Post by Dawson Creek on Jul 29, 2017 20:21:55 GMT -5
Behind the plexiglass that divides infirmed and cadre sits little Francis “Franny” Fair, a mid-20’s single girl—still quite reserved and unassuming, the first line of defense at Capeside Medical Facility.
Franny sits in a comfortable chair with a computer screen displaying the day’s schedule. To the appointments who come up, she may as well be God, because (whether they know it or not) with one quick keystroke she can undo dates and reservations and make life hell.
But Franny is too good-natured to abuse her power. She is the perfect person for that seat, a homely face with delicate features. A soft-spoken voice. In a way, she’s a calming presence, and her good-nature drives her to work as an ally of the appointments. Like the time Perry Winkleburger, a Veteran of Vietnam, showed up two hours late to his appointment with the hospital’s cardiac specialist because he couldn’t find his keys. Knowing the specialist was not one to forgive late appointments, Franny instead moved him to a later appointment and told the doctor it was a mistake in the hospital’s rescheduling system.
Appointments would rather see Franny Fair than Dolores Irkbother or Sasha Misanthrope. If you were unfortunate enough to have either of them as gatekeeper, well…may God have mercy on your soul.
Dolores—old, skin wilted and soul hardened with naturally large breasts and once handsome features--has lost the beauty of her youth. Now in her everyday work environment, she is confronted with another young beauty in Sasha, and it irks her. As the senior member of staff, Dolores takes out her life’s frustrations by constantly damning Sasha.
Sasha—young, skin cakey and soul indifferent—does not care for her job. It is merely that—a job. She spends her days on her phone, interested in makeup and gossip, biding her time until it is time to leave. She is the recipient of Dolores’s badgering because of her looks, but it is Sasha’s indifferent attitude towards Dolores’s authority that really sticks in Dolores’s craw.
Here is how both Dolores and Sasha would have handled the Perry Winkleburger situation:
Dolores: “I am sorry, sir, but appointments are appointments and we can not make any exceptions. Would you like to make a reservation for another time?” (All said with an undertone of satisfaction.)
Sasha: “You missed your appointment, sir, and now the doctor has other people. Wait in the lobby and he will try to fit you in.” (All said without the slightest intention of fitting him in.)
“Where did you put the Daupheler files, Sasha?” Dolores demands, not asks.
“Huh?”
“They’re in the D cabinet, Dolores. Just saw them earlier,” Franny says.
“Right, and they go there because the name starts with D, yep. You see that Sasha?”
“Huh?”
“The names that start with D go in the D bin!”
“I know that!”
“Then let it reflect in your work!”
As the two argue—common when they are not engaged in a Cold War—Franny Fair’s mind begins drifting off. She starts to think about penis, and their many shapes and sizes and colors. She looks into the lobby, full of men and women, but mostly men, and she sees two men, a blonde and a brunette, younger and strapping, and wonders about their penis’s, and who’s is bigger, and who’s is better, subjectively of course, because there is not an objective way to judge a penis.
Luckily the hospital has Franny Fair, the unsung hero of the world.
Dawson Creek leans forward in his chair, an uncomfortable hospital chair with a vinyl wrapped cushion and metal handles, a seat that can hardly contain his body. Creek is less leaning forward—that sounds progressive, idealistic, connotations of success if you really think about it—and is more likely hunched over, hand constantly caressing his lower back.
“It really hurts, Pacey!”
Pacey Witter, his friend, is next to him, sitting upright, engrossed in an issue of Tidal Wave Quarterly, the preeminent publication about all recent news in the ocean community.
“Listen to this, Pace: Razor clam digging season has been cut short in Washington and Oregon communities because of potential domoic acid outbreak. Crazy world we live in, huh?”
“What’s domoic acid, Pacey?”
“Ever seen Hitchcock’s The Birds? That’s what domoic acid poisoning is. It comes from the algae, then the plankton eat the algae, and the mollusks eat the plankton, and we eat the mollusks. A little domoic acid is okay for you, but too much? You’ll get sick and die.”
“Or go crazy?”
“Huh?”
“Like in The Birds.”
“Oh. Uhh, well, I don’t know, actually. Just that supposedly those birds had domoic acid poisoning because birds will eat mollusks. But I’m not sure if it makes people crazy.”
