looked terrible.
‘I’m melting,’ he said.
‘Maybe you should see a doctor.’ She patted him on theshoulder, which stuck slightly to his shirt, before bustling into the next cubicle to ask what the date was.
At the doctors, he removed his soaking shirt, his damp pants, his soggy socks, and stood there, dripping. His doctor — a kindly Hitchcock lookalike with no sign of a top lip — inspected his body, shone lights into his ears, pushed down his tongue with popsicle sticks, and prodded tender spots with three stiff fingers. He held an empty urine container below a dripping elbow and collected a sample of the liquid for testing.
‘I should have the results in a couple of days.’
‘What should I do until then?’
The doctor shrugged, and suddenly looked a lot younger, a lot less like Hitchcock.
That night, he rang his best friend who lived in another city.
‘I want to cry, but I’m on water restrictions.’
‘Maybe it’s not, y’know, physical?’ said the friend.
‘It’s manifestly physical,’ he replied. ‘It’s dripping all over the receiver.’
‘Okay, but maybe you should see a mental health professional anyway.’
‘Why are you talking like that?’
In the shrink’s waiting room, he made a young girl cry.
‘Is he dying, Daddy?’ she asked. ‘Will he die like Mummy?’
The shrink — a dead ringer for Lily Tomlin — asked him if he had changed his routine lately. Had he experienced a traumatic event? Had he lost a loved one?
‘Well, I’m stumped,’ she said, and smiled a squinty smile.
The test results came back from the lab. The doctor informed him he was leaking water. ‘Pure H 2 O.’
He went to a priest and got into a metaphysical argument.
The priest — who looked like every other priest he’d ever met; that is, somewhere between his grandfather and the previous pope — told him, ‘You must look beyond the physical. This is not your spirit, my son,’ pointing to the puddle slowly extending along the pew.
‘But the human body is, like, ninety per cent water. This stuff I’m losing, it is me! What’s left but dead wood?’
The priest brought a finger up to rest on the shelf of his top lip. ‘I read an article in the Globe about this the other day. Well, not this exactly,’ he said, slowly pulling his vestments away from the pooling water. ‘Apparently, the body is ninety per cent water at birth, but the proportion decreases with age. An adult is about seventy per cent water. The elderly are about fifty per cent. But then, my son, there is the soul!’
The scientist — who looked a little like Tony Blair, a little like Hugh Grant — confirmed what the priest had told him.
‘Are you drinking enough?’
‘I don’t stop.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem.’
‘Would I look like this if I was over-hydrated?’ He pulled up the sleeve of his raincoat, which was as good at hiding his waterworks as it was at keeping the rain out, and revealed his emaciated arm. ‘I can hardly lift a glass with this thing, but the drinking is the only thing keeping me alive.’
‘Have you tried straws?’
The scientist started researching.
The priest added the poor melting man into his prayers.
The doctor conducted more tests.
The shrink kept him waiting two and a half hours while her cat gave birth.
While in the waiting room, he read Cosmo and Fast Fours and GQ and Bride and a copy of National Geographic that must have been the oldest magazine there. He read an article concerning the pollution of East German rivers, an interview with Dian Fossey and a story about the San Andreas fault. He asked the receptionist for a pen and wrote a few lines over an ad for Fuji film:
Three crusts to this earth
The land crust
The sea crust
And the crust of ourselves
‘What does it mean?’ the shrink asked when he showed it to her.
‘I don’t really know.’
Even though he kept leaking pure H 2 O, and the doctor, shrink, priest and scientist weren’t coming up with
‘I’m melting,’ he said.
‘Maybe you should see a doctor.’ She patted him on theshoulder, which stuck slightly to his shirt, before bustling into the next cubicle to ask what the date was.
At the doctors, he removed his soaking shirt, his damp pants, his soggy socks, and stood there, dripping. His doctor — a kindly Hitchcock lookalike with no sign of a top lip — inspected his body, shone lights into his ears, pushed down his tongue with popsicle sticks, and prodded tender spots with three stiff fingers. He held an empty urine container below a dripping elbow and collected a sample of the liquid for testing.
‘I should have the results in a couple of days.’
‘What should I do until then?’
The doctor shrugged, and suddenly looked a lot younger, a lot less like Hitchcock.
That night, he rang his best friend who lived in another city.
‘I want to cry, but I’m on water restrictions.’
‘Maybe it’s not, y’know, physical?’ said the friend.
‘It’s manifestly physical,’ he replied. ‘It’s dripping all over the receiver.’
‘Okay, but maybe you should see a mental health professional anyway.’
‘Why are you talking like that?’
In the shrink’s waiting room, he made a young girl cry.
‘Is he dying, Daddy?’ she asked. ‘Will he die like Mummy?’
The shrink — a dead ringer for Lily Tomlin — asked him if he had changed his routine lately. Had he experienced a traumatic event? Had he lost a loved one?
‘Well, I’m stumped,’ she said, and smiled a squinty smile.
The test results came back from the lab. The doctor informed him he was leaking water. ‘Pure H 2 O.’
He went to a priest and got into a metaphysical argument.
The priest — who looked like every other priest he’d ever met; that is, somewhere between his grandfather and the previous pope — told him, ‘You must look beyond the physical. This is not your spirit, my son,’ pointing to the puddle slowly extending along the pew.
‘But the human body is, like, ninety per cent water. This stuff I’m losing, it is me! What’s left but dead wood?’
The priest brought a finger up to rest on the shelf of his top lip. ‘I read an article in the Globe about this the other day. Well, not this exactly,’ he said, slowly pulling his vestments away from the pooling water. ‘Apparently, the body is ninety per cent water at birth, but the proportion decreases with age. An adult is about seventy per cent water. The elderly are about fifty per cent. But then, my son, there is the soul!’
The scientist — who looked a little like Tony Blair, a little like Hugh Grant — confirmed what the priest had told him.
‘Are you drinking enough?’
‘I don’t stop.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem.’
‘Would I look like this if I was over-hydrated?’ He pulled up the sleeve of his raincoat, which was as good at hiding his waterworks as it was at keeping the rain out, and revealed his emaciated arm. ‘I can hardly lift a glass with this thing, but the drinking is the only thing keeping me alive.’
‘Have you tried straws?’
The scientist started researching.
The priest added the poor melting man into his prayers.
The doctor conducted more tests.
The shrink kept him waiting two and a half hours while her cat gave birth.
While in the waiting room, he read Cosmo and Fast Fours and GQ and Bride and a copy of National Geographic that must have been the oldest magazine there. He read an article concerning the pollution of East German rivers, an interview with Dian Fossey and a story about the San Andreas fault. He asked the receptionist for a pen and wrote a few lines over an ad for Fuji film:
Three crusts to this earth
The land crust
The sea crust
And the crust of ourselves
‘What does it mean?’ the shrink asked when he showed it to her.
‘I don’t really know.’
Even though he kept leaking pure H 2 O, and the doctor, shrink, priest and scientist weren’t coming up with
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