Exiting Time

I’ll take a new prognosis—or a good tall tale, Doc, whatever you got—said Zach Gifford.

With a sly smile from Dr. Bruno:
Okay, here goes:
What Currier & Ives were to printmaking, Lennon & McCartney to songs, Laurel & Hardy to comedy, well— Collagen & Calcium are to bones.
Sorry I can’t provide a good example to suit your profession, Mr. G—but I don’t recall any teams of fiction writers.
(The Doctor calls his patients by first letter/last name—Ms. B, Mrs. C—and always a pun on mystery for Mr. Edwards.)

It’s indeed a tricky proposition, Doc, for writers to work together. The Australians had a few teams, and I recall hearing about a collective novel written by some hundred-plus Italians. . .

Pretty much a solitary calling. Certainly moreso than being a doctor. Your work derives energy from other writers, nutrients absorbed from the soil of the past, but ultimately the new tree—ah, that beauty is yours alone.

Nicely put. But most creations are just scraggly bushes, often getting blown over by the wind, or not making it out of seed at all.
Just remembered—Ken Kesey wrote a novel once with the writing class he was teaching.
But we’ve digressed, Doc—you were saying something about bones.

Indeed. Bones. Spine. Vertebrates—that’s the big word for all of us. And when I say “us” I am including Jonathan Livingston Seagull, the snake in the Garden of Eden, Kermit the frog, Cleo the goldfish and off course a certain Mr. G who is hunched over here in front of me.

Clever! Maybe you should write a book. Lots of doctors have. Anton Chekhov, William Carlos Williams . . .

I’ve no imagination for such things. Wouldn’t know where to begin. Words are so complicated.
I set out to write a short story years ago, when I got back from a vacation in Pompeii, based and named after the lung disease people get from living near volcanos—but really it was just about the joke of putting across the title: “Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis”.

And as to words—for your situation Mr. G, the words remain Scoliosis and Osteoporosis. Same old chassis—try to sverve around the potholes.

So basically you’re saying, distilled—same situation until there is no situation, is that right, Doc?

Okay, last big word for today: Time. I’d say you’ve still got a healthy quantity of sand in that hourglass, but neither you nor I can slow Time down.
You’ll probably blow a head-gasket before your bones snap—bones and teeth will be here even after you shed the rest. No eyeballs, no penis, no voice for karaoke, nothing with which to remember who you are or even know that you are no longer. Pfft! Just Collagen and Calcium disolving in a box underground or toasted to ashes.

Doc—someday when you’re done with the stethoscopes, thermometers, and digital rectal exams—I do think you should reconsider writing some fiction.

© AleXander Hirka 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Read RemingtonWrite’s version here:

In August 2020, I set myself the challenge of creating a daily digital collage based on an image and a concept. The image was that of the antique Omega watch that belonged to my Mom and the concept was Time.
In September 2020, the
Anomalous Duo is challenging themselves to write a short piece of fiction for each collage — the Our Hours project.

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe. https://alexanderhirka.nyc

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