March 10, 2003
I don my surgical gloves. My precision instruments, however, must remain in their alcohol bath. Tonight, the doctor must do something that he has been dreading for weeks.
I approach the shower with fearful apprehension. Hands, known for their steady assuredness, quake as they slide the door open. Instinctively, my eyes snap shut. When the courage returns, my lids slowly part. It is as I feared. The joins to the tub have become a veritable petri dish of bacterium.
With one deft move, I flail the Ajax throughout the entire tile enclosure! With a madman's zeal, I scrub and scrub, even the little shelf thing that holds the soap! After what feels like an eternity, I emerge, chest heaving from hysterical laughter. I administer the coup de grace. A few shots of Lysol; the beast has been tamed. Like a hyena capturing his kill, I throw back my head and howl. But the victor's fire rapidly dims from my eyes. I know that far greater horrors await me.
I turn to my right. Openly taunting me with it's mouth wide open, daring me to gaze into its porcelain maw, is the terrible one. It has the utter gall to be of pure white, like the garb of the angels of mercy that assist in my surgical duties.
I don't know whether to feel fear, contempt or pity for this...this...thing. It has seen me at my worst, whether it is the harrowing aftereffect of tequila or the 3 a.m. call of a vicious Thai meal. In those times, I have called it my dearest friend. But now, it is time to pay the ceramic devil its due.
With silent determination, I pour the remaining contents of the Ajax container. I can feel its anger, its pain of betrayal as I refuse to even touch it bodily, but with a brush. It can feel my disgust, and it revels in it. It knows I will return. I always have.
It is done. I give one last glance into the small room before I retreat to my study, the faint aroma of cleanser providing a mocking reminder of my awful task. I collapse in my chair, still wearing my cotton scrubs. The mental and physical anguish of this ordeal has exacted its toll.
Suddenly, I hear it call to me. It falls silent. Then it calls again. And again. Begging. I cover my ears, trying to blot out its mournful tone. Finally, I can take no more.
I jiggle the handle then go to bed.
I don my surgical gloves. My precision instruments, however, must remain in their alcohol bath. Tonight, the doctor must do something that he has been dreading for weeks.
I approach the shower with fearful apprehension. Hands, known for their steady assuredness, quake as they slide the door open. Instinctively, my eyes snap shut. When the courage returns, my lids slowly part. It is as I feared. The joins to the tub have become a veritable petri dish of bacterium.
With one deft move, I flail the Ajax throughout the entire tile enclosure! With a madman's zeal, I scrub and scrub, even the little shelf thing that holds the soap! After what feels like an eternity, I emerge, chest heaving from hysterical laughter. I administer the coup de grace. A few shots of Lysol; the beast has been tamed. Like a hyena capturing his kill, I throw back my head and howl. But the victor's fire rapidly dims from my eyes. I know that far greater horrors await me.
I turn to my right. Openly taunting me with it's mouth wide open, daring me to gaze into its porcelain maw, is the terrible one. It has the utter gall to be of pure white, like the garb of the angels of mercy that assist in my surgical duties.
I don't know whether to feel fear, contempt or pity for this...this...thing. It has seen me at my worst, whether it is the harrowing aftereffect of tequila or the 3 a.m. call of a vicious Thai meal. In those times, I have called it my dearest friend. But now, it is time to pay the ceramic devil its due.
With silent determination, I pour the remaining contents of the Ajax container. I can feel its anger, its pain of betrayal as I refuse to even touch it bodily, but with a brush. It can feel my disgust, and it revels in it. It knows I will return. I always have.
It is done. I give one last glance into the small room before I retreat to my study, the faint aroma of cleanser providing a mocking reminder of my awful task. I collapse in my chair, still wearing my cotton scrubs. The mental and physical anguish of this ordeal has exacted its toll.
Suddenly, I hear it call to me. It falls silent. Then it calls again. And again. Begging. I cover my ears, trying to blot out its mournful tone. Finally, I can take no more.
I jiggle the handle then go to bed.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
but anyways, did you become a tongue depressor like you said you would?