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January 14, 2003 a hidden peephole The receptionist lowered her voice to a whisper.  The doctor had "stepped away" for a moment, but I could wait in his office if I wished.  The arch of her eyebrows told me Dr. H. Keller was taking a piss.  I nodded, gave a Jerry Quarry smile, and skipped down the hall toward the doctor's empty office.  I like to make the receptionist think I'm crazy.  It makes her feel useful. I walked around Dr. Keller's office peering at certificates, thumbing psychiatric treatises, and inspecting photographs.  I had a self-conscious feeling--paranoid maybe--that Dr. Keller and his receptionist had conspired to lure me into the empty office so as to observe me unseen through a hidden peephole.  I rotated slowly with a smug, I-wouldn't-hurt-a-fly countenance.  The incarcerated-Norman is much more difficult a pose than, say, the boyish, desk clerk-Norman. As I turned, I spied a large photograph on Dr. Keller's desk.  I walked around the desk to get a better look and regretted the decision immediately.  There, staring at me from an 8 x 10 frame was a woman who looked more javelina than human. I never heard Dr. Keller coming.  Deafness causes him to walk like an Indian, I'm not sure why.  He put his hand on my shoulder, turned me around gently, and stared at the photograph I held before me. "My wife," he moaned. At that moment, I had no desire to explore my recurring dream in which I repeatedly whack a piñata that looks like me.

©  2003 by the beastmaster