Charlie Cain had a pain. It
was in the lower right quadrant of his back. He
thought perhaps his kidneys were there. Or gall
bladder. Or liver. The truth is that he had no
idea what was there. Charlie Cain was not a
hypochondriac but he was not
not a hypochondriac.
The truth also was that Charlie Cain’s
girlfriend, Amber Dressing, had left him because
she had fallen in love with another man, a
doctor. Now, thinking about that doctor made
Charlie sick. He was sure the doctor was
handsome and fit. Amber worked at a fitness
center. Charlie had a bit of a belly and he was
sure Amber had been turned off by his body.
After a full week of the pain he decided
to see a doctor. Charlie had no insurance
because Charlie worked for himself. He was a
freelance writer and, generally, reviewed
anything any newspaper or online zine asked him
to. His payments ranged from $35 to $150 per
piece but, honestly, the $35 gigs were more
frequent. Charlie thought he was whoring out his
talent and there is some truth in this. Anyway,
Charlie’s finances were not that great. He
looked back on the days that he worked for UPS
and his steady paycheck brought him nice things
like food, gas and a beautiful girlfriend: Amber
Dressing. Amber was small and willowy and she
read books. Heart-whole Charlie loved her the
way he’d never loved before.
Charlie lived in a house in a nice
neighborhood north of downtown. The house was
left to him by his parents who died in a car
accident on Charlie’s 22nd birthday.
Amber loved Charlie’s house because it was so
suburban quaint. They made love on Charlie’s
parents’ bed. Charlie never learned whether that
was a turn-on or a turn-off. In any event,
Charlie was a victim of ghosting. Amber gone.
Charlie dead inside.
Our thoughts keep drifting toward Amber.
We were talking about Charlie and his
undernourished bankbook and his mysterious pain.
He called his friend, Meyer.
“Meyer, I have this pain in the lower
right quadrant of my back,” Charlie said.
“Who is this?” Meyer answered.
“Charlie. Cain. I have this pain.”
“Charlie.”
“Yes, Amber’s boyfriend.”
“I heard you broke up.”
“What? Yes, technically. You know me
though, right?”
“Amber’s stuff, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Meyer, I need your advice.”
“About pain.”
“You’re a med student, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I can’t prescribe. I can’t even
really tell you what to do.”
“I have no insurance.”
“Ah.”
“No money.”
“Ah ha.”
“Can you help me?
“What? Like an operation on my kitchen
table?”
“Certainly not.”
“Don’t you have real friends you can
call?”
“Ok, yes. Sorry I bothered you.”
Charlie hung up in a huff. He could call
his friend, Ken, but Ken was usually stoned or
drunk or suicidal. Given that he had scant hope
for good medical advice from Ken. Charlie could
call his sister, Ruby, but Ruby was a worrier.
It was her job. She was the family worrier. She
was also the kind of person to whom you had to
say, “It was a joke,” a lot. He was reaching for
the phone to call her anyway. If the
conversation went well maybe, just maybe, he’d
ask her about the pain in his back. The phone
rang. Charlie, answering the phone, often
sounded like an ape who was surprised that there
were other apes around.
“It’s Meyer,” Meyer said.
“Hi Meyer.”
“I can help you. You got a pen?”
Charlie found a pen. “Yes.”
“Write down this name. Dr. Milton
Raphael. Got that?”
“Yes. Yes, Meyer I’ve got that.”
“And here’s his address and phone
number.”
He gave those to Charlie. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, and Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t make an appointment whatever you
do. He’ll be expecting you.”
“But, Meyer—”
Meyer had hung up. It occurred to Charlie
that Meyer might be pulling his leg. Charlie
could not find a listing for Dr. Raphael in the
phone book or online. There was only one
reference to a Milton Raphael, M.D. online and
it was a college newspaper in Oregon. When
Charlie clicked on the link he found it was to a
page that no longer existed. The doctor’s
address he had been given was in an area of town
Charlie did not know well. He decided the next
morning he would drive there and, if it looked
fishy, he would turn around and go home.
After a fitful night Charlie woke
irritable and the pain in his back was acute. He
dressed gingerly and ate an English muffin with
a single soft-boiled egg. At 8:30 a.m. he was in
his ancient Volvo heading east toward the office
of Dr. Milton Raphael.
As he approached the part of town where
the office was he was nonplussed. Surely, there
were no active businesses here. He turned onto
Vine Street, rolling slowly. He turned down the
radio so he could see the address better and
then there it was, a three-story apartment
complex as grey and dead as last year’s leaves.
He stopped, the engine rumbling. The whole
street stank of decay. Though it was almost nine
in the morning no one was about. Charlie put the
car back into gear and that was when he saw a
curtain move in a downstairs window. The face
peering out seemed to be a small child’s, a girl
perhaps, with dark eyes.