“…”
“I just ate at Red Lobster last week. Maybe we can share this appointment?”
“I’m getting an x-ray, Pace. I think I have a slipped disc in my back, and I might even have damaged vertebrae. I don’t think the x-ray tech and doctor should be dividing their time and resources to give meaning to your delusional placebities.”
“I resent that, Dawson. I could be contaminated. We should at least ask what he would recommend.”
“Pacey, this isn’t a joke! I’m dying here! I haven’t been able to move all week! I haven’t been able to train! I was watching season four of Will and Grace and had to shut it off because the laughter was too much for my body to handle! I can’t wrestle Sunday! Trea Clegane really did a number on my with his bruising forearms!”
“Did you ice it, Dawson?”
“I tried, Pacey. Crushed ice, cubed ice, ice block, frozen vegetables, and a sirloin.”
“Did you heat it, Dawson?”
“Yep. A compression pad, a steamed towel, some newfangled block of warmth from Things Remembered. Didn’t help.”
“Did you ice it and heat it simultaneously?”
“I tried to rub some IcyHot on it.”
“And nothing worked?”
“No!”
…
“And here I am, not an inch of feeling better, battered and broken and crumpled up. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t move. The only thing I can think of is my pain. How am I supposed to wrestle at Ultimate Showdown? How am I supposed to take part in a triple threat match against a Legend and a really, ridiculously cool person? How? How?”
“Dawson, let me tell you about mollusks.”
“Mollusks?”
“Specifically bivalves, like clams, oysters, mussels, etc.”
“…”
“These marvelous creatures, Dawson, all have the ability to produce a pearl. I’m sure you’re familiar with pearls, correct? You do know what pearls are?”
“They’re jewels, Pacey. So what?”
“Yes, Dawson, they’re jewels. Precious jewels, too. But do you know what they’re made of, Dawson? Do you know how they’re made?”
“…”
“Pearls are simply calcium carbonite and conchiolins, or mollusks shells. That’s it.”
“…”
“And the way they’re made, Dawson, is by an irritant. When something in the water floats into the mollusks inner shell and begins irritating it, the mollusk will take that irritant and begin wrapping it in the calcium carbonite and conchiolin to create a pearl.”
“…”
“That’s it, Dawson. That’s what a pearl is. A pearl is a mollusk’s old problem.”
“…”
“And we gift these problems to our wives and girlfriends and lovers, and they wear them around their neck as status symbols. Ironic in a way, if you think about it.”
“…”
“But that’s beside the point. The point is the mollusk takes something that’s bothering them and turns it into something beautiful. But don’t forget about domoic acid poisoning, Dawson, where the mollusk passes the poison on.”
“…”
"So don't worry about some self-proclaimed legend. If he was really a legend, why is he in a match with you? Why isn't he somewhere else, already enjoying superstardom? Why is he being relegated to opening matches of a pay-per-view? Is it because he's actually just another run of the mill loner type, someone who wants to be perceived as an outcast with the adulation and praise of a hero? Is it because he's a fake, a guy with a hand-me down leather jacket who uses chicken grease as shampoo? I'll bet his real name's something stupid, like Roger. Or Norm. I'll bet he's a community college dropout who couldn't get past his Intro to Philosophy class. I'll bet he bumps Pantera in his compact rental car driving to high school gyms. I'll bet he really is an outcast, in the sense that he couldn't pay a hooker for a no-contact date because he smells like fast food and body odor. I'll bet he's the type of guy who mistakes Reno for Las Vegas, and thinks Denny's qualifies as high class cuisine. I'll bet he's the type of guy who spends a lot of money on Halloween decorations, and seriously thought The Devil's Rejects should've won Best Picture. And you know what else, Dawson? I'll bet the guy isn't really a wolf, either."
"..."
"And the playboy? Please. He's a fat tub of lard. He's probably gorging at the Golden Corral as we speak. And what's his obsession with people kissing his behind? It's disgusting. A man that large. It'd be like taking a bite out of the moon. The man is not a wrestler, Dawson, he is a parody of humanity."
"..."
“So while you sit here, chest over your knees looking constipated with a tummy-ache, you have to make a choice. Are you going to let this poison you, or are you going to take this irritant and turn it into something beautiful?”
