“Well join the damn club, man! There seems to be some wacky notion that doctors are immune to the human body’s vulgarity. It ain’t the case, pal. When it comes to areas best left private, I don’t want to know about it.”
I studied the miserable excuse for a doctor that sat before me. He was wearing a stain-riddled singlet and what looked like lime green pajama bottoms. The skin on his face was stretched tight and vaguely translucent. I could see a forest of writhing veins beneath. A tuft of white hair sprung from atop his egg-shaped head. There was nothing nice about this man. I started to fight my way out of the beanbag.
“What are you doing?” asked the doctor.
“I thought it might be best if I left. This isn’t very nice for either of us.”
“Sit back down, you idiot. I’m a doctor aren’t I? God… my conscience won’t allow for me to let you up and leave like that.”
I was stuck halfway between sitting and standing, eyeing the doctor, trying to figure him out. “Is there anything you can do for me?”
“I don’t know,” admitted the doctor. “There’s probably some tests I can run or something.”
“So you’ll take a look at it?”
The doctor grimaced in disgust. “Yes… I suppose I can take a look at it. But seriously, man. If you tell anyone about this, I’m going to fuck you up. When chicks think of doctor’s, they imagine a handsome dude saving lives and helping small breasts to grow. They don’t picture a dude fondling another dude’s arse.”
I fell back into the beanbag, cautious yet confident that an agreement had been reached. “So… what do you need me to do?”
“Just take your damn pants off and we’ll get this over with, okay?”
There are few things less comforting than the feeling of standing in front of a man you don’t trust with your shame exposed — except for maybe spreading your arse cheeks and bending over to give that man an intimate look at your pucker. My pants were around my ankles and my palms were pressed against the doctor’s foldout table. I was paying this guy to violate me.
He began by prodding the general area cautiously with a stick, like he thought it would bite him. When he sensed no danger, he moved in closer. “This is some sick shit”, he kept saying to himself. The anticipation this built in me was painful but nowhere near as painful as the feeling of his ungloved and unlubricated fingers entering my body. I inhaled deeply, clenching around his anxious digits. As the tension built, I applied more pressure on the table, which was wobbling beneath the strain.
“You’re most likely going to feel a little uncomfortable now,” the doctor said.
Now? I thought. I had a naïve hope that I was already experiencing the worst but no… it got much worse. He began to force his whole hand inside me. I bit down on my lip, my eyes welling with tears. I focused my attention on a faded postcard tacked to the wall. The landscape it portrayed was barren, except for an old government building off to the side. It was one of those early 70s buildings with an obnoxious lack of character — the kind ‘designed’ by a bottom-line architect following a depressing formula. I placed myself in the postcard building, trying desperately to extract myself from the invasive situation. My mind darted back and forth between the doctor’s ever-disappearing hand and the imaginary postcard world.
“Yuck! I got something,” said the doctor.
“What is it?”
“Hold on. Give me a chance to pluck it out and then we’ll both know.”
He began twisting his hand inside me, like he was picking a piece of fruit. Pain radiated from the area. The postcard became a grey blur and my mind started begging me to pass out — anything to escape the situation.
The doctor’s hand, accompanied by a wet, sucking sound intervened. I gorged on oxygen and went limp. I didn’t dare turn around. I could feel breeze gusting into my gaping, spent arsehole.
“This is officially sick,” said the doctor. “You oughta take a look at what I just plucked from your jacksie.”
Nothing within me wanted to know what the doctor was holding, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned my head and felt a rush of vomit climb my throat. In the doctor’s hand was what looked like a fleshy, bleeding apple. It was an abstraction from deep within — from a world that existed inside me that I had never visited. This was from a place I didn’t want to know — a place that most of us never want to know.
“What is it?” I finally asked after swallowing my vomit accumulation.
“Well, I’m no doctor, but it looks to me like a tumour.”
This is when the first wave of panic hit. In one demeaning moment, everything I’d managed to successfully ignore punched me in the stomach. Breath escaped me and I collapsed to the floor. I was overcome by an animalistic response. Notions of civility were nowhere to be found. Everything I had ever known briefly vanished and all that existed was this primal moment. My face was pressed against the carpet, inhaling the traffic of every patient before me. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the doctor, feeling fragments of civility returning.
“But you got it out, right?” I said with an air of hope that I couldn’t believe.
The doctor burst into laughter. “Yeah, well I got this one out but your bowel is full of the fuckers.”
“Do you know for sure that it’s definitely a tumour?” I asked hopelessly still on the ground.
“Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m a damn doctor, ain’t I?”
“Isn’t there some tests you can run or something? I need to know for sure.”
“Umm… yeah… I guess. There’s a dude I know. I’ll chuck the tumo… ah, the growth to him and get him to check it out.”
“When?”
“I’m going to his place for a jam session tonight. I’ll drop it off then.”
“Will he look at it tonight?”
“You’re a needy little fucker, aren’t ya?” said the doctor, disbelief filling his face.
If I hadn’t felt so weak and pathetic, I’d have introduced my fist to the doctor’s face. This is what I told myself anyway. I’d only ever been in one fight before and that was just a bout of shin kicking when I was five. I was more of a natural born coward than fighter. What really stung was the knowledge that despite the indignity and apathy this bastard had thrown my way, I’d still thank him and offer to shake his hand afterward. It didn’t matter that I thought I was going to die; I’d still shake his fucking hand.
“Look… I just need to know,” I said. “I’d appreciate whatever you can do.”
The doctor dropped my anal apple on the table, where it landed with a wet splat, and helped me up, smearing my shirt with his bloody hand. He even pulled up and buttoned my pants for me.
“Look, dude. I’ll do what I can. I’ll try to get him to have a look tonight. When we get jamming though, we rock pretty damn hard. I play a bag of scraps that I hit against things. I know what you’re thinking, sounds like a shit instrument, yeah? Well, like anything, you can spend your whole damn life mastering it. I wave a scrap bag like a rock god! He plays a coil of rope. He just throws it at things mostly but sometimes he rubs stuff with it. He’s damn good at what he does. We’re recording a demo that will blow you the fuck away! I’ll sling you a copy.”
“That would be nice,” I found myself saying, regardless of the fact that his demo was the last thing I’d ever be interested in. He gave me a thumbs up in response. “Do you need my number so you can contact me?”
“Yeah, why not? Wanna write it down for me?”
I scanned the room for a pen and paper. There was absolutely nothing to write with or on. Given the appointment up until now, I don’t know why this surprised me. I made do with a toe nail clipping and a length of pipe that I’d found on the thinning carpet. With the clipping, I began furiously scratching my number into the pipe like a prisoner counting down his stay. I passed the pipe with its slight engraving to the doctor who tucked it awkwardly into his pant leg.