Smashed Dandelions

Books that hadn’t made it onto the over-burdened bookshelves were stacked around the room. Some lay open on the couch. Mary shoved them aside so she could sit down. Tim headed straight for the kitchen.

“What’s this?” she asked as she flipped through some loose pages lying on the coffee table. “A thousand pages locked away. The butterfly escapes its cocoon. Who writes this shit? What does it even mean?”

Tim took a deep breath and reached for the fridge. He needed a beer. The door was sealed tight and initially refused to give so he tried again with a bit more determination. His efforts dislodged a punnet of blueberries and a jar of minced garlic. They both crashed to the floor. Blueberries scattered over the grey lino; the glass fragmented at his feet. Tim hung his head.

“You okay in there?”

Tim closed his eyes to hide the mess, but nothing could take away the stench.

“Hey, you read stuff. Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey? You should. That’s such a good book.” Mary reached for the remote and turned on the telly. “Did you see I swapped shifts with John so we’re together again tomorrow? We’re both in the Sheldon Bar.”

Tim picked up the largest shard of glass and studied it for a moment; but now wasn’t the time for daydreams. He needed to get this stuff sorted. Mary walked in as he was picking up the last of the blueberries. “You sure you’re ok? You seem a bit weird.”

“Yeah, just tired. Think I’m getting sick. Don’t know if I’ll be right for work tomorrow.”

The next morning Tim sat in the overcrowded, overly grey waiting room of the Go Health Medical Centre waiting for a doctor to call his name. Around him people sniffed and coughed. Next to him a frazzled mum tried to entertain her baby by jangling her keys. At her feet a toddler sat crashing toy cars into each other. Bang … bang … bang over and over and over again. Tim thought his head would implode.

“Timothy Smith?”

Tim stood and followed the doctor into his office. He didn’t quite catch his name, but he wasn’t fussed.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I just need a doctor’s certificate for work,” Tim said as he lowered himself into the chair next to the doctor’s desk. On the wall facing him hung a painting of a lone sunflower in a grey vase. It was quite good, but a sunflower painting wasn’t in keeping with the rest of the office. Everything else was sterile, emotionless, business-like. The scales, the skeleton, the poster about GORD, the bandages, the computer — they all served a purpose — as did the bed with the paper sheet, the sink, and the hand steriliser. But the sunflower? It just didn’t fit in.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothin’, I just didn’t feel up to going to work today. I mean I’m okay. I’ve just got … you know … like I’m feelin’ a bit seedy. Sorta like a hangover but without the party. Do ya know what I mean?” He didn’t think the doctor knew what he meant but what did it matter? He just needed to take today off, and maybe tomorrow, and maybe the day after that. “I’m just really tired. You know … fatigued, exhausted, kinda drained.” Something about the doctor reminded Tim of the pub but he couldn’t quite work out what.

The doctor looked in Tim’s direction without moving his head. “Anything else?”

“Nup. That pretty much covers it.” Tim returned to looking at the sunflower painting. The doctor tapped away at his keyboard. Neither man blinked.

“Okay. Let’s have a look at you.”

The doctor did what he needed to do to justify his payment and Tim obliged him by coughing when he was told and offering up his arm for the cuff when asked. In return, the doctor scrawled his signature on the certificate.

“Here’s your certificate, Tom. It covers you until Thursday. Go home, get some rest, and keep up your fluids. If your symptoms persist come back and see me.”

Tom, Tim, Mike, Steve – does it matter?

“Here, sign this.” The doctor pushed the Medicare form in Tim’s direction. Tim signed the government’s money away, grabbed his certificate, and slumped out of the room. The doctor watched him leave before closing down his file.

Tim slept through the first day without noticing — and most of the second. On the third day he contemplated a shower but the idea overwhelmed him, so he squirted some Imperial Leather under both arms, ran his fingers through his hair, and headed out to the lounge room instead. He half gagged as the stench of stale beer and garlic met him in the hallway. In the lounge room empty bottles littered the coffee table. There was even one lying on its side on the floor next to his crumpled haiku and the rest of his writing. He sunk onto the couch and for a moment let his eyelids hide reality.

Maybe he should open the curtains and let some light in. That would help. All he had to do was get back up, walk over to the window, and pull the cord. But he reckoned the outside world could wait another day. He knew he’d feel better soon but he decided to make another doctor’s appointment just in case. These things can sometimes linger longer than usual, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t share his condition with any of his friends at work.

“I’m sorry sir. We have no appointments until next week.” Tim hung up. He held his head in his hands and breathed deeply. “Please let tomorrow be in 3D.”

The next evening Tim dragged his overslept, under-washed body out the door. He turned left onto Hope Street then cut up through the vacant lot that ran alongside the Medical Centre. Last week the bright yellow dandelion-covered block had matched his mood. Now it mocked him. The young guy walking ahead of him was smashing the dandelion heads with a stick. He’d be doing the same if he had the energy.

This walk seemed longer and longer lately. Once upon a time work was just around the corner. Now it was an endless trudge away. He remembered back when work was great, life was great, and Mary was great. Today work was work, life was life, and Mary … well he was glad she wasn’t working with him today. The guy ahead was oblivious to Tim. He was too busy bashing the life out of the dandelions. Tim watched with a macabre satisfaction.

