What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  Don’t be so dramatic. You’ll see. Having me around is a good thing.

  “I don’t want you around!” Clive pounded his fist against the wall. “I’m going to the doctor’s today, and he’s going to fix whatever is wrong with me. That means getting rid of you.”

  If you say so, big guy. Good luck with that. It’s getting late for me. I need some rest, so try to keep it down. We’ll talk later when you’re more rational.

  “Wait.” Clive’s voice turned as beaten as the rest of him. There was little more he desired than to have the voice in his mind disappear forever, but not without it granting him a resolution. “You never answered my questions.”

  It was no use. The voice had gone. He prayed it had gone for good.

  After taking a moment to regroup, Clive readied himself for his appointment. With still a few hours to go before he needed to leave, Clive distracted himself with a talk show and its guest, Miley Cyrus. Fluff television was better than dealing with his own demons, and Clive welcomed the fluff. Regardless of how hard he tried, he couldn’t rid himself of the thought that sanity was deserting him.

  The drive over to Dr. Allen’s office was uneventful. The voice did not return, and Clive wondered if he’d daydreamed the whole unnerving ordeal. He hadn’t been sleeping much lately. Combined with his drinking, perhaps his tired psyche had decided to spark things up a bit. He hoped so, comfortably assuming the voice was a delusion if but for the moment.

  Ironically, even his right ear worked better. He thought maybe his problems were drawing to their conclusion. The morning’s events might simply have been their climax, the peak before the fall.

  Clive sat alone in the office lounge, quietly filling out answers to an array of invading and often irrelevant questions. What does my affinity for yellow Post-it notes have to do with anything? Who cares whether I wear ankle or knee-high socks? And my sexual preference? I’m not gay, and that question still offends me. What bearing does my constipation twenty-five years ago have upon the issue of whether or not something is living in my head today? Did something crawl into my balloon knot when I was a teeny tot, temporarily clogging my anus then slowly working its way up through my body to my brain over the course of two decades? I’d understand the sexual-preference question if this question-naire pertained to my constipation.

  Fuck it. Clive grumbled to himself. He resisted the temptation to answer randomly and breezed through the questions as quickly as he could. When he finished, he glanced around the waiting room. He was still alone even after the forty-two minutes it had taken him to complete the paperwork. And even though he was alone, it took another forty-nine minutes for his name to be called.

  “Mr. Menard?” a comely nurse asked. Or was she an administrative assistant? Clive couldn’t tell, but he was convinced of one thing about her: she was an idiot.

  Do you see anyone else out here, sunshine? He faked a smile. “Yep, that’s me. Clive Menard.”

  “Dr. Allen will see you now.”

  That’s nice of him. I was rather enjoying watching the wall. Captivating stuff. Clive put down a four-month-old copy of Entertainment Weekly, which he hadn’t bothered to open. On the cover, Miley Cyrus was prominently featured, and Clive briefly wondered why he hated her so much. Ah yes, a lot younger than me and a whole lot richer. That’ll do it.

  He followed the nurse-secretary into the office’s inner sanctum, a place where only staff and the sick ventured. Pastels turned to whites as he ambled into a room the size of a walk-in closet.

  “Have a seat. The doctor will be in to see you shortly.” The woman exited the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Have a seat where, exactly?” Clive studied the room. His sole option was that dubious paper-covered exam table that could be scaled with ease only by an Olympic high jumper. With its lack of back support and all-around discomfort, the chair-bed-table thing lacked any redeeming qualities. He wondered if they changed the paper on it after each person visited. He imagined he could detect the scent of the sick, bare, diarrhea-spraying ass that had sat on it before his unlucky arrival, permeating off the paper like an ungodly potpourri. Clive decided to stand.

  “At least I don’t have to wear one of those ass-less gowns,” Clive muttered. Walking around with his cartoon boxers stick-ing out for public scrutiny had no appeal. He already regretted losing his fifteen-dollar co-pay to this miserable experience.

