my mother left him Iknow now were nothing special. His demands, his cries—well, I too once cried, once demanded. But still I have no phlegm for him. Not that he wants any. He wants for nothing.
Almost nothing. There is that touchy issue about the thumbs.
My boss is low-phlegm, but he works with it. He’s slick at palming a prepared blob of phlegm (or
FLEM!
™) and pressing it into a new client’s hand, to jump-start the camaraderie. Studies have shown this works even when you’re conscious of the deception, so sophisticated types (he likes to think he is one) use colored and scented phlegm to make an impact while drawing attention ironically to the artifice. [See Appendix 2 .]
“God knows phlegm production is not the be-all and end-all here at Adventurous Electrolysis. We’re a reputable business. God knows we hired you in that you are highly skilled and not for your pretty face.”
We laugh good-naturedly.
“But we need to talk about your people skills. Our customers want to see a little phlegm. Give to get!”
I stop listening. My boss molds phlegm with too much zest and alarms our clients, some of whom are skittish to begin with. You cannot tell him anything about phlegm, however.
My father wants me to put my thumb in his mouth. He says that if I will only do this, putting pressure on the palate, it will ease the chronic blockage he suffers due to his deviated septum. He begs me to do it. I have a problem with this: I am afraid he will forget himself and bite my thumb off. He would put his own thumbs in his mouth but he has no thumbs anymore, only the pads and those poor, futile flippers. He weeps.
…
When it is a matter of putting your fingers inside someone’s mouth, accidents will happen. Father claims that two patients bit off his thumbs (on separate occasions): a blonde with hiccups and a nervous mother of four with a large keister. He says he remained calm and urged them to disgorge his thumbs. What a stroke of bad luck that they both had strong swallow reflexes! They tried to puke, he tried to make them puke, the EMTs with their ipecac tried to make them puke. Eventually they puked. But the thumbs were not fit for reattachment anymore. That was the end of his practice and the tragedy of his life. He weeps.
In fact he bit them off himself, possibly to protest the home I put him in.
Some of our busybody neighbors (led by Mrs. Nachtsheim, who also instituted the Block Watch and the Phone Tree), not content to let things take their course, have taken to spreading their extra phlegm outside their houses and encouraging others to do the same as a way of binding us closer together. The idea is that the autonomic processes of phlegm production will respond to this climate and take over, upping yield. Sometimes I see skeins of phlegm draped among the hedges in our neighborhood, but usually by midday it has dried into an almost invisible and barely tacky film that tears, shrivels into threads, and blows away. However, lately I have seen bigger blobs (under bushes, in the crawl space under porch steps) that last almost all day.
Father is kittenish today. “Check out the keister on her!” He is talking about the fat-bottomed woman across the street, who iscarrying a limp swag of hose across the lawn. Her cat watches from the window with an air of affront. Halfway across the lawn the woman stops. Then she drops the rope as if she has forgotten it and walks back into the house. Has she thought of something better to do? Has she lost faith in the value of homely tasks such as watering the lawn? For a moment, when I saw her carrying the hose, I felt a slight uplift of the spirits, though I am only aware of it in the peace that comes afterwards, when familiar despair sweeps back in and puts things to rights, like a good nurse. I believed that she knew what she wanted of that hose, and she knew it was a right thing to want it, and she knew how to get it. It gave me a brisk, optimistic feeling about doing
Almost nothing. There is that touchy issue about the thumbs.
My boss is low-phlegm, but he works with it. He’s slick at palming a prepared blob of phlegm (or
FLEM!
™) and pressing it into a new client’s hand, to jump-start the camaraderie. Studies have shown this works even when you’re conscious of the deception, so sophisticated types (he likes to think he is one) use colored and scented phlegm to make an impact while drawing attention ironically to the artifice. [See Appendix 2 .]
“God knows phlegm production is not the be-all and end-all here at Adventurous Electrolysis. We’re a reputable business. God knows we hired you in that you are highly skilled and not for your pretty face.”
We laugh good-naturedly.
“But we need to talk about your people skills. Our customers want to see a little phlegm. Give to get!”
I stop listening. My boss molds phlegm with too much zest and alarms our clients, some of whom are skittish to begin with. You cannot tell him anything about phlegm, however.
My father wants me to put my thumb in his mouth. He says that if I will only do this, putting pressure on the palate, it will ease the chronic blockage he suffers due to his deviated septum. He begs me to do it. I have a problem with this: I am afraid he will forget himself and bite my thumb off. He would put his own thumbs in his mouth but he has no thumbs anymore, only the pads and those poor, futile flippers. He weeps.
…
When it is a matter of putting your fingers inside someone’s mouth, accidents will happen. Father claims that two patients bit off his thumbs (on separate occasions): a blonde with hiccups and a nervous mother of four with a large keister. He says he remained calm and urged them to disgorge his thumbs. What a stroke of bad luck that they both had strong swallow reflexes! They tried to puke, he tried to make them puke, the EMTs with their ipecac tried to make them puke. Eventually they puked. But the thumbs were not fit for reattachment anymore. That was the end of his practice and the tragedy of his life. He weeps.
In fact he bit them off himself, possibly to protest the home I put him in.
Some of our busybody neighbors (led by Mrs. Nachtsheim, who also instituted the Block Watch and the Phone Tree), not content to let things take their course, have taken to spreading their extra phlegm outside their houses and encouraging others to do the same as a way of binding us closer together. The idea is that the autonomic processes of phlegm production will respond to this climate and take over, upping yield. Sometimes I see skeins of phlegm draped among the hedges in our neighborhood, but usually by midday it has dried into an almost invisible and barely tacky film that tears, shrivels into threads, and blows away. However, lately I have seen bigger blobs (under bushes, in the crawl space under porch steps) that last almost all day.
Father is kittenish today. “Check out the keister on her!” He is talking about the fat-bottomed woman across the street, who iscarrying a limp swag of hose across the lawn. Her cat watches from the window with an air of affront. Halfway across the lawn the woman stops. Then she drops the rope as if she has forgotten it and walks back into the house. Has she thought of something better to do? Has she lost faith in the value of homely tasks such as watering the lawn? For a moment, when I saw her carrying the hose, I felt a slight uplift of the spirits, though I am only aware of it in the peace that comes afterwards, when familiar despair sweeps back in and puts things to rights, like a good nurse. I believed that she knew what she wanted of that hose, and she knew it was a right thing to want it, and she knew how to get it. It gave me a brisk, optimistic feeling about doing
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