Short story: You Get What You Deserve By Karl Whitney - - - - “The truth is, doc, I have a great anxiety about writing a story.” Mortimer Martin was lying on a black leather couch along a wall in the office of his psychoanalyst. “Call it performance anxiety, call it what you want, I just can’t see it through”. He would sit down at his desk, a blank sheet of paper staring back at him. He would write some words, something like, “the man sat down at his desk and began to write a story which he would never complete”, and then he would go blank. Nothing came. “Then I would go blank;” he explained, “nothing came”. The doctor, who habitually snoozed through these afternoon sessions with Mortimer Martin, woke with a start from his position face down on the desk, sat up, and commented on the sexual connotations of the whole thing, before nodding off again, this time sitting upright. His sleep was ungainly. His upper body circled like an injured bird looking for somewhere to land. A tendril of drool hung low from the edge of his mouth, connecting him temporarily to the desk. Its moistness glistened in the weak sunlight that shone through the gaps in the blind. Mortimer continued: talking about the difficulty he had with pens, how many pages it took him to develop a character that was believable, that the reader could feel close to, could identify with. Then he decided to kill the character, have him run over by a bus. The doctor began to dream. His earthly form ceased to circle, and headed for the desk. He spoke in his sleep, mumbling in long sentences with no discernable words. “Hummmveeerrgrrrremttrrrightig naggggritthheggggh mwgggggggharuuumph” he said. The doctor didn’t know he talked in his sleep. His wife had never told him, partly because he didn’t talk that much when he was asleep at home. There, his speech while asleep was less emphatic and much quieter – more a whisper than the great baritone rumble that he emitted during his sessions with his patients. His patients knew he talked in his sleep; they were only too aware. As if to add insult to injury, the doctor not only sleeps through their sessions, he also talks in his sleep, often at high volume. This meant they had to raise their voices in order to compete with him. At first patients thought that it happened only to them, took it as a form of criticism, and didn’t say anything about it. Then they started to enjoy it. The doctor’s secretary heard everything from outside. First a faint whisper: the patients quietly enumerating their neuroses for the calm and receptive doctor. This would go on for five minutes or so. Then, loud snoring. The odd snort too, at times. Then, increasingly loud talking, relentless and unfocused. Then, the previously quiet patient gets testy and starts shouting back, first in something recognisable as language, then in something comparable to the doctor’s drivel. Then, when the time was up, the patient would emerge from the room with a broad smile on his or her face, and sometimes comment approvingly of the doctor’s “new technique”. Then his secretary would go in and wake him up. Mortimer Martin, however, was a different case. His endless neurotic ramblings left little room for anybody else. Therefore, the doctor’s sleeping wasn’t a problem. Occasionally, the doctor snapped briefly back to consciousness, whereupon he would feel the need to prompt professionally with one of his stock phrases, such as: “Do you think it’s sexually derived?”; or “Hmmmmm…” here he would stroke his chin meaningfully, “that’s an interesting predicament, surely”; or “Have you talked about this to your wife?”; or “do you think that this problem is … entirely healthy?”; or, most frequently, “I’m afraid our time is up.” None of this presented a problem to Mortimer Martin. For him, these comments were merely a means to prompt him to talk more about himself. They were not needed, it must be said, as Mortimer Martin talked at length about himself, and not merely during his sessions with the doctor. For example. Once, his car was in the garage for servicing, and he took the bus to work. When a woman innocently sat beside him, he seized upon the occasion to tell her, a complete stranger, about his problems with the neighbours who objected to his greenhouse construction in the back garden. The woman, intimidated into passivity by the obvious presence of a bore, merely made odd sounds of agreement or disapproval wherever necessary. The bus got stuck in traffic, and Mortimer talked some more. His trips to the sandwich bar just down the street from his office provided similar opportunities for conversations about topics such as: the time he went on holidays to Italy, but found it “a cultural wasteland full of barbarians” and anyway he got sunburnt; his novel and the progressions he was making vis-à-vis theme and structure; how uncommunicative a woman on the bus had been that morning when he tried to instigate a debate about planning permission in surburban areas; the weather: how bad it was, why it was so bad (excessive fishing off the south coast meant that there were fewer fish; fewer fish meant that the water was colder; cold water caused a dip in the temperature. It made sense); and the time his dog bit a neighbour’s child, and how proud he was of the canine offender. The dog was put down by order of the court. How it had been like losing a member of the family. Almost worse. In fact it was definitely worse. But, the time he spent on the couch with the doctor was his time, exclusively. He could talk, not just about the amazing things that had happened to him, but also about his feelings, his sense of self-worth, his life. Until, that is, the doctor began to butt in with his sleep-speaking. “So I’m sitting at my desk, blank sheet of paper in front of me, and I’m thinking: ‘what kind of pen should I use?’” Mortimer had a philosophy of pens. He would use blue pen usually, because it was a nice neutral writing colour, he felt. It was not unduly sad. Red pen was the colour of correction: at school it spoke of