A Friend Like Carl

Doctor Wilhem was making his rounds when (this is how the story starts but I got the idea—appropriated the idea, sue me—from my friend Carl’s sister’s psychotic episode so, for verisimilitude, to do justice to Wilhem ((“Wil” for strength of character; “Hem” riffing off Helm as in steering, in control)) and the ward and the other patients ((not that I’m interested in justice or think justice has a role in art; it’s just an expression)), to build up an authentic atmosphere like does the place reek of piss or bleach or the goat curry the Jamaican nurses are eating at their stations, I call Carl—we should all be so lucky to have a friend like Carl, clever, observant, always willing to share a wild story and pleased as punch for you to take it as inspirado for your own short story as you’re building your writing career ((by you obviously I mean me, here, but the you seemed to fit; so if any agents or patrons or publishers are reading this, feel free to reach out with deals, contracts, opportunities, stacks of cash)) “ring, ring, motherfucker,” I say once Carl picks up, and he says “Dude” and I say “Dude” ((interpret these greetings, and what they reveal, what associations they may conjure, as you like)), “I had some questions about your sister and her breakdown,” and he says, because he’s a tad overprotective but a true friend through-and-through, “What about her, Dude?” but such inquiries are a brother’s right, especially if his sister has a history of emotional instability ((full disclosure: I do in fact think Carl’s sister is attractive, even sexy, one might say (((one, like you, meaning me again))) in a fragile, damaged sort of way—Fiona Apple in that bathtub, for instance, or Monica Vitti lost among the factories of Red Desert—but I have no sex drive as a consequence of my new meds ((which I don’t feel like going into because this story is about Doctor Wilhem, if you’ll recall)) and I say to Carl, “I’m writing a story about a Doctor in a psyche ward and I wanted some more details about your sister’s time there, you know, for verisimilitude” and he says “For what?” and I say “You know, to make it feel real” and he goes “Ooooh, no shit, gotcha, let me call her” so he’s calling her now on his work phone and while I’m waiting I type my next sentence, writing nose to the Word Doc grindstone) he heard a strange beeping coming from the end of the hall toward the group therapy room (again I have no idea if they did group therapy while Carl’s sister was committed but it sounds plausible, doesn’t it? Cheaper, too, which, after all, with the cost of healthcare in America—“Dude” Carl says, “she says it smelled like shit and vape smog because her roommate was always shitting herself and vaping” and I say “What kind of vape, dude?” and he asks his sister then says “she can’t remember, but it was before they outlawed the different flavors or scents or whatever so it was probably some kind of berry,” so I type) Doctor Wilhem hurried through a smog of fecal odors (because I think the Doctor would use some fancy-schmanz word like “fecal” instead of “shit” and he’d hurry, of course, because he’s a doctor, he cares) and blackberry vape mist (but I don’t know if blackberry is right, I just like blackberries, their flavor and appearance, especially the fat Driscoll’s ones, and I don’t know if “mist” is right but I don’t vape so I can google it later, the word for the mist or whatever vapers expel/exhale, “she wants to know how the writing thing is going,” Carl says and he’s eating something now so it sounds like “she wents to know who the riding ting’s gown,” probably sunflower seeds, we all know Carl loves his seeds, his car interior is always covered with their cracked shells, guy chews and spits like a major league ballplayer, “the writing thing?” I ask, surprised, because I haven’t told many people that I want to be a writer therefore, obviously, not many people ask how it’s going, but I did, last year, right when Carl’s sister was released from the psyche ward and he had a little party at his place and she was staying there, sleeping a lot, still heavily drugged, but also pacing around the place during fits of hyper wakefulness, she said during the party I’m mentioning, as we were talking, me, talking around her illness, she, talking from it, reporting back from the warzone, so to speak, she said “Carl says you want to be a writer” and I said “I dabble here and there, I’ve written a story or two, for fun, mostly” and she said “Like Vonnegut?” and I said “You like Vonnegut?” and she said “I like the bit about mustard gas and roses in Slaughterhouse-Five and the time travel, getting