Visit to the Dermatologist

I sit in the sterile exam room, it’s past 5 o’clock and the doctor’s running very late. I wonder if I can find anything to take me out of here.

Venetian blinds. Venice. Great! – never been before.

Waxed and polished floor of uncertain color – brown, beige, orange, sand, apricot, none of the above. Sun’s reflecting strangely off the surface of the Venetian Lagoon. Piloting cargo out of here for the doge.

Container for medical waste, marked with ‘BIOHAZARD’ and a scary-looking symbol. Is that the skull and crossbones I see?

Sink. Does that craft intend to try to sink me?

Stainless trash can. Ah, lads, we’ll give ’em a taste of our steel!

O.K., Bill, you’re not 10 years old anymore and you’re getting carried away with the military swashbuckling. But wait ...

Magazine (never mind that the title is ‘Golf’). Aye, mate, see to the powder in the magazine!

Enough already.

Arguably cheesy piece of art on the wall. Even though it depicts cavorting dolphins, I will refrain from using it to continue my sea battle. Well, cheese-making is in fact an art.

Nice gold frame around the cheesy art. I think I should paint portraits of everyone in my family and put them all in gold frames.

Better practice on myself first.

Thin wooden door. Young aspens high on a ridge above Cimarron, N.M. One place I have been.

Cold air blowing down through the ceiling vent. Jack London, “To Start a Fire.” Scariest story of my life as a boy.

Container for used needles on the wall. Lou Reed, “I’m Waiting for My Man.”

Jars of cotton balls. Brook Benton, “The Boll Weevil Song.”

Drop ceiling of acoustic tiles. What if tiles could be electric or acoustic? Think I’d like electric.

Dr. Lockman comes in, examines me, says, “You’re so on target it isn’t funny.”

Of course. Just ask the pirates.