“Mr.Garcia, the doctor is ready for you in room eight.” the receptionist called across the room to the balding man in the brown cardigan. There was a buzz in the waiting room. The desk phone was ringing constantly, people were filtering in and out of the room, sitting for a few minutes, scrolling through their phones, before being swept away for their appointments. John could always tell the online daters apart from the social media scrollers by the direction in which their fingers swiped their phones.
The stress that John had been carrying around on his shoulders for the past few days only worsened as he drove through the evening traffic. After spending several minutes finding a parking spot and rushing through maddening crowds, he hoped for a quiet and meditative space to sit and gather his thoughts one last time. He imagined the waiting room to be dim but tastefully lit with all the cliches of a typical clinic. Soothing sounds of lo-fi music playing through the walls, the gentle stream of water flowing through a small zen fountain, a fish tank perhaps. He hoped to lose himself for a few moments, watching a fish navigate its way through one end of a tank to the other, going left and right, down and up, around every obstacle that lay in its way. And in watching the fish’s struggle, he might for a just a few moments, let go of his.
But in that windowless, glass paned room, with clinical white tiles laid across the floor with bright, white lights shining through, he was reminded that he was after all, a patient. Someone who had an ailment that needed to be treated. He turned around the room in search of something comforting — A friendly face, a nervous smile, a funny magazine even! But all he got were indifferent vibes, vacant eyes staring back at him, digital screens advertising products and a sense that he didn’t belong there. Unbeknownst to himself, he had started tapping his right foot on the floor and made a noise that reverberated through the room. He stopped himself moments later when the gaze of the receptionist pierced through his eyes into his skull.
“How long has it been?” he looked at his watch. “Twelve minutes past 6.”
He clasped his hands between his thighs as he bit his lower lip. It was a weird feeling where he wanted to stay waiting there for as long as possible, yet wanted to be out and done with. It’s perhaps this conflict, that stopped him from going up to the receptionist and asking how much longer he would have to wait. He didn’t want to speed up the process in anyway. So he just sat there, trying to gain some clarity about what lay ahead. But the seconds ticked by and he only felt more anxious, trapped even…in the room…in the clinic…in his body! He finally couldn’t take it anymore and walked over to the receptionist.
“Can I wait outside? Maybe you can call or text me when they are ready for me?” he leaned over her desk.
She momentarily turned away from her desktop and said, “It will only be a few minutes. We ask that you…”
And she driveled on in a manner of speak that only people who worked in corporate jobs spoke. Corporate Drivel, as John liked to call it. The kind of speak that gave one no information, with each word crafted perfectly so as to not remotely offend any group or show any form of aggression, yet completely patronizing and discouraging one from engaging further. She must have spoken for a few seconds but it was enough to let John completely zone out from the conversation. His mouth uttered a few words in response and perhaps he smiled. A few moments later, he was back in his seat.
A tall, fully bearded man dressed in a spiffy, grey suit approached John. He had a wide grin and a sparkling glint in his eyes. He outstretched his hand as he approached, from what seemed like a mile away.
“John Morris!” he shook his hand in his firm grip.
“Hell…” shaken from the change in pace, John tried to exchange pleasantries but was swiftly interrupted.
“It’s such an honor to finally meet you! I can’t tell you how long I have been waiting for your case.” he held John in his arms now, pulling him closer as if embracing an old friend.
“I’m Tim Cox. They call me Dr. Cox around here.” he beamed as he looked around the clinic, admiring its every inch.
“Did they offer you some coffee…I hope they took good care of you…I’m sorry to keep you waiting but it’s been so hectic…” he continued his drivel uninterrupted. John nodded along, waiting for a pause to chime in.
“Shall we go into my office?”
John simply looked at the man, uttering no words. He couldn’t help but admire how well put together this man was and how much energy he seemed to possess. A complete contrast to his anxious self wrapped in baggy trousers and an old check shirt that he had been wearing for years.
“After you!” he finally said as he pointed towards the hallway from where the man had emerged a few minutes back. A short walk later, as the man opened the big, wooden, double doors of his office, John’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the brightness. In a complete contrast to the windowless reception and hallway, the office overlooked the city skyline on two sides with floor to ceiling glass panes.
“Come in…Come in…”
John looked around the space as he walked in. It was the kind of office CEO’s of multinational companies or privileged Movie Producers had to themselves. A long, mahogany desk with a giant leather chair at the helm…a long, grey upholstered sofa at the far end of the room…a bar stocked with high end liquors, decanters and glasses set next to it…expensive artwork on the walls — It had all the trappings of wealth and luxury but yet was understated with a comforting warmth that John had been seeking for the past thirty odd minutes.
