Dr. Harold entered the room a few moments later carrying a thick brown dossier folder and dropped it onto his desk. The leather office chair squealed in agony as he lowered his podgy form down to Thomas’ eye level not unlike how an old man would ease his way into a warm bathtub. He slowly opened the folder and eyed a few of its contents as if he were deciphering some sort of cryptic puzzle. A gaze halfway between disapproval and disbelief met Thomas’ as Harold broke eye contact for a moment to rub his face into his palm.
“I have to say Thomas; I haven’t seen anybody in such dismal health for quite some time. Some of these test results are actually quite disturbing!”
He looks back up from his papers as if to expect some explanation.
“Like what?”
“Well your heart for one, is on its last legs, and your blood pressure tested dangerously high. Frankly, I consider it both a miracle of nature and God that you’ve lived to the age of 50. Just out of curiosity, how much coffee do you normally drink in one day?”
“About 9-10 venti cups, the caffeine keeps me stimulated and alert!”
“That does no good when you’re in a coffin Thomas! Hell, I’ve seen nonagenarians in better shape than you are. If you seriously want to live another 5 years, I suggest a total lifestyle overhaul. No more caffeine Thomas! It’s literally killing you!”
“You seem to imply as though abstaining from caffeine would ensure my immortality?”
Harold let out a faint burp and his patient caught a scent of sirloin steak. Seemingly embarrassed, He examines a couple more of the documents and hands them over to Thomas.
“Not entirely so, there’s also the matter of your cigarette smoking. You are not going to live a very long life being at such a detrimental risk of developing lung cancer or emphysema. Have you been thinking of quitting at all?”
“Well, perhaps I ought to go on a sort of indefinite hiatus first, you know, to get used to not smoking?”
“No! There will be no more of your breaks or false commitments, no more indefinite hiatuses—you will quit Thomas! Quit soon!”
“No, I couldn’t. My Belmonts are far too delectable to give up at this point. After a lifetime of self-indulgence, I would not be surprised if I had the nicotine weaved into my DNA already. They may not be doing wonders to my lungs, but I can assure you I still intake oxygen and emit carbon dioxide as well as anyone.”
Dumbfounded, Harold removed his monstrous bifocals and placed them atop the dossier, which considering their size would have made a decent paper weight. He furrowed his brow and then let out a loud, wet-sounding snort. Perhaps in some vain attempt to make his patient come to terms with his fleeting mortality, Harold pulled his wallet from his back pocket and looked through it; his thick sausage-like fingers fumbling through dozens of receipts and banknotes until he monumentally pulled out a small tarnished photograph that he slid over to Thomas.
“These are my wife and two children—Jason and Megan, to the left is my wife Cynthia. We’ve been happily married for 23 years now. I couldn’t imagine if anything terrible were ever to happen to them. Do you have any family Thomas?”
His hands shaking with rapturous tremors from the X-large dark Paradiso coffee he bought at Second Cup prior to the appointment, Thomas examined the picture. Bringing to mind the possum he had recently chased out of his tool-shed, the first child, presumably Jason, had the unsightly appearance of some sort of deranged, half-man, half-marsupial. Megan in contrast looked alright; she was about 17-18 years old with big tits and a soft face.
“No, I don’t.”
Defeated, Dr. Harold slipped the photo back into his wallet.
“Before you leave, I’m going to give you a bottle of these Omega-3 fish oil supplements to offset your high cholesterol, which if I had to guess, is due to the grandiose quantities of red meat you’ve been eating.”
Thomas grinned.
“Please take them!”
And with a faint click, the door closed behind Thomas as he left Harold’s office. The receptionist, to whom he bit adieu, reminded Thomas of the doctor’s daughter—her breasts only slightly more voluptuous.
And as Dr. Harold made his way across James Street to the parking lot where his beautiful new Jaguar awaited him, a 26-Upper Wellington Bus, bound for the Jolly Cut sped up the way. Had his hearing not been so poor, he may have heard the oncoming vehicle and gotten out of its path, but as his teeth and brains were strewn across the newly paved avenue, a final rush of neurons into his brain made for one last sentiment before his spirit ascended up into the pearly gates.
“I really should not have eaten that sirloin steak.”
A puddle of blood trickled down to where Thomas stood, a few yards away. With a grin of resignation, he lit up the last of his cigarettes and walked away.
...but not before tossing the bottle of fish oil supplements into a nearby waste bin.