Charlie turned off the car and the
curtain dropped back into place. He made his way
carefully up the cracked sidewalk. The office
number he was given was printed on a small card
which was tacked onto the only door still
attached in the bottom story. Above the address:
Dr. Milton Raphael, D. P. S. A small, chipped
cement platform with three steps and no railing
led to the door. Weeds, like unruly whiskers,
sprouted from the cracks in the steps.
Charlie knocked and the door was
immediately opened by the young girl from the
window. She was around 12, Charlie guessed, with
dirty blond hair and eyes as black as the ace of
spades. She wore a simple white shift. In brief,
she was beautiful, in a decidedly ethereal way.
She showed Charlie to what was a sort of
waiting room. He was amazed at the warm comfort
of the place, as if he had stepped off Skid Row
into the Ritz. The dark, plush furniture was
handsome, vintage but in excellent condition.
The mantle above the large fireplace—in which a
cheerful blaze was crackling—looked as if it had
been carved for the Knights of the Round Table.
The lighting was dim, principally emanating from
an ancient, crystal chandelier, in whose center
winked the eyes of elves and fays.
“He’s expecting you,” the young girl said
behind Charlie’s back, startling him.
“Oh, thank you.”
“Through that door,” she said. And she
smiled. It was as if light had come from a
stone. Again, Charlie thought, what a beautiful
child.
Dr. Raphael’s office was more of the
same: dark, luxurious furniture, oak bookcases
full of esoteric texts, medical manuals and
novels. Heavy drapes and low illumination gave
Charlie the impression he had stepped back in
time. This was a set from a 1940s Warner
Brothers melodrama. And Dr. Raphael completed
the picture. Instead of a white coat he wore a
smart suit of dark blue with light pinstripes
and a collarless black silk undershirt. He had
the salt and pepper beard of the older Freud.
“That’s Annie,” Dr. Raphael said,
extending a hand.
Charlie shook the doctor’s hand which was
soft and cold.
“I’d be lost without Annie. Wise beyond
her years, she is.”
“Is Annie your daughter?”
Dr. Raphael looked over his hornrims.
“I’m told you are having lower back pain.”
“Yes,” Charlie said, and he reached
around to place his hand over the tender spot.
“I see.”
“I’m a little flummoxed. Who made the
appointment for me?”
“Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you sit
on the table there? Brush the cat off.”
A beautiful, brindle-colored cat,
somewhere between the size of a house cat and a
bobcat, looked at Charlie with dancing blue
eyes. Charlie didn’t want to try and move it.
“Get down, Metagrobolize.”
The cat reluctantly hopped down and
disappeared under the desk.
The table was a simple table, again of
brunet wood. No white paper. And no medical
instruments anywhere in sight.
Nevertheless, Charlie took his place on
it.
Dr. Raphael came forward and took
Charlie’s hand. “Just relax,” he said.
Dr. Raphael pulled down each of Charlie’s
eyelids and gave them a good look. He pulled on
his ears, and as he did, he sniffed each one.
“Open your mouth, please.”
Now the doctor grabbed Charlie’s tongue
and held it firm between two fingers.
“Mm,” the good doctor said, leaning over
to smell Charlie’s breath.
Charlie didn’t know if he was meant to
repeat but he said, “Mm.”
“Fart much?” the good doctor asked.
“Excuthe me?”
“Sorry.” He let go of the tongue. “I
asked if you fart much.”
“I don’t know how much is much. I fart
after eating. Sometimes on an empty stomach.”
Dr. Raphael nodded and seemed to be
thinking.
“Lemme see your hands.”
Charlie held out his splayed fingers. The
doctor pulled each finger. A couple of them
cracked. He put his face up to the half-moons on
each fingernail.
“Uh huh,” he said.
“Do you want me to take my shirt off?”
Charlie asked. He was feeling slightly panicky.
“No, no. Thank you.”
Dr. Raphael returned to his desk and sat
down. He thought for a moment.
“Much sex?
Charlie hesitated. “No, not right now.”
“But recently?”
“I had a girlfriend. I don’t have her
anymore.”
“Mm hm. Masturbate?”
“Of course.”
“Good, good.” He thought a minute more.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Start taking
these every morning with your breakfast.
Probably best if you take only one and eat
something with it until we see what they will
do.”
Dr. Raphael scribbled a note on a small
pad of paper, at the top of which was the logo
and name of Redrider Industries.
Charlie looked at the note. It said
something like ‘Buttonazole.’
“That’s all?”
“For now, I think, yes. Thanks for coming
in.”
