He sat on the floor Indian style, smoking a Marlboro. Coffee found his lips. His fingers abused Old Betty’s keys, but she understood that it was love. The resulting clacks might have been the shrill of a violin to Beethoven—the kind of masterful notes that carry a silent symphony behind them. Martha entered the room in the middle of a sentence:
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I’m typing my dissertation,” he said.
Her face contorted into a jigsaw puzzle. “What?”
“My dissertation,” he repeated. “Would you bring me some more coffee?”
“You don’t drink coffee. And is that a cigarette? Put it out this instant!”
“I can’t. It’s my inspiration. Philip Morris is my muse.”
“Your muse is turning your lungs black. And I won’t have you smoking in this house!” She paused. “Or anywhere!”
Defeated, he crammed it into an overloaded ashtray beside Old Betty. The cream-colored coffee cup sat motionless. Its life had been slowly drained until the only remnants were six rebellious specks of coffee grounds that had escaped through the filter.
“Get your own coffee,” she said. “Hey—do you even know what a dissertation is?”
“Of course not,” he said matter-of-factly. “But it’s the smartest thing I could think to write.”
“What’s the subject?” she asked coyly. Old Betty sighed.
“Of what?” he said, hiding stubbornness behind ignorance.
“Of your dissertation. What else?”
“Subject? It doesn’t have much of a subject—that is, apart from its being a dissertation. Speaking of dissertations, though, I heard they go well with coffee.”
“You’re skating on thin ice, mister,” she said.
Meanwhile, a sealed bag of dark roast coffee in one of the kitchen cupboards was too far away to hear their conversation. It would not bear fruit today. The typewriter came to life again and he lit up another muse.
“I thought I told you—” she started, but, realizing actions spoke louder than words, yanked the inspiration from his mouth and revoked his crystalline ash receptacle. Her free hand forced the paper from Old Betty’s mechanical grasp.
“What’s this?” She began reading: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet. Quod erat demonstrandum. Ceterus parabus. Et cetera.
“Genius, is it not?” he said, winking, less at her and more at the dissertation in her hand.
“You are a true master of words,” she said. “Et cetera.”
“Now give it back.”
She returned the mess of Latin to the rubber roller where it was born. Old Betty cried joyously with a ding as if she had finished cooking a turkey.
“Tell me,” she said, “How is it that you can write a dissertation but you can’t even tie your shoes?”
“Don’t patronize me, mother,” he said, holding onto Old Betty for dear life. “You shock me sometimes with your narrow-mindedness.”
“Narrow-mindedness?” She had her hands on her hips now—not a good sign. “You, a pedantic recluse and social outcast, want to tell me about narrow-mindedness? You obviously have a lot to learn.”
“Mother, success and friendship are on opposite plains. Right now, I’m focusing all of my energy on my doctorate. Now if you will please bring me some coffee like a good mother would.”
“You’re too young for coffee. How about some Juicy Juice?”
“I suppose, if that’s what it comes down to.”
“Cherry or apple?” she called from the kitchen. This time she was overheard by a bag of dark roast coffee, which breathed a silent sigh of relief in the pitch-dark cabinet.
“Mother, I believe you know my Juicy Juice preferences by now. I’m a cherry man through and through. And I will have nothing but the finest sippy-cup in the kitchen, hand-washed with mild unscented soap.”
He loaded a fresh page into the typewriter and took a few drags from a new muse he’d hidden in his pocket. The keys clacked away with more insightful Latin phrases.
“Honey?” she called.
“Yes?”
“It looks like you have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I completely forgot. It’s at four.”
“Won’t you send one of my clients instead?” he whined. “I don’t have time.”
“Yes, and I suppose you have people to go to the bathroom for you too,” she said.
“I won’t go. I never get candy as a prize. Only cheap plastic spider rings made in China that still have sharp edges from the plastic mold,” he said.
“Dentists don’t give their patients candy.”
“Though,” he said, “that would be quite a lucrative business model. Slip them poison and charge for the antidote.”
“Well, you’re going—it’s not up for grabs. Let’s just hope you don’t have any cavities.”
“Who’s to say I have cavities? Why, just last time I believe Dr. Nelson said, ‘Those aren’t cavities. They’re just holes in your teeth.’ And the charlatan was completely serious. Did he get his degree in dentistry or philosophy?
And don’t get me started on Dr. Giroux. He must keep his stethoscope in some sort of Kelvin freezer until the last second before he jabs me with it. One day he’s going to give me frostbite. Or choke me to death when he pokes my neck with his bony fingers.”
“All this talk of doctors being charlatans,” she said, “and yet you want to be one.” She reentered the room with a red sippy-cup. Its smiley-face decal was partially worn from the dishwasher.
“I’m not going to be a torture doctor,” he said. “I’m going to be one of those doctors that appears on British documentaries as definitive authorities on something.”
“And what is your field of expertise, dearest?” she asked. “Psychology? Paleontology? Literature?”
“Heavens, no. I won’t be caught dead in some beige-colored lecture hall, droning on about Shakespeare and Pirandello. I’m going to be famous.”
And with that he added a few more lines to his masterpiece-in-the-making. In reality he had no clue as to what non-medical “doctors” did with their time, but honorifics like “Dr.” and “Ph.D.” were, in his mind, the key to success. He would have fame, fortune, and a lavish mansion, to which he would admit no yucky girls.
When he reached the end of the page, he decided to call it a day. 8:00 was his bedtime, after all, and he needed plenty of sleep before his first day of kindergarten.
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