“John, John, John…Thanks for coming in…” the man’s larger than life presence brought him back.
“Welcome! Have a seat.” he loomed over John as he took a seat around the table.
“Thank you. This is an impressive office.”
“Oh, it’s just a place to push some papers around.” the man took a seat at the helm.
“You know what, John? Usually I ask my clients if they’d like tea or coffee but it’s past six and I have had a hectic day!” he leaned forward. “So, I’m going to pour some Scotch for the both of us.”
“Oh, don’t bother…I don’t really…” John weakly protested.
“I’m not going hear it.” the man said, as he walked towards the bar.
“Besides, I just got this vintage that I think you’re going to love.” he picked up the decanter and set two glasses at the bar.
“Do you still like it neat?” he turned around. There was an all-knowing look on the man’s face.
“Yes. How did you know?”
The man, Dr. Cox as he had introduced himself, simply smiled and poured a generous amount of Scotch in both glasses. He walked over and handed over a glass to John and took his seat once again.
He looked at John with a warm glow in his eyes, “John, I know everything about you.”
The anxiety and discomfort changed to an eerie feeling inside John. He tried to recall if he had ever crossed paths with this man but nothing came to him.
“Cheers to our journey together!”
“Cheers.” John clinked his glass reluctantly as he took a sip.
“So…John, I want to start by saying that I’m a huge fan of your work!”
“You are?”
“I really am! I have read your books, essays, short stories, even some of your poetry. I’m going to be honest, I’m not a poetry guy, so I can’t say I really understood any of it but I loved everything else I read!”
“Well…That’s good to hear. It’s not something I hear very often these days to be honest.” John laughed bitterly as he took a sip.
“You have a very interesting profile.” He opened a file that was on his side of the table. He glanced at some images and charts as he flipped through it.
“You’ve had a long and Illustrious career, John.”
“Well…my publishers would disagree!”
“Five published books…Excellent reviews…Good Sales….Well, most of them.” he went on as he flipped through the file.
“The Broken Watch — Excellent Sales…Just short of being a Bestseller! Travesty in my opinion.” he said with a seemingly insincere sympathy.
“But the past five years…” he paused as he closed the file and leaned forward on his chair. “And I want to be delicate here….” he adjusted himself.
“They have been rough.” John helped him through it.
“Not just for your career but for your personal life as well.” he said with no hesitation.
“Yeah, it hasn’t been easy.”
Dr. Cox got up from his chair and with what seemed like genuine sympathy this time, patted John on his shoulder. He walked over to the other side of the room, taking himself outside the room into the bustling life several stories beneath them.
“It’s a cruel world out there, John. It spares no one. Moving about at a rapid pace. Tick tock…Tick tock. The clock keeps moving.
“I grew up in this city, John. Born and raised. Through my years, I have seen it grow from a sleepy, Industrial town to the stunning Metropolis that it now is!” his arms raised towards the downtown skyline.
“You see that high rise over there?” he pointed to the dark glass paned skyscraper a few blocks East from them.
“The DNC Bank building?”
“The DNC Bank building! Yes!
“When I was eight, there was no DNC Bank. Instead, there was a cute, little strip mall with just the most quaint looking Ice cream shop there ever was. I used to love going there. It was called Little Man Ice Cream Shop.
“Local favorite…Line across the block every night. Even cold winter nights! It was so……warm and inviting.
“The ice cream felt like it was made at home by your grandmother. In fact, it was owned by this lovely old couple that called themselves Mom and Pop.”
“Little on the nose.” he briefly turned back to look at John.
“But back then, it just…worked! As a local boy, I was so proud of it. Locals and tourists alike lining up for a taste every night. It was a thriving business for mom and pop!”
He paused for a few seconds to gather his thoughts, and take a sip from his glass.
“But then the years went by.” he finally said. “The little town changed to a bigger city. Everything around them changed…But the Little Man Ice Cream shop did not. And neither did Mom and Pop.
“New buildings came up, new businesses started, old ones got bought over or went under, Corporates came in, big money rolled in. The city changed, John.
“And with the city, the people changed. Locals moved out, expats came in, tourists frequented. And Little Man Ice Cream shop went from being the Ice cream shop to just another ice cream shop. The lines kept getting shorter and shorter. One day, the line was around the block. Not a spot in the shop! Next month, there were four, maybe five people in line. Few months later, I walked by on a warm Saturday afternoon. Empty!
“And don’t get me wrong, the ice cream was just as delicious. I still got a banana split every week. Mom and Pop knew my parents. They still treated me like a child. It was nice…Nostalgia is a special thing, ain’t it?” he smiled bitterly.
