Wait Till You Hear This

April 5, 2007

Below is one of my more recent short stories. Before you read it, please allow me this brief prologue:

To my friends who may find this story less than tasteful, my apologies.
To my friend upon who’s experience this story is loosely based, you are my hero.
To other readers (all 6 of you), I hope this story reminds you (as it did me) of the following . . .

We are who we are. And that is that. So loosen up, learn to laugh, and live a little.

Wait Till You Hear This

I was in pain. This I remember well. I also remember the cold vinyl of the chair and the peculiar smell that always seemed to accompany such places. I opened the only periodical left on a nearby table, an out-dated issue of “Gastroenterology Digest.” Desperate to occupy my mind, I searched the magazine with the truly tragic title for anything of interest. Unfortunately, the publication’s personality ended just beyond the cover, and so I turned my attention to the other patrons along the walls.

Many of the patients were elderly, a fact I had anticipated. Yet at 40, I was learning that my condition was far less exceptional for men my age than I might have imagined. Far less exceptional perhaps, but no less embarrassing.

I am a discreet individual. Matters of this nature have always been treated in my family with certain furtiveness. Bodies being what they are, some things can’t be helped. However even the most unmentionable of bodily functions should be treated with dignity, if for no other reason than out of respect for those around you. My condition, however, had grown so problematic as to prevent this kind of discretion and thus had begun to hinder not only my physical, but also my social well-being.

My wait was growing more painful by the second, and I was never more relieved (a poor choice of words, I admit) when a nurse called my name. With no small amount of effort, I inched my way toward the door praying for an uneventful journey. I considered it a personal triumph to have made it past the nurse. I considered it a true miracle to have made it to the privacy of the small examining room.

Once secluded, I could stand it no longer. Almost immediately upon the nurse’s departure and the subsequent closing of the door, I relaxed my body and allowed my condition to fill the silent room. The physical relief was second only to the knowledge that I was saved from the embarrassment of an audience.

“Good one,” a voice boomed from behind. I whipped around to discover a doctor emerging from a previously concealed supply closet. I was instantly horrified, a fact which my face apparently made no secret.

“Oh, relax,” the doctor said. “You think you’re the only man to ever have gas?”

His manner was disconcertingly familiar. I would not have thought a topic as sensitive as this would have been treated with such informality, especially by a physician. This man, however, was unlike any physician I had ever patronized.

A tall man with a broad build, his hair was as white as his coat. Yet what stood out was his voice, loud, deliberate, and anything but discreet.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, trust me. Most guys I know would be proud to claim what I just heard.”

I was shocked and tried to protest. But I was not given the opportunity.

“Yes sir. I see it all in my line of work. You know what?”

He did not wait for my answer.

“I have yet to meet a man, regardless of his age, station, or sophistication, who did not laugh at the passing of gas. No sir. Premeditated, accidental, or involuntarily habitual, flatulence is funny. For a man, few truths are more universal or eternal.”

“Doctor, I . . .”

“Levon Daniels!” He stated, as if the mere mentioning of the name proved his point.

“Excuse me?”

“You want to talk about funny, now that was funny!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Absently, he began his examination by listening to my heart.

“Levon and I went to school together down in Tuscaloosa. He and I both worked on the side for this short lanky guy. What was his . . . ? Oh yeah, Strickland. Strickland’s Piano. Anyway, there were four of us that day, including myself and Levon. We had to move one of those big baby grands. Know what I’m talking about? Stick out your tongue.”

I tried to answer yes, but “Ahhh Huuhh” was all I could manage as he looked at my throat.

“Good. Good,” he said and proceeded to search the cabinets. “All we had to do was lift this piano off the dollie and onto this truck bed for the customer, see?”

I nodded, the taste of wood still fresh in my mouth.

“Well, the customer turns out to be Franklin Ledbetter, who was buying the piano for his daughter, Julie.”

He turned back to face me and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret.

“What you gotta know is . . . Levon had been trying to turn Julie’s head since the first day of school. But what you also gotta know is . . . Levon was on the backside of the piano, holding it up like this.”

He spread his arms up and down and bent his knees slightly. The secret part of the story apparently over, he resumed at full volume.

“So Levon couldn’t see squat, right? And what he didn’t know was that Julie was on the other side of that piano waiting for him to notice her.”

Suddenly he shouted. “There they are!”

With more enthusiasm than I would have preferred, he snapped on one of the newly-located rubber gloves.

“Drop your britches for me.”

I braced myself and complied as he continued.

“So, earlier that day, Strickland got in this gift basket from the Methodist Church to thank him for his help with their new organ, see. Darn thing was full of pistachios (the basket, not the organ). So all afternoon, the four of us filled up on pistachios and root beer, which as a physician I can tell you is one toxic combination. Turn and cough now.”

I prayed that he would be silent during this part of the exam, which he was. After a few merciful moments, he disposed of his glove with a dramatic snap.

“Okay. You can get dressed now. So boys will be boys, I guess.”

“Huh,” I said at first, then “oh, yes.”

“Well, we’d been horsing around all afternoon, making the most of our” (he cleared his throat) “potency, so to speak. You with me?”

It was obvious that Levon and his potent pistachios were standing between me and a potential remedy for my condition, so I nodded. I was with him, though a wave of discomfort was building once again.

“Well, like I said, there we were ready to hoist up that baby grand when one of the boys, I think it was Dewayne or, no! It was Ritchie Blackman. Just as we lifted the piano, Ritchie let one slip. And boy did it sing!

“We could hardly hold on for laughing. I mean, it would have been funny anyway, but Julie Ledbetter was standing right there on the other side. And she was horrified.”

My discomfort was building. It was now clear that I would not make it out of the examining room without one more embarrassing episode. Normally, this situation would have been my undoing. Yet, for some reason, I was not undone. I can’t explain why except to say that perhaps the good doctor was right. Maybe there was some primordial part of me that actually found humor in this crude story, even humor in my condition. At that moment, I reconciled myself to the inevitable and just smiled. As if taking my smile as his cue, he continued.

“But the best part was ole Levon, blind as a bat behind that big keyboard and totally oblivious to it all. He cocked his head back and said, ‘Hey! If ya’ll thought that was funny, wait till you hear this one!’”

With that, I gave in to my discomfort and provided the doctor’s story with the most realistic sound effect one could have ever imagined. I’m not sure which of us was most shocked. We locked eyes for just a moment before each erupting into uncontrollable laughter.

If laughter is in fact the best medicine, then I was cured at that very moment. Whatever pretense I brought with me into the examining room that day left with the howls of amusement the good doctor and I shared. Closing my chart, he handed me a slip of paper and shook my hand.

“Good to see you today, friend.” He smiled and slapped me on the back. I returned the gesture with a smile of my own.

As I left, I took one last survey of the waiting area. Another white-haired man stood at the check-in counter with a woman who appeared to be his wife. They looked so pleasant, so comfortable with one another and with themselves. I looked down at the slip of paper the doctor had given me.

The first line was a prescription for some medicine I hoped the pharmacist would be able to decipher. The second line read simply “Remember Levon.” I folded the paper and made my way to the door. From behind I heard the nurse address the couple at the counter.

“Good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Daniels.” I paused for a moment; not long, but long enough to hear the words I somehow knew would follow. They came in a woman’s voice, gently, like the upper register of a baby grand piano. “Oh dear, just call me Julie.”

 

The End

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