Simon sat down in his office and moved paperwork with his hands and a putter with his mind. The shot was perfect and immaculate and he could just about see the ball go PLUNK if it weren’t for these damned files in his hands plotting out the green green green grass. That, and the distant bitching of the morons one hole behind him, who were clearly impatient because they were too impatient to take their damned time and ENJOY themselves enough to do the job properly.
“Doctor?”
Ah, the bitching hadn’t been from inside his head. Dr. Simon Crabb opened his eyes and looked upon the tremulous, milky-pasty face of his patient, his responsibility, his charge, and sighed deeply.
“Yes?”
“What is it?”
Simon gazed dispiritedly upon his files. How to go about fitting so much information inside such a small head? Then a thought struck him, and so jarring was the blow that it escaped through his mouth before he had time to consider it further: “you have scabies,” he said, and no more.
“I’m sorry?”
“Scabies.”
“What abo-”
“You have scabies. Go home and drink some orange juice or whatever and they’ll be gone by Monday. Talk to the nurse about it.” And he picked up the paperwork again and began to shuffle it with such determination and focus that he was soon left alone with his thoughts and his thoughts were left alone with his 4-iron.
***
The odd brilliance that seemed to have suffused Simon since the gentle prodding of his fairway muse did not desert him. As each patient entered the office, he had but to consider their stupid, vacant, cowlike faces and then turn his mind to finer things like wedges, woods, and links and – quite without his input or design – the most miraculously conclusions would leap forth from his mouth, each scrupulously-crafted to remove the patient’s presence from his domain immediately.
“You have liverwort,” he informed a teenager sternly. “Stop eating so much liver.”
“Bu-”
“Next! You, what are you even here for?”
“My –”
“You have false pregnancy. Next!”
“Wha-”
“Is that supposed to be necrotizing fasciitis? You were misdiagnosed, it’s just wrinkles. Perfectly normal age related issue. Next”
“Hello, Simon!”
“Hell?” managed Simon, whose brain suddenly had to sprint several kilometers to catch up with his mouth. “Reggie?”
“Yes indeedie!” chirped Reggie. “Just a little checkup before the fairway, you know how it is ahahaha. Lovely day today, the club’ll be PACKED this afternoon I reckon ahahahaha. See you there?”
Simon’s mind had dropped into a very dark and deep place, full of inane chatter spoiling his shot, and so it was without the intervention nor instruction of conscious thought that his mouth opened and said “I’m afraid not, Reg.”
“Oh?”
“You have gigaherpes. You’ll need to stay indoors for the next three days and avoid all contact with grass or you’ll explode.”
“Oh NO!”
“Yes, terrible timing. You’d better send in the other club members right away; it’s highly transmissible.”
“But I haven’t been to the club since last Sunday!”
“It’s a retrovirus,” said Simon’s id, “it can spread retroactively. Call them right now and confess or I’ll do it for you. My ethics as a practitioner demand it.”
“Oh dear,” said Reggie, pulling out his phone with shaking hands. “But what about you, poor Simon, and the rest of the clinic?”
“I’m immune. But you’re right about the clinic – I’ll cancel the rest of the day’s appointments. It’s too dangerous for them right now.” Simon stood and grabbed his jacket. “Well, nice seeing you, Reggie. Be sure to make those calls and tell them not to leave the house for the next week.”
“Weren’t you going to?”
“It’s a retrovirus, remember? I retroactively diagnosed it. Keep up.” Simon strode confidently from the office, haltingly only briefly as a groaning man on a stretcher blocked the doorway.
“Doctor, if you would –” began the nurse.
“Yes, yes, yes” sighed Simon. He bent over and inspected the patient. “Perfectly healthy, just hypochondria, send her home,” he announced.
“Bu-”
“She’s a shark, Jessie. Sharks are healthy animals. Just detach her from this bozo, send her home, bill her later. I’ve got to go. See you next Monday.”
And he was gone.
***
Gone to the green.
Simon stood on the middle of the greenway at hole 3 of the Bunder’s Scupp course, gloriously, truly, beautifully alone. Every sign of life was gone; no clouds spoiled the blue sk; no nagging voices spoiled the silence; nothing was there but he, his voice, and the green, glossy grain of the grass.
He swung, and it hit or missed and it didn’t matter because the score was his alone to tally and the numbers didn’t matter and rules weren’t real. He laughed and sang and swung and chortled and coughed and tapped and wheezed and lunged and staggered and felt a lot of his arm stab him with violent pain all at once.
“My imagination,” said his mouth as he fell over, “nothing more.” And because he wished it to be so he trusted in it, and as the green turned grey and the cropped blades began to fuzz he knew very confidently that he was just going to take a quick nap now and get right back to the game.