Dawson takes in the information.
“You’re right, Pacey.”
Dawson stands up and proceeds to leave the hospital.
Franny sits in a comfortable chair with a computer screen displaying the day’s schedule. To the appointments who come up, she may as well be God, because (whether they know it or not) with one quick keystroke she can undo dates and reservations and make life hell.
But Franny is too good-natured to abuse her power. She is the perfect person for that seat, a homely face with delicate features. A soft-spoken voice. In a way, she’s a calming presence, and her good-nature drives her to work as an ally of the appointments. Like the time Perry Winkleburger, a Veteran of Vietnam, showed up two hours late to his appointment with the hospital’s cardiac specialist because he couldn’t find his keys. Knowing the specialist was not one to forgive late appointments, Franny instead moved him to a later appointment and told the doctor it was a mistake in the hospital’s rescheduling system.
Appointments would rather see Franny Fair than Dolores Irkbother or Sasha Misanthrope. If you were unfortunate enough to have either of them as gatekeeper, well…may God have mercy on your soul.
Dolores—old, skin wilted and soul hardened with naturally large breasts and once handsome features--has lost the beauty of her youth. Now in her everyday work environment, she is confronted with another young beauty in Sasha, and it irks her. As the senior member of staff, Dolores takes out her life’s frustrations by constantly damning Sasha.
Sasha—young, skin cakey and soul indifferent—does not care for her job. It is merely that—a job. She spends her days on her phone, interested in makeup and gossip, biding her time until it is time to leave. She is the recipient of Dolores’s badgering because of her looks, but it is Sasha’s indifferent attitude towards Dolores’s authority that really sticks in Dolores’s craw.
Here is how both Dolores and Sasha would have handled the Perry Winkleburger situation:
Dolores: “I am sorry, sir, but appointments are appointments and we can not make any exceptions. Would you like to make a reservation for another time?” (All said with an undertone of satisfaction.)
Sasha: “You missed your appointment, sir, and now the doctor has other people. Wait in the lobby and he will try to fit you in.” (All said without the slightest intention of fitting him in.)
“Where did you put the Daupheler files, Sasha?” Dolores demands, not asks.
“Huh?”
“They’re in the D cabinet, Dolores. Just saw them earlier,” Franny says.
“Right, and they go there because the name starts with D, yep. You see that Sasha?”
“Huh?”
“The names that start with D go in the D bin!”
“I know that!”
“Then let it reflect in your work!”
As the two argue—common when they are not engaged in a Cold War—Franny Fair’s mind begins drifting off. She starts to think about penis, and their many shapes and sizes and colors. She looks into the lobby, full of men and women, but mostly men, and she sees two men, a blonde and a brunette, younger and strapping, and wonders about their penis’s, and who’s is bigger, and who’s is better, subjectively of course, because there is not an objective way to judge a penis.
Luckily the hospital has Franny Fair, the unsung hero of the world.
Dawson Creek leans forward in his chair, an uncomfortable hospital chair with a vinyl wrapped cushion and metal handles, a seat that can hardly contain his body. Creek is less leaning forward—that sounds progressive, idealistic, connotations of success if you really think about it—and is more likely hunched over, hand constantly caressing his lower back.
“It really hurts, Pacey!”
Pacey Witter, his friend, is next to him, sitting upright, engrossed in an issue of Tidal Wave Quarterly, the preeminent publication about all recent news in the ocean community.
“Listen to this, Pace: Razor clam digging season has been cut short in Washington and Oregon communities because of potential domoic acid outbreak. Crazy world we live in, huh?”
“What’s domoic acid, Pacey?”
“Ever seen Hitchcock’s The Birds? That’s what domoic acid poisoning is. It comes from the algae, then the plankton eat the algae, and the mollusks eat the plankton, and we eat the mollusks. A little domoic acid is okay for you, but too much? You’ll get sick and die.”
“Or go crazy?”
“Huh?”
“Like in The Birds.”
“Oh. Uhh, well, I don’t know, actually. Just that supposedly those birds had domoic acid poisoning because birds will eat mollusks. But I’m not sure if it makes people crazy.”
“…”
“I just ate at Red Lobster last week. Maybe we can share this appointment?”