mistakes, but sometimes of a job well done. He steered clear of red pen for the most part. Coincidentally, no one had the confidence to correct anything Mortimer Martin had written, ever. Black pen, to him, was funereal. Sad, yes, but with a tinge of beauty too, it must be said. “And I think: why not go for the green one; I never use green usually. But this was an unusual case, doctor. I was sure this time I would crack it. I would get down exactly what I had in my head, on paper, perfectly.” The doctor now seemingly awake, stared with perfect clarity and evident disgust at the relentless jawing of Mortimer’s mouth as he spoke, at length, of his craft. “So, everything’s flowing beautifully. The character, and all his traits and peculiarities are there, on the page. He’s a loner, but he loves a woman he lost a long time ago. He’s a successful solicitor, owns his own practice in South Dublin.” Mortimer was a solicitor, not unsuccessful, and had his own business. “…And he solves crime in his spare time. He really does – no fooling. So when he knocks off in the evening, everyone else is going home to the wife, or going out for a drink. But he doesn’t. He says goodbye to everyone else, then zooms off in his Jag to fight crime, Batman-style.” At this point, the doctor resumed his sleep, wobbling dreamily. He rested his head on the desk. “But one day, he decides to tell his story to someone. He’s tired of living a double life, is what I’m saying. He can’t take it anymore. Do you know what I’m saying?” “Mmmmmmmmmmghh” hummed the doctor, whose sleepy rumblings had begun to rise in volume. “So, he rings the woman he loved, years ago. A good woman, nice, understanding. He rings her and asks to meet up. He wants to talk. She’s a nice woman, says yes. They arrange to meet in a coffee shop next to a busy road not far from his office.” “Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrkkkkkh.” Unperturbed by the doctor’s growl, Mortimer continued. “The day arrives, and he heads off from the office to meet her. He attempts to cross the busy road. And it’s busy: cars are flying this way and that, everyone rushing around. He narrowly misses getting hit by a car by jumping out of the lane at the last minute. Instead, he gets hit by a bus. He dies. He was going to tell her all about his life, but now he’s dead, and no one knows his secret.” “Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh Maaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghlefaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargghhle!” the doctor shouted, his face squashed down into the desk. “What?” Mortimer asked, unsure what technique the doctor was now employing. The doctor responded to this question, seemingly still asleep. His head raised slowly, mechanically, from the surface. “You!” he said, then pointed over Mortimer’s shoulder into the corner of the room where there was a painting of a monk carrying an illuminated manuscript in his arms. In the background a lion and a lamb cavorted merrily on a mountainside, while an unearthly light shone directly down on them from above. The doctor suddenly shot to his feet. The doctor’s eyes were open wide now, so that all Mortimer could make out in the twilight of the room were the whites of his eyes, seemingly giving off a light all of their own. “How could you… do this to meeeeee?” the doctor screamed, away from his desk now and falling to his knees, pleading now with the painting, now with a crack in the floorboard. Mortimer, shot through with fear, turned his attention away from his own problems, seeing that in order to help himself in this situation he would have to help the doctor too. “What … is … wrong?” Mortimer asked the doctor, stretching the ‘o’ of ‘wrong’ out to a ridiculous length. He had a vague feeling the doctor was possessed. “Aaarghle Faaaaaaaaaarghle. Mackkkinawwwwe” the doctor replied. Mortimer could see this approach was leading nowhere. The doctor now was climbing a plinth in the corner that had held a pot plant. He balanced precariously on the narrow platform with both feet. He was attempting to reach the bookcase. The plant lay on the ground, the shards of porcelain scattered across the floor. “Stop that! Get down!” An element of schoolmasterly indignation was creeping into Mortimer’s voice, a tone which he usually only used when addressing those less fortunate than himself: children, the weak, the mentally ill, shop assistants. The doctor remained oblivious to Mortimer’s efforts at coaxing him from his perch. Instead, an odd tranquillity pervaded his features. His head was held loosely at a slight angle; his mouth was fixed in a curious half-smile. He hummed. Mortimer, however, was paralysed with fear. He shouted, but his words were useless. This fool was standing on the bookcase, clinging to an upper shelf, but looking like he was relaxing at home, listening to some music. Like he was letting it all drift over him. Mortimer continued haranguing the doctor, but his words soon turned to primal sounds of panic. His urge to retrieve the doctor from his eyrie using civilised language departed. “Huuuuuuuuuuurgh! Whuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrgh!” said the doctor. “Waaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh harrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh,” replied Mortimer. “Huuuuuuurghhle whuuuuuuuuuurghle,” the doctor continued, stepping down from the bookcase onto the floor. “Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh uuuuuuuugh,” Mortimer roared, his eyes closed now, head shaking with rage. The doctor looked at his watch, then looked at Mortimer. “Well, I think that’s all the time we have for this week.” “Hrrrrrrrrrrrgh… what?” The doctor was standing now, in front of Mortimer. He placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. Mortimer, startled, sidled out the door, but not without stopping first to confirm his next appointment with the doctor’s secretary. -------- Stories | Home | About This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.