  A knock came at the door, and Clive was pleased to think that his wait was over. His hopes were quickly crushed. It was the nurse-secretary returning, not the doctor, opening the door without waiting for a response.

  “I almost forgot,” she said, handing Clive a folded blue cloth. “Put this on.” She disappeared as abruptly as she had arrived, leaving a disgruntled Clive standing speechless with hospital gown in arms.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s an ear, nose, and throat doctor. Why do I need to take any clothes off? It’s not like I came in wearing a ski mask to foil my own examination. Maybe I should take off all my clothes and put them back on around my head. That’ll teach him not to make me wear this stupid thing.

  Clive looked at the flimsy gown, weightless and exposing. With sadness, he concluded that fighting the system would get him nowhere and began to undress.

  Another hour passed, which he partly spent defiantly wiping his naked backside all over the sheet of paper covering the exam table, before he heard a second knock at the door. This had better be the doctor. He hopped off the table, placing his sockless feet on the cold and not-quite-sterile floor.

  “Good morning, Mr. Menard.” The tall, shrewd-looking man wore thin-rimmed spectacles that clung by a few skin cells to the edge of his nose. His hair was black and oily, slicked into a part from right to left, poorly covering signs of his oncoming baldness. His long white lab coat and air of superiority told Clive all he needed to know. “I’m Dr. Allen.”

  Are you sure it’s still morning? Clive kept his sarcasm to himself. He extended his hand in salutation.

  “Clive. Nice to meet you.”

  “What can we do for you today, Clive?”

  “We? Am I seeing someone else too?”

  “No, I just meant it in the—never mind. Nope, you’re stuck with me.”

  That should be enough chitchat. Clive wanted to get to the business at hand. “Well, I’ve been having this problem with my ear—”

  Dr. Allen chuckled. “It says here that you’re allergic to honey.” He perused Clive’s paperwork. It quickly became evident that he was paying Clive no attention. “That’s too funny.”

  “Why? Is that a problem?”

  “Hmmm? Ah, no, not at all. My sister is allergic to honey. Maybe you know her. She’s about your age.”

  Why should I know her? Because she and I are both allergic to honey? What a strange man. Does this guy think that all people who are allergic to honey gather like bees… bad analogy… like whatever else gathers into one big social network?

  He hung his head to hide his disgust. What a fucknut. I wonder if it’s too late to see Richard Gere. Again, Clive was polite enough to keep his thoughts to himself. “Maybe I know her,” he said, humoring Dr. Allen. “What’s her name?”

  “It’s Margaret Bayliss now, but it used to be Margaret Allen.”

  Holy shit! I did know a Margaret Allen. “Did she go to Durfee High about thirteen years ago? Distance runner for the track team?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, tell her Clive Menard says hi, would you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. She passed away a few years back. I just like to talk about her as though she’s still with us. Makes me feel better, you know?”

  Is everyone in this office a cocksucker? “I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask how it happened?”

  “Certainly.”

  Clive and Dr. Allen shared expectant looks. After a few seconds of silence, Clive realized he actually had to ask how it happened.

  “How did it happen?”

 
“Allergic reaction to honey.”

  Dr. Allen flipped through his chart. Clive hadn’t seen a doctor in years, so his chart was probably no more than a few blank pages strewn together behind an intake form. A confirming glance later, and Clive wanted to take a swing at the empty-headed physician.

  After a few moments of perusing absolutely nothing, Dr. Allen returned his attention to Clive. “Let’s have a look in that mouth, shall we?”

  Here we go with this “we” thing again. But Clive had bigger problems to tackle than Dr. Allen’s grammar. He put it out of his mind.

  “My problem is with my ear.”

  “Mr. Menard, may I remind you that I’m the doctor here.”

  Dr. Allen removed a pencil from his upper coat pocket. The end of it appeared chewed, and the eraser had somehow mutated from pink to black.

  “Now, open wide.”