Dr. Raphael sat and smiled. It was
Charlie’s move. He stood up.
“Ok, thank you, Dr. Raphael.”
Charlie backed out the door.
“Close that, would you?” the doctor
asked.
Charlie did and he looked around the
outer room again. Annie was nowhere to be seen.
The room was as quiet as a statue.
Charlie shook his head as if he’d
awakened from a strange dream. He was pleased
his car was still there and, apparently,
unmolested. It was 9:30 in the morning so he
drove straight to Walgreens. He waited, as
usual, in the line at the pharmacy. Walgreens
always had a line and, when you reached your
destination, there was a surly pharmacist
wondering why you were bothering them.
After about 15 minutes Charlie reached
the pharmacist, who was a young black woman, as
pretty as Halle Berry. She curled her lip.
Charlie handed her the piece of paper.
“What is this?” the surly Halle Berry
said.
“My prescription.”
“Next,” she said, pushing Charlie’s paper
back toward him.
“Wait, wait. I just got this from Dr.
Raphael. I assume you have drugs here.”
Halle Berry gave him the look she saved
for dogs that pee on the carpet.
“Buddy, nice try. You can’t scribble a
drug on a piece of paper and expect us to give
it to you.”
“Listen, I swear. This is what he gave
me. I know it looks odd but he’s a real doctor.”
Charlie suddenly didn’t know why he
believed this.
The pharmacist looked at the note again.
She beckoned one of her mates over. The new guy
had a face like a dropped cake.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does it even say?”
“I think it says buttonazole….” Charlie’s
voice petered off. He was losing hope.
“Get out of here,” the guy said.
“Next,” Halle Berry said.
Charlie stepped on the foot of the person
behind him. The foot was wrapped in a bloody
bandage. With an apology thrown over his
shoulder he stumbled toward the door. He was
shaking by the time he got back behind the wheel
of his antediluvian Volvo and he had to gather
himself before he started back for Dr. Raphael’s
office
He parked and sprinted for the door the
note clasp in his sweaty hand. He pounded on the
door.
“There you are,” Annie said, opening the
door. She was dressed in an absurd ball gown and
tiara.
“Where’s the doctor?” Charlie burst in.
“He’s out,” Annie said, quietly closing
the door.
“Of course he is. What kind of outfit are
you running here?”
“I don’t understand your question. You
ran off without paying this morning.”
Charlie realized then that he had. He
felt embarrassed. And he paused to catch his
breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But that doesn’t
make any difference because this prescription is
a fraud.”
“I assure you it is not,” Annie said.
Charlie had the odd feeling that Annie belonged
at the Madhatter’s Tea Party. She sat down and
crossed her thin legs.
“I took it to Walgreens and they said—”
Annie raised her palm and cut Charlie
off.
“Walgreens is for the others. You’ve been
sent here because your cure cannot be found at
Walgreens.”
“Sent here? I’m all muddled.”
“I can see that you are. If you had not
bolted this morning we could have taken care of
everything right here.”
“I came out of the office and you were
gone. Naturally, I thought—”
“I understand what you thought. You have
no patience, impatient patient. I was in the
lavatory and, had you waited a moment, I would
have taken your payment and given you the
nostrum the doctor prescribed.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand how
things work here. This is a very unconventional
office.”
“For unconventional cures.”
“But why do I need an unconventional
cure. I only have this pain in my lower right
quadrant.”
“Is that really all that’s bothering you,
Charlie?”
She spoke his name as if they had grown
up together. She looked at him with gentle
appraisal, as if she could peer into his pneuma.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you happy, Charlie?”
“I don’t see—”
“Are you in love, Charlie? Are you
satisfied with your life currently?”
“Well, no.”
“There are you.”
“Where am I?”
“Right here with us where you belong. Now
if you will just pay I will take the doctor’s
note and retrieve your medicine.”
“I have no insurance.”
“Neither do we.” And she simpered. “Nor
do we take it. Cash only.”
“I—I don’t have much cash. How much is
it?”
“Let me have the note.”
Charlie handed her the wadded, retted
note.
“I think I can make this out. Of course.
That will be ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars.”
“That’s correct.”
Annie uncrossed her legs and recrossed
them the other way.
“This seems so—”
“I know. Ten dollars and I fetch your
meds.”
Charlie opened his wallet and took out
two fives and laid them softly on the desk.
“Ok,” Annie said. She stood and left the
room. Charlie waited.
“Here we go,” Annie said, returning with
a small umber vial with a black squeeze bulb
top.
“Drops?”
“That’s right. One under the tongue with
breakfast. One with lunch. One with dinner.”
“And then what.”
“Well, if one day’s dosage works—huzzah!”
