The Doctor is In

“You weren’t there, Karen,” he said, “she tried to kill me.” He would be Todd, from Boston. 

Todd and Karen, my sister in law, were newly married, and at that precise moment were in the midst of a heated discussion in a tiny bathroom in a typical OKC home.  Todd was balancing himself on the toilet, not using it, but had shimmied onto the seat to close the window in the event Karen’s family, my family, a bunch of lunatics, had escaped the asylum and could hear him from the yard.  He feared they were closing in on all sides. They’d retreated to that tiny nook in the house because it was the only door with a lock.  Todd was scared out of his wits.

Bob

“Don’t you know who I am?”

The answer to that question is almost always, “No.” And, can usually be followed by one of the following phrases, and stop it, I don’t care, or get the hell out of here.   Most of the time, when someone says it, it means, I’m a nobody, and I want to be somebody. Pay attention to me.  I’m a midlevel cube farmer in the valley, but I want to be more.  I heard a man say it once, and he was a somebody.  His name was Bob.

I was 19 years old, and a student at Richland College.

It had all started with a panicky phone call from one of my gay friends, and by gay I don’t mean happy.    Back in the day, before cell phones and text messages, at any moment, I could get one of those calls.  Liza Minelli was in rehab again, there were size 15 pumps on clearance somewhere, Tina was coming in concert, I need a ride Hunky’s Burgers…  It was always something. 

“Get over here right now,” he pleaded. 

“I’m busy, I have to study.  I don’t have time for this right now.  Like, no…” These were my standard responses to Warren.

“Please,” a dramatic begging tone tinged Warren’s voice, “I don’t know if I can hold him off much longer.”  I heard the sound of breaking glass and a loud male voice in the background.