  Clive cringed as he accepted the pencil into his mouth. When Dr. Allen elevated to peek down his throat, Clive noticed the Popsicle stick that resided snugly beside the pencil’s former resting place. He realized too late that the doctor had grabbed the wrong instrument.

  Fucking nasty! Clive shrugged it off as best he could. Well, I’m sure this guy must have a reason for checking my mouth. He wouldn’t do it just to save face because I called him out on forgetting which body part I came in here for, would he?

  After a cursory look, Dr. Allen was done. “Looks good,” he said, withdrawing the pencil. “Now, which ear was that again?”

  Asshole. “My right ear.”

  “And what kind of problem have you been having?”

  Asshole. “It’s been clogged for almost a week. I thought it was water at first, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “It could be a pebble.”

  “Do you think that’s what it is?”

  “No.”

  Asshole.

  “Well, no sense in speculating. Let’s see what’s in there.”

  Dr. Allen withdrew an otoscope from what appeared to be the front of his pants but what Clive hoped was one of his pockets. He flipped a switch on its handle, activating a small light, and plunged its cold, cone-shaped nozzle into Clive’s right ear.

  “Ewww. That’s disgusting.”

  “What?” Clive’s heart went from zero to sixty faster than a Lamborghini. “What is it?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  Dr. Allen removed the otoscope from Clive’s ear. Clive watched as he examined the earpiece. A large amount of white lint covered its tip, speckled with black crud. One of the speckles had legs, six of them, none of which were moving. It appeared to be a gnat.

  “Sorry. I forgot to clean it first.”

  Asshole. You put a dirty tool in my ear. If I didn’t have an infection before coming here, I will by the time I leave. It was taking all Clive had to hold in his discontent. Where did this guy get his Ph.D.? The same place Dr. Phil got his?

  Clive’s confidence in Dr. Allen hadn’t been high since the doctor first opened his mouth, but it was now plunging faster than the Bush-era real estate market. Why do I have the feeling I may need a second opinion?

  Dr. Allen again proceeded to examine Clive’s right ear. “Uh-huh,” he mumbled, removing the otoscope to jot some notes on his chart. “Uh-huh,” he repeated, looking into Clive’s left ear.

  “Mr. Menard,” Dr. Allen began, his tone grave, “I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”

  Clive let out a deep breath. “Give me the bad news.”

  Dr. Allen smiled. “The bad news is the Yankees aren’t going to win their division this year. The good news is there’s nothing wrong with your ears.”

  Asshole. Asshole. ASSHOLE! Clive was not amused. He’s probably told that joke to a hundred people before me. Dr. Allen, on the other hand, seemed to find himself utterly hilarious.

  “That one gets them every time. I must have told it to a hundred patients before you.” He giggled like a teenage girl several moments before regaining his composure.

  “But seriously,” he continued, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “why are you here? Your ears appear to be in perfect working order. No redness, no inflammation, no nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “This is what I do, Clive.”

  Clive couldn’t find satisfaction in Dr. Allen’s response. He required a more thorough examination to ease his mind. He decided that there was no tactful way to request it.

  “Could you check up my nose? I had a problem with that too.”

  Dr. Allen took the otoscope and shoved it up Clive’s right nostril. He continued to Clive’s left nostril, never cleaning the tool before, between nostrils, or afterward.

  “Nothing in there but snot and nose hair. You should trim those. There’s nothing unhealthy about it, but it looks unsightly.”

  Clive was fairly certain that Dr. Allen was supposed to use a different device on his nose than the one he used for his ears. He couldn’t figure out how the doctor could angle his head to see through it. He didn’t question it, being more or less happy for his clean bill of health but suddenly self-conscious about his nose hair. Still, he had to make sure his health was as good as Dr. Allen claimed it to be.

  “Doctor,” Clive started to say, unsure if he wanted to confide in the erratic individual before him. “This may sound weird, but could something be living in there?”