Annie raised both arms like a cheerleader after
a score.
“I see. Ok.”
“Thank you, Charlie Cain.”
“Thank you, um, Annie.”
Charlie drove home. He put the vial in
the middle of his kitchen table. Should he wait
till the morning to start the full day’s dosage?
He wished he had asked. He was hungry so he made
himself a bologna sandwich on white bread, with
some corn chips and a coke. Before he ate he
lifted the vial and shook it against the light.
The liquid was murky as if minute, squirmy
things were suspended in it. Without thinking
any further he unscrewed the stopper and dropped
a tiny globule under his tongue. It was acrid
but not unbearable.
He ate his lunch.
Then he began work on a book review due
for the daily paper. The writing went well for a
while. Phrases appeared on the screen as if my
conjuration—conscious thought was not creating
but the better angels were. After about ninety
minutes Charlie stretched and looked at the
screen. He had already completed his approved
word count. This felt good. Charlie admitted
that he felt good. The pain in his lower back
was now only a slightly painful whirr.
With dinner—some light pasta with olive
oil, lime juice and garlic—Charlie took another
drop of his medicine. So far, no effects, side
or otherwise. He wondered how long before he
would feel better. Another question he should
have asked.
He watched a little television—TCM was
showing a Glenn Ford festival—and about ten the
pain in his back had returned. He was also
experiencing some slight vertigo. He decided to
sleep rather than brood about it. He slept well
the entire night, bothered only slightly by
strange dreams about animals that no human eye
had before discerned, manticores and teratisms.
By the time he awoke the sun was coming in
around his curtains in honeyed shafts.
Charlie rose, feeling light of limb and
heart. The pain in his back was all but gone—a
small pebble of pain was all that remained. He
shuffled into the bathroom and turned on the
shower. Under the water Charlie relished the
slight needling of the spray and the heat that
steamed the air around him. He shampooed his
hair, shook his head like a dog, and opened his
eyes. It was then that he saw something
anomalous about his hands and forearms. They
were—almost transparent. They flickered like an
old film and seemed lit by a lemony inner light.
He shook one and it was flesh and then
not-flesh, flesh and then not-flesh. Charlie’s
heart constricted. Fear filled him.
He turned off the water and stepped
outside the shower. The entire bathroom was
filled with fog and Charlie opened the door. In
the clearing atmosphere he surveyed his entire
body. The flickering filled his entire frame.
“Eek!” Charlie eeked.
He grabbed a towel and wiped the mirror
clean. His head—his face—were indistinct. He was
transparent. He could see the fleur-de-lis
wallpaper behind him through his forehead.
“Eek!” he said again.
He quickly found his robe and wrapped
himself in it. His body’s shape was there
beneath the terrycloth but his hands and head
were jars of fireflies. He ran into the next
room. What to do? Call 911? What would he say?
That he could see through himself? They’d laugh
and never come.
He went to the kitchen and started a pot
of coffee. He paced while it dripped. When he’d
gotten himself a cup he took a bagel from the
cabinet and sat at the kitchen table. The coffee
felt restorative and he ate the bagel only to
keep the coffee from burning a hole in his
stomach. He kept looking at his hands—he did not
recognize them as part of him. Then he saw the
bottle of drops sitting on the table in front of
him.
He pondered what to do. Had the drops
caused this? Was it because he didn’t take three
in one day? Did that mean he should take another
right away? The dithering was making his globe
even lighter. He squeezed another drop onto his
tongue and followed it with a bite of bagel and
a swallow of coffee. He sat still as if
something were going to happen right away. After
fifteen minutes he got up and walked around.
After another fifteen he decided to get dressed.
He found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt,
socks and tennis shoes. When he dropped the robe
onto the bed he looked down. Never look down,
his insipient brain said. And he wished he
hadn’t. Everything was gone. Gut, thighs, cock,
legs. Charlie was completely invisible. He ran
back into the bathroom. Nothing stared back at
him from the mirror.
Am I dead, Charlie wondered? Were the
drops poison?
He ran his hands down his torso and was
relieved that he could still feel himself. He
gave his penis a reassuring tug, as if this were
a test for nullibiety. He still existed. Unless
he was a ghost. A ghost with a penis.
He pulled his jeans on and the effect was
horrible. This was worse. He could not go out in
clothing. It would appear as if the clothing
were floating along by itself. He took the pants
off and laid them carefully on the bed.
He called Meyer, who answered after one
ring. Except it was only the outgoing message:
“It’s Meyer. At least it was this morning. Leave
me a message or leave me alone.”
“Meyer,” Charlie said into Meyer’s phone.
“It’s Charlie. Call me back soon please. It’s
important.”