Mr. Shmuck

Mr. Shmuck
by Arkady Gershteyn

“Did you ever have any bizarre thoughts?” The doctor asked.

“Me, never. My thoughts are all so boring, routine, and uniform. I think of my boss, my wife, my kids, the weather, the traffic conditions. Sometimes I think of my customers – I’m an insurance policy salesman. But never anything bizarre – always the same topics, ideas, opinions,” replied Mr. Shmuck as his right eye ticked.

      The doctor sat in his comfortable chair which was covered with leather pillows and had magnificent, brown, wooden armrests. This guy is so boring, he thought – except for the tick. He’s much worse than the violent sleepwalker who beat up his mother-in-law one night. The doctor was surprised by the complexity of the sleepwalker’s task – grab a cab, enter his mother-in-law’s house, find her apartment and then beat her up.

       I like that tick, he continued to think. This guy can’t be absolutely normal. Maybe he’s impotent and hasn’t screwed his wife for a year. Maybe his kids are on crack – but he pretends to not notice. Maybe his boss sexually harasses him, makes him wear short shorts and a small, red sweatshirt. Or, or, what else? Maybe he has killed somebody – fine, maybe manslaughter. Or, an affair – a very passionate one – with a small girl – the one who reports on CNN about “weather” and “traffic conditions” – she’s one beautiful piece of work, the doctor pondered in typical Freudian fashion.

       “Well, what do you think about your children? Anything bothering you?” asked the doctor.
“I have to drive them to school in the morning. My younger son, Peter, he’s seven. He’s fine. I also drive him to soccer practice every Thursday. He’s a nice kid – always smiling and stuff. Pete’s really good with people – maybe he’ll grow up to be a salesman like me.
“My daughter, Sarah, she’s twelve. A little unsure of herself. She takes ballet classes every Tuesday, twenty-minute drive. But she’ll be okay; she is actually, just a little on the shy side. Sarah draws these funny pictures with crayons – once she even drew an elephant with a saxophone, playing “happy birthday to you” and all the little elephant children were also part of the chorus. That was for my wife’s birthday. Sarah’s very creative; she’ll be fine. My kids don’t worry me doctor.”

        The doctor examined the patient carefully; the tick had ceased. All the doctor saw was a somewhat handsome face with quiet, brown eyes, small eyebrows, a long mouth, small protruding ears, and curly brown hair. The patient was of medium build and height, nothing remarkable about him save the tick. He wore a dark business suit and formal shoes with black leather shoelaces. He looked absolutely normal.
“He’s a regular corporate, gray rat. A trite nobody,” thought the doctor.

“How about your wife?”
“She’s fine. We get along very well together. She works at an accounting firm. Me and Sussy plan to go to the Bahamas in four months. We’ll spend a week there. My wife’s very good to me – I can’t complain. She’s and excellent mother and wife. Sussy always remembers the kids’ schedules and she never forgets me either.

“Our sex life’s fine too. Everything’s normal – it’s been like this for the past fifteen years – all fine and great.”

“What about your job? You said you’re a life insurance salesman. Mr. Shmuck is there any tension between you and your customers, your co-workers, or, maybe, your boss?”
“No. I’ve been working at the insurance company for nine years now. I get along very well with my colleagues. And I’m great at attracting customers – I’m very convincing. I arrange appointments with potential customers at the local seafood restaurant. The food’s great. I tell them how if they were to die their family would be left without a source of income. Then I demonstrate how our company could solve such potential problems and that we provide the best benefits in the life insurance market. I got the “employee of the month” award last year for bringing in the most customers.”

“And what about your boss?” inquired the doctor.
“He’s okay. I’m basically on my own. The only thing my boss makes me do is to attend funerals of ex-customers. These funerals can be depressing; suddenly I realized that there are people dieing every day. But I don’t attend too many, maybe one every three, four weeks, to maintain customer satisfaction. Really, I can’t complain.”

The doctor looked at his watch – it showed a quarter to eight. The patient had five more minutes. The doctor wanted to lock the door and keep this Mr. Shmuck in the room locked up for a week.
“Why did you come here Mr. Shmuck, your session is almost over and we haven’t found any problems. Could you please explain your worry, or why else did you come here?!”
“I just came because I go to a psychologist once every five years to check that I’m living a happy, worthwhile, proper life, Doctor. I just wanted to find out whether I’m OKAY?!”
The doctor looked irritated and fell silent for a couple of minutes. He jotted several notes down in his fat yellow notepad and checked the pills in his desk drawers. Then he carefully took out one pill from each box, put the pills into separate plastic bags, and labeled the bags: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The doctor handed Mr. Shmuck all five plastic bags with different colored pills.

“Mr. Shmuck, I’m sorry but you have a severe case of abnormal over-normalcy and intolerably clear happiness. You suffer from a series of diseases collectively called “Normal Person Epidemic” and this must be corrected immediately. Take these pills – you are not normal, I’m sorry to say. The instructions on them are self-explanatory.”
“Okay, doctor. Thanks. I hope these pills help. When should I schedule my next appointment?” asked Mr. Shmuck as he took out a little, leather day planner.
“This treatment will take a considerable length of time. Schedule your next appointment a year from now, again at 6: 30 p.m.,” replied the doctor.
“Fine, I’ll schedule it tomorrow. Again, thank you doctor. Have a good night,” said Mr. Shmuck and slowly closed the door after himself.
The doctor took off his glasses, jugged a flask of whiskey which he took out from his concealed coat pocket and puffed at a cigar which he took out of the first drawer.

“Now he’ll be all set. Monday – panic-inducing pill. Tuesday – the persecution paranoia which includes oppressive boss and cheating wife. Wednesday – severe depression with chance of suicide and self-inflicted wounds. Thursday – complete withdrawal. Friday – dangerously acute pangs of joy – sharp jumps in heart rate and possibility of a heart attack. Saturday and Sunday – no pills – “normal days”.
“Now he’ll be a normal person,” thought the doctor and popped a Friday-type pill.
 
The workday was over. The doctor put on his coat, jumped, hollered outrageous vulgarities, and then ran to the building’s exit.

One more person was cured; the world was becoming a better place.

© Copyright Arkady Gershteyn 2002