Driving Doctor Mayhem

[9] Whatchamacallit

One particular morning, I think it was a Thursday, I walked in to find Doctor Mayhem fast asleep, bent in an 'L' shape with his head on the kitchen countertop, and his feet still planted on the ground. I squirted him with the kitten's disciplinary water-sprayer-thing for a few minutes, he shot up.

"What's up, Doc?"

He gave me a blank look, yawning, "Pardon you?"

"Bugs Bunny?"

"Not a fan. Try again."

I rolled my eyes, clearing my throat. "Hello, Doc."

"Good morning, Miss Banks."

"You know, you could call me Banksy. Miss Banks sounds like a substitute teacher or something. Not even a good one--the kind that inherently mistrusts all children and never lets you use the restroom."

"I'm very curious about what you're basing that on," he said. "On another note, Banksy? As in, street-artist-Banksy?"

"No, as in Robin-is-a-wimpy-sidekick-name-Banksy."

Doc readjusted his skewed tie. "As in, you didn't like your name, so you stole somebody else's?"

"Don't be smug; it's on loan," I chuckled, "I'm not going to be a ninety-year-old grandma, still insisting that everyone call me Banksy. That'd be ridiculous."

"It's ridiculous now," he said, mostly to himself, grabbing an apple and strolling out of the room.

"And Doctor Mayhem is so creative!" I called after him. "Not derivative at all!"

I set his mail on the counter, like I did every morning, turned on the coffee-maker, like I did every morning, and filled up Cleo the kitten's food bowl, like I did every morning. The day started out incredibly uneventful, in fact.

The coffee-maker had just started to bubble and brew when Doc raced in from his back office, swinging a pool stick around like a sword.

Now, Doctor Mayhem wasn't exactly a violent man. He sent me in to kill cockroaches and, according to a postcard on his fridge, had adopted a manatee in Florida through one of those DNR programs, but he was unpredictable, and thus, not someone you want to see wielding any sort of weapon.

I held the kitten up like a shield. "Uh, would you mind, please, not pointing the big stabby-looking stick in my direction? I'm sure, I hope, you don't mean anything by it, but you're clumsy, and I have slow reflexes, and don't want my eulogy to read, 'accidentally maimed by pool stick'."

"Good, because if something unforeseen and tragic were to happen, it would read, 'accidentally maimed by either a cue stick or a pool cue'. Kids these days--so uncultured. I shouldn't condescend. You're just a product of your generation, after all." He shrugged and held the cue down at his side, leaning on it like a cane. "Do you know how to play eight-ball?"

"Vaguely."

"Not good enough." He shook his head mournfully. "But that is easily remedied."

"I was supposed to balance your checkbook tod--"

"Playing pool takes precedence," he cut me off, deadly serious.

So, that's exactly what we did; we played pool. For hours, he taught me about pockets and stripes and that little triangle whatchamacallit, and I listened to him drone on and on about how Mayor Collodi was corrupt and boring--a rare combination, according to Doc.

During our game, I told him for the second time about how I sneezed in Collodi's soup on purpose when he held up the line at the soup kitchen with his photo op. This time, Doc listened and even chuckled at the right times and everything.

Pretty soon, it was time for me to head home, although my pool skills had yet to increase whatsoever and I still hadn't balanced his checkbook. Doc told me not to worry, because he didn't trust me to do accurate math anyway, and in retrospect, I probably should have been offended, but mostly, I was really glad that I hadn't settled on Dairy Queen.

I had fun that day, but Doc never really had fun, I don't think. Doc only had plans. And even the most seemingly random occurrences were a part of them.