Spring Term.
So OK.
What can I say here?
So one thing that keeps happening in this book
is that the guy, the protagonist keeps finding his own book
in the campus used bookstore.
And he's inscribed it lovingly to various people,
and he keeps finding that they've sold it back.
And so this time, he's recently just found
that his oncologist has also just sold his book back, Song.
"Four."
"'I'm here for my follow-up,' I announce,
drumming my fingers on the counter.
'I have an appointment.'
Since my last visit, some campus wag with a Sharpie
has doctored the C on the oncology wall plaque into a T.
Water drips from the ceiling, and forms a Stygian pool
at my feet.
The waiting area has seen better days.
So have the patients.
'I'm sorry,' says the receptionist blinking.
'The doctor can't see you.'
This isn't the first time I've had to reschedule with Song.
Fumbling for my planner, I scowl at the receptionist.
Maybe it's just deja vu, but she looks strangely familiar.
'Hold on,' I say digging around in my satchel.
'Weren't you in Disorienting Asian-American Poetry a few
years back?'
'Actually, it was Poetics of Erasure' she murmurs, blushing.
'I didn't think you'd remember.'
I nod sagely, though I can't put a name to the face.
Across the room, a black woman with red eyes
swats at her toddler with a rolled up golf digest.
'I don't teach that class anymore,' I say,
rubbing my chin.
'I guess I've moved on.'
[NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
Now and then, a distorted voice calls out
patient names in an infernal accent over the intercom.
[NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
An unshaven man in a papery gown wheels up
beside me cradling a plastic bag half full of urine.
I'm a hopeless optimist I suppose.
For all I know, he may see the bag as half empty.
'So what times do you have open?'
I ask consulting my planner.
I've got a score to settle with Song.
Discuss long term prognosis my planner reads.
Then a little pop quiz on the book.
'I probably shouldn't be telling you this,' my former pupil
intones sotto voce.
Arching an eyebrow, she leans over the counter.
'Song's dead.
Sorry?
Suicide, I hear.'
'Oh,' I say bracing myself on the counter.
'I see.' An excess of molecular dust floods my system.
I feel like an inkblot reborn as an auto decapitated death God
on the planet after this one.
For reasons beyond me, I bow deeply.
'But I don't understand.'
[NON-ENGLISH SPEECH]
'I've already said too much,' whispers my former pupil,
whose name will forever escape me.
'May I schedule an appointment with another physician?'
My informant resumes an administrative demeanor.
She frowns at something on the other side of the screen.
'Let's see.
I might be able to squeeze you in for a quickie with Doctor
Who.'"