

R: Well ... No ...

Doctor: I thought so. You're an idiot!

Long pause.

Doctor: You live in a sunken world. You remind me of an old chair with a bulging leg. Dark with age and a smell of the old.

Pause.

Doctor: Do you know I was beat and bullied as a boy? Of course not! Or that I left home at twelve and returned home for a light lunch at two o'clock. Of course not! Furthermore, my head's too big for my body, my body's too big for my trousers and my wife speaks like a squealing fiddle! The stink of boredom is everywhere. I'm dead and so are you! A trivial matter, you'll agree?

R: I'm sorry ...

Doctor: To hell with your damned, "I'm sorry". What are you here to whine about?

R: (uncomfortable) Well ... I lack self-confidence and … despise bullying. The strange thing is ... sometimes I feel like screaming and laughing at the same time. Sometimes, I hold two thoughts at the same time. For instance, my life has purpose ... yet it is without meaning. Sometimes, I feel sad ... yet happy ... Sometimes, the scales drop from my eyes ... yet I am blind to everything I hear and see ... Sometimes, when I'm in a room full of people I feel I'm sitting in an echo chamber listening to myself ... Sometimes ...

Doctor: Sometimes! Sometimes! Sometimes! Me! Me! Me! Get a grip of yourself! Can't you talk without bleating?! You live in a dream world like most people on this planet. (Shouts) Wake up!

Long pause.

Doctor: There is no point in telling you lies. I'm a hypocrite and a wretched inexperienced doctor. What impelled me to live in this multi-coloured hell escapes me? Don't be fooled by certificates, diplomas, and expertise. A day comes when all men and women are proved wrong. (Thoughtful) Even a genius like Einstein will get his comeuppance one day. I believe he never took his hands out of his trouser pockets even in bed. What a strange man?! (Pause) Remember genius cannot be measured. Excess of wealth or natural ability do not promise happiness, success, or freedom from diarrhea.

R: (timidly) Indeed …

Doctor: I'm sorry to say there's no medication for your condition.

R: Really?

Doctor: You appear to me to be someone who is holding on. Old and weary before your time. A mixture of anger, tenderness, shattered visions. In short, you're carrying a perpetual burden. A million shapes and sizes of shadow.

R: I see … Well.

Doctor: I wanted to be a farmer's wife but my parents were livid! Instead, I'm a false, faceless dummy who has to listen to dreadful, boring people whining and sobbing all day about large dark clouds and absence of clear blue sky!

R: (timidly) Really …

Doctor: You're not the only one with a neurotic fear of growing old. We're bombarded daily with images of smooth faces like Thanksgiving Day balloons, pert breasts, lineless mouths, full lips. (Pause) Here's my prognosis. You've taken stock of your life and realised how little you've achieved. Your leading a factitious life and you're not going anywhere. Welcome to the club, old chum!

R: Oh …

Doctor: (writing) Have you heard of euthanasia?

R: No … I don't think so?

Doctor: Excellent. Take this confidential letter to a doctor friend of mine. His name and address is on the envelope. He''ll show … tell you all you need to know about the subject. (Pause) Oh, and good luck with the rest of your short life.

R: (puzzled) You said short … ?!

Doctor: (smiling) It did sound like it. I said, 'Good luck with the rest of your “outdoor sport” life'. You must learn to be less anxious. Goodbye.

R. walks out into the sun and faints.

THE END?

Reflections: Most - if not all of us - are acquainted with the clenched fist, ill-temper, malice, bullying. The stinging wind that falls at random, broken furniture, broken hearts, broken dreams. Bully for you if you have never been bullied by siblings, at school, by enemies masquerading as friends, parents, teachers, work colleagues and bosses (known, and tolerated, by inept management).

Maltreatment is everywhere, yet so few own up. Some are too busy writing rules and regulations to damage people further. Soon they will be swallowed by darkness if light still dwells within their soulless bodies. Pride has its downfall, as do insensitivity and inertia - the playthings of 'embalmed deluded gods' whose minds escape them in search of a gas oven.

A Gutsy Gal, A Goatee Beard, and A Dog Named Venezuela

Somewhere during the night I may have morphed into a gutsy gal. Sometimes, I feel young, old; like a father, like a mother; reflective, oblivious; wear split skirts, chaps; and climb on the back of the lady next door who sadly does not share my fondness for adventure and outdoor exercise. 

I've been arrested twice; once for overworking her, and once for forcing her to eat pecan pie. I remember promising her unlimited freedom and a proper deworming schedule. Thankfully, my tame wooing made her blush, and the moon quickly waned. 

Her belief I would never get anywhere proved sound judgment. In a certain light she reminds me of Sam Gamgee at home in the shire obsessed with his height. 

Her husband, Hugh - a blank, toxic man, in possession of a body built solely to store air - is besotted by daffodils, lupins, hollyhocks, and his collection of corridor lights. A bald-headed man, he wears a goatee beard to hide the fact he has one leg. 

Once he asked me a strange question, “If somebody asked you to look out of your window – at night – would you do it?!” I realized I was in the presence of a madman. A madman with a shotgun. “Can't you HEAR ...?! Would you look at cars, people, houses, the horizon?! … Damn you … Would you...?!” 

My mouth and throat were dry. He took hold of my arm with his leg and cried, “ I've burned boats in my time! Thousands of them! And leave my Daisy alone!” As he walked off he shouted, “It's getting dark and I've still to climb the church tower! The lighting isn't right for sniping, I tell you. Damn it!” 

Of course, Daisy was once rich and possessor of a fine coloratura soprano voice – unfortunately, it belonged to her sister. This fact was discovered one night when she fell asleep singing an aria from The Magic Flute – as were most of the audience. As she slept with her prodigious mouth open it was found to house a sizable family of illegal immigrants disguised as cows. It was to prove her downfall. Now her breath smells of milk. 

My friend, Rada, who is from Bosnia and Herzegovina, has a French bulldog named Venezuela originally from Belgium. The dog barks in five languages: Serbian, Croatian, French, Dutch, and German. I believe Venezuela is presently reading Hungarian with a doctorate in mind. My intuition tells me the dog is slightly disturbed regarding its family history and has no means of communicating its anguish to human beings. 

Some days I watch the dog board the bus to visit the Museum of Modern Art to view works by the Belgian artist, René Magritte. A particular favourite, "The Menaced Assassin" tends to remind Venezuela of home in Brussels. He pins posters of the work on trees in our district, usually as dusk is falling. Then he sits gazing at the picture weary of his aging, burdensome exile. He never complains but I can tell he despises his fate. 

Once I witnessed Venezuela  drunk, wearing a t-shirt and blue velvet jeans. He had shaved his head and was ranting about his tax affairs. Rada - a gravedigger, who reeks of decay - is unworthy of such an elegant, lucid, and gentle animal. 

Reflections:: Some people say they write, play a musical instrument, paint, act in the theater. However, it's not the fact they do these things, it's how they write, play, paint, act, that matters. Is it inspired by the soul, the heart, or is it practical, sober, devoid of spirit? 

There is a danger one may overvalue writers, musicians, painters, actors, philosophers, and undervalue oneself.