  “In where? Your ear? Yes, it’s possible. Unlikely but possible. I’ve read some articles about the occasional insect, a cockroach, maggots in an infection, and a spider once or twice. How do you think the earwig got its name? It gives me chills just thinking about it.”

  “Let’s suppose, hypothetically, that someone came in claiming to have a spider living in his ear. Is there anything you could do for him?”

  “There have only been a few documented cases of spiders living in human ears of which I am aware. One was a boy in Oregon. Doctors couldn’t tell how long they’d been in there. Pretty dirty if you ask me. Another was some Greek motorcyclist who noticed a problem almost as soon as she put on her helmet. Of course, it’s probably far more common than we think, with spiders just walking in and out without anyone noticing. No harm, no foul. And even if a spider does decide to make a home in there, it’s an easy fix. You just flush it out. The boy I mentioned, one of his came out alive.”

  “One of his?”

  “He had a pair of them living in his ear. The other one didn’t make it.”

  “Can you do that for me?”

  “Flush your ears? Sure, but you’re wasting your time. For the sake of argument, let’s say you had a spider in there. It appears to have already left. Your ears look clean and healthy. I see nothing clogging them.”

  Clive blocked his left ear with his palm and began to whistle. He noticed then, for the first time, that his hearing was back to normal. He wondered how long he’d been able to hear without obstruction, and he was overjoyed by the revelation. Maybe this guy isn’t such a quack after all.

  Still, Clive wasn’t taking any chances. “Please, Dr. Allen. Could you flush my ears just in case?”

  “No problem, but it’ll cost you extra.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. Got you again, though. I’ll get the solution.”

  Clive waited impatiently as Dr. Allen fiddled with some bottles filled with unknown liquids by the room’s sink. He returned moments later with an oversized eyedropper and what appeared to be baby oil.

  “Tilt your head back,” Dr. Allen instructed. Clive did as ordered. Yet Dr. Allen stood motionless.

  “Better yet, let’s do this over the sink.”

  Clive hung his head sideways over the sink as Dr. Allen squirted solution up his ear with his giant turkey baster. The liquid rushed back out of Clive’s ear as quickly as it had jettisoned up it. They repeated the process for Clive’s left ear.

  You’re wasting your time, a familiar voice echoed behind Clive’s eyes.

  “Fuck you,” Clive muttered.
/>   “Pardon me?”

  “Oh, sorry. Not you, Dr. Allen. I’m—this is going to sound crazy—but I’m hearing voices too. Well, just one voice, actually.”

  “And you just heard it?”

  “I did, yes, for a second there. Pretty crazy, huh?”

  “Mr. Menard, there are a number of medical problems that may result in hearing voices or other hallucinations. You’re not necessarily insane—but most likely you are. However, that’s a bit beyond my area of expertise. If we’re done here, I’ll refer you to someone who can perform a CAT scan. There will be an additional fee for that, of course.”

  “Ha! Not this time. I’m not falling for that one twice.”

  “Unfortunately, this time I’m not joking.”

  “Seriously?” Clive asked.

  “No, not seriously.”

  “Damn, you got me again.”

  “Nope, now I got you. There really is a fee.”

  Asshole. “All right. Set it up if you think it’s necessary.”

  “Mr. Menard, if you’re hearing voices, it’s necessary. I’ll have them rush you in early next week.”

  “Is that it, then?”

  “Yep. Your ears, nose, and throat all seem fine. My work here is done. It’s your head that appears to be fucked-up.”

  “Is that the medical term for it?”

  “In your case, it’s close enough. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Menard. I’ll have Trudy, my nurse-slash-secretary, call you about the CAT scan. Plan on doing it Tuesday or Wednesday next week.”

  “Will do. Thank you, Dr. Allen.” And by thank you, I mean fuck you.

  “Don’t thank me. Just be on your way. You’re someone else’s problem now.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “W

  hy do the balls always suck so bad?” Morgan stuck out her lower lip.