unstuck in time, because I feel like I’m time traveling now, a little kid, a happy kid, Carl’s sweet kid sister, but also maybe a functioning woman in the future, holding down a decent job, loving someone, being loved” and I cleared my throat and she continued “of course really I’m stuck in the present, trapped as this fucked up person in front of you, this miserable fucking failure of a person you” and I said “I don’t think you look fucked up” and she said “What do I look like then?” and she grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from the bag on the table but didn’t eat any, she just played with them, moved them around in her palm like some sort of sunflower seed fortune teller sifting through a dozen possible futures and I said “I think you look beautiful” while in my mind I meant it as a harmless compliment, fluff, you see, flattery, but in my heart, ooh, I was surprised to find I meant it, a feeling I’m struggling to recall now because of the numbing meds I mentioned earlier but it was sharp, the surprise and the feeling, sharp and clean, the opposite of numb, and we didn’t say much else after that because Carl came over and she was tired and he wanted me to help make the nachos, so now I tell Carl to tell his sister that the writing thing hasn’t panned out, exactly, and he says “Panned out?” and I hear him relaying this to his sister and I type) then he (Doctor Wilhem, in case you forgot) peered into the room to see one of his patients (and Carl says “She wants to know what you mean by ‘panned out’ and so do I, what the fuck is panned out? Like you’re some sort of gold rush dude, Jerry Rice standing in the river, White Fang ass little bro shaking your pan looking for story gold” and I’m not sure if these words are Carl’s or his sister’s because they’re coming out of his mouth but have more of her air about them, chastising, playful, acid but honest, and I’m wondering if maybe I shouldn’t have called my friend Carl because Doctor Wilhem is still in the fucking hall so this story isn’t going anywhere like my writing career isn’t going anywhere so I say to Carl “Forget it man, I’ll think of something” and Carl says “We’re just busting your balls, dude, lighten up” and I say “Choke on your fucking sunflower seeds, maybe that’s what I’ll write, I’ll have Doctor Wilhem choke on his fucking seeds, ok?” and he says “Who’s Doctor Wilhem?” and I say “He’s the main character of my story, doofus” and he says “She wants to know what he’s doing in the story” and I say “He’s walking down the hall and he hears a noise and the hall smells like shit and blackberry vape smoke or whatever the fuck vapers exhale, vapors maybe?” and Carl says, my friend who knows me and loves me and gets me, wants to help me, “Hold on, tell my sister yourself, I couldn’t care less about this Dr. William whoever the shit” and I say “Wilhem, you fuck!” and she says, because she’s taken the phone now, “Who you calling a Wilhem fuck?” and I say “hi” and she says “hi” and there’s a moment of awkwardness like we’re unstuck in time together, floating there outside time, I don’t know why, I just called for some background, some verisimilitude for my story and she says “tell me what Dr. Wilhem’s doing now” and I say “He’s peering into the group therapy room but there’s only one patient there” and she says “Which one?” and I “She’s very small but sexy and quiet and lovely and sometimes mean, think Fiona Apple” and she “I love Fiona Apple,” and I “think Monica Vitti in Red Desert,” and she “But wasn’t Vitti a redhead?” and I “Why does that matter?” and she “What about verisimilitude?” and I “Ok, ok, Vonnegut junior, what color is your hair, then?” and she, quietly “Auburn, maybe,” and I “Fine, let’s call her hair Auburn, then,” and she “I like that. Auburn sounds good. Auburn we can work with,” and I “We?” and she “We” but pronounced like an exaggerated French “oui” by which I mean both funny and sexy and we talked and talked and talked and talked, she and I, I and she, and I’m still not sure what Doctor Wilhem sees or does or thinks or feels—in fact I no longer care about the good Doctor or what vape vapor is called or verisimilitude or writing—but I know the real psyche ward smelled like some sort of fruity vape flavor and shit and I know that auburn hair is beautiful and I know I’m still capable of feeling things and I know who I’m seeing tonight and at first I wasn’t sure how to tell Carl but on second thought I’ll bet he already knows.

JON DOUGHBOY is Literature’s sentient fart. Enter the Dutch oven of his oeuvre to inhale a whiff of foul prose @doughboywrites

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