The Doctor Is Out…

by Fielding Goodfellow

I am at that age when shit happens. Not just to me, but to people I have involved in my life. It was sad to learn that the doctor was sick. He was by his own admission, really sick. He had been diagnosed with cancer some time ago and despite beating it back with his love of life and the usual regimen of assorted treatments, it had returned with a vengeance. And anger. It seemed so very angry this time. And while he continued to fight back, he recently discovered that the battle was lost. He began preparing for the end by doing his best to enjoy whatever time he had left. He was like that though. He had survived a stint in the army, a truck load of ex wives, and years of relentless hallucinogen use with a laugh and a story to tell. He said he was okay with it now, and I was certain he was, but it was hard for me to get my head around the fact that the doctor of debauchery and depravity was on his way out.

I called him my friend, but we were really kindred spirits, enjoying life in the theater of the absurd, and travelling across time and space to worlds that existed only in our own minds. We met somewhere on the Oregon trail, balls deep in female loggers, peyote buttons, and a polka music playing drummer who joined us on our journey of paradoxical pandemonium, all in an attempt to rewrite history as we imagined it. We shared our own life stories, our love of science fiction, books, beaver hunting, and music. We traded barbs and snappy retorts, wrapped in sarcasm and irony, and laughed until we forgot what the hell we were laughing about.

I had planned on visiting the good doctor, several times, but it seems I left it too late. Its a shame really, I mean I would have liked to have smuggled the Italian French-Canadian hybrid into Comerica Park and stuffed him full of hot dogs and beer as we watched the Tigers blow a two run lead in the top of the ninth to the Jays. But shit happens. At least we were able to boldly go where no man has gone before. For that I am eternally grateful, but man I hate having to look for a new doctor.

Si, Senior

So, my bank has decided that I now qualify for the senior’s discount on account service fees. It sounds like a good deal, but I am not certain that I am ready to be considered a ‘senior’. I have been telling my kids that it is merely the Spanish term for mister, but they don’t seem to want to believe me. Considering that I receive the  senior discount from the Wyndham Hotel chain, and qualify for the discount days at several retail outlets, it is hard to convince them.

My wife is thrilled about this, and I assume it is the savings she can obtain, and not the insurance money that appears to be creeping closer. In either case, she has decided that we will be going shopping. And maybe out for dinner, as I also received a letter from a local entertainment facility that I am eligible for their discounted early bird senior’s dinner. Sounds like a deal, but I have no desire to eat dinner at 4pm. Everywhere we go, my wife is asking for the discount. She lets them know that I am a senior,and asks if there is a senior discount. Lo and behold, there is, and she can save anywhere from 10%-20% off the total purchase. My job on these outings, as she explains it, is to just stand there and look old.

I am not opposed to saving money, but I resent the fact that I have never been asked for proof of my seniority! I don’t feel like a senior, well most of the time. There are days when my body is, indeed worn out. My mind however, continues to behave like a 19 year old. This does create a significant conflict. “Let’s go out.”, I say to my wife.

“Where do you want to go?”, she asks.

“Why don’t we go to The Horseshoe,  have a beer, and watch a few bands.”, I suggest.

“Can you stay up that late?”, she responds. The truth is, probably not. So instead, we agree to spend a weekend in Niagara Falls, where I get the customary 20% senior’s discount, eat dinner at 4pm, and retire for the night by 10. And all of this with significant savings.