“What has this to do with your neighbor, your cat, a broken winged baby grackle, and a pack of elder grackles?” you ask.

Very good question. Please, allow me to explain.

It seems Oxycodine, the painkillers I have been ingesting for the past six weeks, have done a fine job quelling the pain brought on by the break of my foot. Unfortunately, however, the wonder drug has now been determined to be the root cause of what has become a major source of discomfort elsewhere. Of course, had I acted sooner, had I not waited twelve or so days, since my last calling, I wouldn’t be walking about not quite erect, with no spring in my once lively step, feeling dizzy, wearing a perpetual scowl and, I most certainly wouldn’t have this feeling of being a human time-bomb!

By sheer location, my newest medical malady required yet another doctor, so, my insurance provider gave me the name of a well-respected internist.

I sat on the paper-sheeted examining table, naked, but for my thin, pale green, mini-gown. No matter how I pulled at it, ‘How do women do this, day in and day out? or adjusted my position, ‘On ice-cold, blustery, winter days?’ I felt exposed, vulnerable, ‘At the office, with leering—‘ when the doctor walked in.

I believe he saw my immediate stress written all over my face, as he was short on nods and mumbled pleasantries, quickly turning to his medical cabinet. It was then I heard the snap of a single latex glove. My worst fear was but a fickle finger of fate away.

“On your side, prease.”

‘Prease?’ I know I heard correctly. “Um, I really think it best you didn’t do that.”

“No?”

“Yes. No,” I said, with a, ‘Take my word for it. Just trust me,’ grimace.

“Okay then.” Removing the rubber glove, he backed away. “When is the last—“ he started to say.

“About two weeks ago.”

“Oh, my. Fluits—“ he began, sitting at his desk.

“Beg pardon? Flu—?”

“We want to consume those edibers kissed by Mother Nature,” said my newest friend and colon confidant, Doctor Chou.

“What?”

“We want—“

“No, I got that. Ed…edi—“ I stammered.

“Edibers.”

“Edibers? I’m sorry, I—“

“Eat. Fluits.”

“Eat flutes?” ‘I’ll take Food Words for a thousand, Alex!’ “You want me to eat, eat wh—“

“Edibers,” he interrupted, scribbling on a notepad.

“Edibles!” I exclaimed, as if I had just won the lightning round.

“Yes. Edibers.” His laughing eyes seemed to enjoy my confusion a little too much. “We want to consume fluits, edibers, kissed by Mother Nature.”

“Oh, we do?” ‘I really must speak to my insurance provider.’

“Urtimatry, we want Mother Nature to kiss you with kindness,” he said, with a comforting smile.

“I’d prefer the colonic death grip from a crazed grizzly!”

“Clazed gliz—?” he started to question.

“Just a joke.”

“I, I…oh, coronics, yes, ha-ha.”

“That’s okay. It’s not important.”

“Ah, arlight. I want you to go—“

“You and me both, Doc!” I interrupted. I simply couldn’t help myself.

“Ha-ha,” he chortled, somewhat forced and phony. I was losing my audience.

“What do you recommend?”

“Plunes, glapefluits, laisins. You rike bananas?”

“Do I rike bananas? I ruv bananas!” I knew I was pushing it, but there are moments you just cannot let slide by.

“And, nuts. You rike nuts? Armonds, warnuts?”

“I rike those rittew ones. Um…” I was deciding the best way off the table. I had two options. Slide off, risking sure exposure of Mr. Happy. ‘Nothing he hasn’t seen a thousand and one times before,’ I told myself.

“Cocktair nuts?” he asked. ‘Still, he’s never met Mr. Happy.’ I elected to keep it that way. I opted to make a slight, but never-the-less jarring, push off the table.

“Yes. Those.” Because of the weakness of my slow to heal left foot, I had prepared for what might be a bit of discomfort in the landing. I was right, it hurt! I limped my way behind the changing screen, holding tight to my all-exposing rear window dressing.

“Too sarty.” I had to concentrate on keeping it all together. I had not prepared for the heavy landing to make me feel like, a very fragile, Humpty Dumpty.

“Okay. Then everything I need I can pick-up at the market?”

“Yes. How did you hurt your foot?”

I explained how Oxycodine had entered my life, exited from behind the screen, and grabbed my cane. He stood, extending his hand. I knew our time was over, but I needed one more chuckle. “No plescliptions necessaly?”

“No,” he said, with a knowing look. “No prescription will be necessary.” He spoke as clear as a bell. I felt like a child who had just been taken to task and proven a point. I felt so foolish; I’d rather he’d hauled off and slugged me.

I could have turned on my heels and abruptly left, but I felt my momentary lapse into ignorance needed an apology. “I didn’t mean any harm. I write little stories. I look for material everywhere.”

“You do? I do, too!”

“Really? You write? Any chance of reading your work?”

“You know Chinese?”

“Oh. No. I’m sorry. I just…well, you know.”

He smiled, again we shook hands. “No plobrem. My faurt.” His eyes sparkled as we laughed at his self-depreciating humor. “Now go. You have work to do.” On that, I left.

There are times you are the lone performer. There are times you are the audience. Then, there are times life thrusts you in a duet. I read somewhere, ‘All the world’s a stage and nobody wants to be a stagehand.’ It’s true. But, if we all play the lead, who will listen?