Your ENT is fond of Springsteen (in an average summer.)
It gets so you can’t hear well enough out of one ear—the
radio news, your footsteps in the stairwell, the street traffic, the subway
intercom—it gets so you can’t hear very much at all to the left. The stuff you gather
as ‘thumps’ are not thumps, you can’t say what they are, because you can’t gather,
at all, and besides, what ‘thumps’ anymore to the left? You drink a couple
pints of stout at the pub until it’s time for your appointment. It’s a dry sun
outside, a fine warm day with people acting reasonably (for a change) in their
paces between office and lunch counter. The guy in ragged clothing, rattling
coins in a cup, doesn’t say “Help the hummus” but that’s what you hear because,
yeah, you can’t hear.
An ear technician, not the doctor, greets you. He’s
enthusiastic about aural hygiene and could lead some kind of ear workout on morning
television, beside that tae bo fellow. He applies salves and lineaments and
solutions. After a spell, he starts working a plug of earwax this way and that,
until it pops out with a suction-y “boop” kind of noise. It’s crabapple in
size. “I’ve got to fetch the doctor!” he yells. He returns with the doctor and
several staffers who ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh.’ “Get a picture!” someone says. “Not so
loud!” you say. You can hear again. “Please don’t post that on social media,”
you whisper. Even to whisper is loud. Optimism, and its three grand syllables (or
four?) appeals of a sudden.
The doctor hangs around. He’s got to probe your nodes and
such. “Hum something,” he orders. “Epistrophy” comes to mind. You hum some
Monk. The doctor wrinkles his nose. “What’s that?” he says. “Thelonious Monk,”
you say. “Who?” he says. You make a “how do I explain” face. “Couldn’t you hum
some Springsteen?” It takes you a minute to figure this out. “HUMMM
hum-hum-hum-hum HUMMM!” you say. “Was that so hard?” says the ear doctor. You
shake your head, lying. “Where’d you hear that?” he says. “Everywhere,” you say,
tapping both ears. “That’s good,” he says. “Cured.” He fills your ear full of
antibiotic. “But I heard the Monk everywhere, too,” you add, in protest.
You carry your chart to the front desk at the same time as
Tom Ridge carries his chart to the front desk. He gets to check-out first,
because he’s Tom Ridge. Out in the hallway, the elevator dings, like, really
loud. “This way, Mr. Secretary,” you say, giddy with hearing. He squints at you
as the doors close. “We rode an airplane together,” he says. He adds, “The writerrr,” meaning you. “I can’t believe
you remember that!” you say. “Two years ago!” Tom Ridge taps his temple: “Keeping
the Homeland safe.” You reply, in exasperation, “I haven’t done anything to the
Homeland!” The doors open. Tom Ridge points his finger at you as he turns the
corner to the pharmacy. It’s a zinger, you realize, a zinger.
4 comments:
I'm sorry---what did you say?
I think I said "Optimism and its three grand syllables" but I could be mistaken. Otherwise, I may have heard fook off, or was that Foucault? It's been that kind of summer.
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Summer not unlike Epistrophy, sultry round the edges. What might Monk and Clarke have thought in that naming, as specific a term as it is applied to poetry (epistrophic reps, the bodybuilder of language) and to medicine (X-rated). Hard to say, but we do know Monk ate pie in summer just like he did in autumn, and wore a pork pie hat, presumably also at least 90% organic, before GMOs took over music, some poetry, some medicine.
what i want to know, then, is, why iddn't there a monk song called 'chocolate pie' -- in recognition of, the talents of, jackie mclean's mother? i mean, monk said he was going to get a piece of that pie -- that night! -- and he did! did charles mingus get a piece? i think not. even all throughout pithecanthropus erectus mingus probably hungered for that pie but never tasted it!
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