“Rest in hell dandelions,” he thought as the guy smashed another one.

At 11pm Dr Nanra shut down his computer, grabbed the unopened brown leather briefcase and his keys, and headed for the door. He glanced around then flicked the light switch and exited the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

The practice manager didn’t acknowledge him, but the young receptionist smiled as he walked past. “Night Dr Nanra. See you tomorrow.”

“God willing,” he said as he pushed through the glass door and into the moonless night. The car park was all but empty. Only three cars remained. His car was parked closest to the entry in the “Doctors Only” section. A late model silver Honda was parked a few rows further on. Tucked way down in the dimly lit corner of the car park was a bright yellow Suzuki Swift. He walked towards his own car, pushed the button on his key, and watched as his headlights flashed twice.

He placed the briefcase on the passenger side then took his position in the driver’s seat. There he sat with his hands caressing the leather steering wheel. His gold watch glinted in the streetlight. He really was living the doctor’s life. He had a shiny new black Mercedes AMG-S65 and a comfortable apartment with uninterrupted water views. Hell, he even had a monogrammed briefcase — just like his father, his grandfather, and no doubt his great grandfather before him.

He turned the key and listened as the V12 bi-turbo engine roared to life. For a moment all that power made him smile. He reached down, moved the gear stick to R, released the handbrake, backed slowly out of his designated spot, and headed for home. It was too late to grab anything for dinner, but he wasn’t hungry anyway. He contemplated grabbing a drink at the pub on the corner, but he decided against it. A fresh bottle of eighteen-year-old single malt waited for him at home.

The next morning he fronted up to work again. It was 9.45am. Dedicated doctors worked long hours and he had a reputation to uphold. He knew that without being reminded. Besides, flashy cars and big apartments don’t pay for themselves.

The waiting room was already full when he walked through. It was full of sick people wanting him to make them feel better. He really did try to do the best he could with the tools he had available. Though usually the best he could do was give them a reprieve from work and some drugs to dull their pain. But at least it was something.

Through his office window he saw children playing in the weed covered vacant block next door. A young boy standing just outside his window picked a dandelion, which was now a seed-rich fluff ball, and blew. They both watched as the seeds drifted into the air. He wondered if the child had made a wish. He hoped so. The boy was still young enough to have hopes and dreams. One day he too could be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a businessman. For now though he could be whatever he wanted.

The minute hand reached the twelve. It was time for his day to begin. He pushed himself up out of his seat and made for the door.

“Timothy Smith?”

A few days later Mary stood looking around the public bar. “Ron, have you seen Tim?”

“Nope. I had a good joke for him too. What do you call an obese psychic? A four-chinned teller. Do you get it? Do you get it? Tim would, but I haven’t seen him since he went home sick again the other day.” Mary looked around. The only other person sitting in the light deprived bar was the single malt guy. It was only 2pm on a Monday afternoon though.

An hour later Steve bounded in, “Where’s Timbo?”

“I was hoping you might have seen him. He’s not at home and he’s not returning my calls. He hasn’t even been on Facebook.”

“Can’t help sorry doll. I rang him earlier but it went straight to his message thingy. That tip he gave me a few days ago came in. 100 to 1. Do you believe it? I put down a 100 buckaroos so now I’m a rich man. If you see him before I do, give him a big sloppy kiss for me. Oh and grab me a beer love.”

Steve settled in next to Ron and waited for his drink. Mary could do little more than shake her head and pull the beer. She was starting to understand what Tim had been saying. The Dementors in Harry Potter have nothing on this place. Mary would tell him she got it next time she saw him. Maybe she would even sign up for uni too. It couldn’t be worse than here.

People began gathering on the lawn just before three. Most of them wore black. The manicured grass was lush underfoot and the flower beds were in full bloom. No-one seemed to notice. They were too busy staring at their shiny black shoes. The tall lady with the harsh ballerina bun made an offhand comment about the weather to the dark-haired man standing beside her, but he didn’t hear. He was too busy picking imaginary lint from his suit. No-one wanted to acknowledge the shiny rosewood coffin. And even though the smell of the freshly displaced earth was impossible to ignore, they all still tried.

The young blonde standing off to the side didn’t fit in with the other attendees. She wore a knee length black skirt and her embroidered, white and blue striped, work shirt. Work wasn’t happy that she’d taken the afternoon off but there was no way she wasn’t going to be there.

Rather than getting mad at her when he caught her drawing, he’d encouraged her to keep at it. He even bought her an easel for her birthday. She’d thanked him by painting the single sunflower in the grey vase that now hung on the back wall of his office. It summed him up perfectly. Much better than the formal, all white, casket spray that adorned his coffin. Whoever chose that had no idea.

She still couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t be walking through the clinic door tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. She wasn’t the only one. Why would he do it? He had had it all.

As soon as her shift ended Mary rang Tim again. His Message Bank answered. She quietened the voice in her head and thought logically. Maybe his phone was broken. That would make sense. That had to be it. She grabbed her yellow jacket and her backpack, said her goodbyes, and headed out into the night towards Tim’s place.

She noticed the dandelions were all closed up as she cut through the vacant lot. She never knew they did that.