“I’m getting an x-ray, Pace. I think I have a slipped disc in my back, and I might even have damaged vertebrae. I don’t think the x-ray tech and doctor should be dividing their time and resources to give meaning to your delusional placebities.”
“I resent that, Dawson. I could be contaminated. We should at least ask what he would recommend.”
“Pacey, this isn’t a joke! I’m dying here! I haven’t been able to move all week! I haven’t been able to train! I was watching season four of Will and Grace and had to shut it off because the laughter was too much for my body to handle! I can’t wrestle Sunday! Trea Clegane really did a number on my with his bruising forearms!”
“Did you ice it, Dawson?”
“I tried, Pacey. Crushed ice, cubed ice, ice block, frozen vegetables, and a sirloin.”
“Did you heat it, Dawson?”
“Yep. A compression pad, a steamed towel, some newfangled block of warmth from Things Remembered. Didn’t help.”
“Did you ice it and heat it simultaneously?”
“I tried to rub some IcyHot on it.”
“And nothing worked?”
“No!”
…
“And here I am, not an inch of feeling better, battered and broken and crumpled up. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t move. The only thing I can think of is my pain. How am I supposed to wrestle at Ultimate Showdown? How am I supposed to take part in a triple threat match against a Legend and a really, ridiculously cool person? How? How?”
“Dawson, let me tell you about mollusks.”
“Mollusks?”
“Specifically bivalves, like clams, oysters, mussels, etc.”
“…”
“These marvelous creatures, Dawson, all have the ability to produce a pearl. I’m sure you’re familiar with pearls, correct? You do know what pearls are?”
“They’re jewels, Pacey. So what?”
“Yes, Dawson, they’re jewels. Precious jewels, too. But do you know what they’re made of, Dawson? Do you know how they’re made?”
“…”
“Pearls are simply calcium carbonite and conchiolins, or mollusks shells. That’s it.”
“…”
“And the way they’re made, Dawson, is by an irritant. When something in the water floats into the mollusks inner shell and begins irritating it, the mollusk will take that irritant and begin wrapping it in the calcium carbonite and conchiolin to create a pearl.”
“…”
“That’s it, Dawson. That’s what a pearl is. A pearl is a mollusk’s old problem.”
“…”
“And we gift these problems to our wives and girlfriends and lovers, and they wear them around their neck as status symbols. Ironic in a way, if you think about it.”
“…”
“But that’s beside the point. The point is the mollusk takes something that’s bothering them and turns it into something beautiful. But don’t forget about domoic acid poisoning, Dawson, where the mollusk passes the poison on.”
“…”
"So don't worry about some self-proclaimed legend. If he was really a legend, why is he in a match with you? Why isn't he somewhere else, already enjoying superstardom? Why is he being relegated to opening matches of a pay-per-view? Is it because he's actually just another run of the mill loner type, someone who wants to be perceived as an outcast with the adulation and praise of a hero? Is it because he's a fake, a guy with a hand-me down leather jacket who uses chicken grease as shampoo? I'll bet his real name's something stupid, like Roger. Or Norm. I'll bet he's a community college dropout who couldn't get past his Intro to Philosophy class. I'll bet he bumps Pantera in his compact rental car driving to high school gyms. I'll bet he really is an outcast, in the sense that he couldn't pay a hooker for a no-contact date because he smells like fast food and body odor. I'll bet he's the type of guy who mistakes Reno for Las Vegas, and thinks Denny's qualifies as high class cuisine. I'll bet he's the type of guy who spends a lot of money on Halloween decorations, and seriously thought The Devil's Rejects should've won Best Picture. And you know what else, Dawson? I'll bet the guy isn't really a wolf, either."
"..."
"And the playboy? Please. He's a fat tub of lard. He's probably gorging at the Golden Corral as we speak. And what's his obsession with people kissing his behind? It's disgusting. A man that large. It'd be like taking a bite out of the moon. The man is not a wrestler, Dawson, he is a parody of humanity."
"..."
“So while you sit here, chest over your knees looking constipated with a tummy-ache, you have to make a choice. Are you going to let this poison you, or are you going to take this irritant and turn it into something beautiful?”
Dawson takes in the information.
“You’re right, Pacey.”
Dawson stands up and proceeds to leave the hospital.