“But the writing was on the wall, John! Mom and pop weren’t hip anymore. They weren’t it. Every season, consumer habits change. One day something is cool. The other day it drops off the map. As if it never existed.” he sipped his drink.
John who was listening intently, protested, “But ice cream’s still ice cream! If its ninety degrees out, people still want one.”
Dr. Cox turned around and looked John in the eyes , “No they don’t, John. Ice cream’s not ice cream anymore. Now its added sugar. Unhealthy! #diabetesinacone! Or if you’re not a health nut then you’re a trendy hipster who likes visiting swanky ice lounges where one inhales flavored smoke through hookahs or serves ice cream shots that cool your whole body in seconds!
“I went to that shop every week. Watched it die a cancerous death. Mom and Pop put on a brave front, but it was only a matter of time…” He went silent, looking grimly towards the base of the DNC bank building.
John who was listening in rapture all the while, sipping his scotch time and again, went from a state of wonder and intrigue to feeling somewhat bothered.
“If you cared so much about mom and pop, why didn’t you help them out local boy? Put them out of their misery?”
Dr. Cox turned around to look at John. His moment of contemplation got away from him. He had that glint in his eyes again. “Oh, I put them out of their misery, all right! And now I’m going to put you out of yours!” he smiled.
“With the procedure?”
“Procedure? No, John. Transformation! Our state of the art, trade marked life transformation. The only one in the world!” he took a swig from his glass, wiping it clean and placed it down at the bar. He walked towards John having found his pep back again.
John decided to take the opportunity to speak up, while he had the chance.
“So as you know my sister-in-law, Jane recommended that I see you. She told me everything about the procedure…er…transformation. I have seen all the videos and case studies that your clinic provided, but I’d like to ask a few questions.”
“Sure, fire away!” Dr. Cox said as he took his seat and leaned over, beaming.
John paused a moment, took a sip from his glass and said, “I would like to hear you describe the transformation. I want to know how it works.”
Dr. Cox smiled widely, as if he had been waiting for this question all evening.
“Well, it’s plain and simple. We help people in dire need.
“People who are stuck in dead-end professions that have no more value in our modern world. You know — painters, sculptors, musicians, singers, writers like yourself. We help them transition into more meaningful professions like Banking, Finance, Engineering, Business…You know? The kind of things that the world actually needs.”
Offended by the idea that creative pursuits are something that the world doesn’t need, John asked, “Dead-end professions?”
“Yes! I know that sounds harsh but let’s be honest! Nobody has time to sit through nine minute drum solos or sit under a tree and sing sonnets! The world doesn’t have the interest to sit through creative flights of fancies of a blessed few! There’s no market for hand sculpted pottery or an album of some Indie Obo player. Everything’s easily mass produced now! The consumer has all the choices they need at the tip of their fingers!
“Why do you think your books didn’t sell, John? Because you’re a bad writer? Hell, no! You’re one of the best! There simply isn’t a demand for the product you produce anymore.”
“So you’re saying writing is a dead-end profession?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. The consumers of yesterday are the pensioners of today. Sure, they’ll buy a thing or two every now and then. But to the market, they are blip in the radar. Inconsequential!” he said as he reached in his drawer, looking for something.
“People don’t have time to line up for some mom and pop ice cream store.” he said as he pulled the item out of the drawer. “Or read a book!” he callously tossed a book in front of John — 1932 Diaries by John Morris, acclaimed author of The Broken Watch.
John reached out and held the book in his hands, skimming through the pages.
“How many copies did you sell?”
“I…I don’t recall.” John lied.
“Ninety-eight thousand.” Cox read out from the file. “Much…much lower than The Broken Watch.”
“Next once was seventy-six thousand copies…the one after that was forty-seven thousand…the one after that…” he flipped through the pages.
“I know the numbers!”
“It’s not your fault, John! Nobody reads these anymore. You know why? Because it’s not a hundred and forty characters long! No one is interested in using their imagination or immersing themselves in the lives of characters from a bygone era. They want to switch on a screen and have the television spit moving images at them. Moving images of chiseled jaws and boosomed gals spouting threadbare lines in shows that last fifteen minutes with no ad interruption. And while the show is going on, they’ll heart some photos, hashtag some snarky comment, or tweet something woke! Hell, even the stories on these apps, if you can call them that, don’t last more than a few minutes.”
John looked back blankly. He wanted to say something, defend himself, defend his profession, but he couldn’t help but agree.
“Nobody…nobody needs writers anymore, John! It’s a bygone profession from a bygone era.” Dr. Cox said as he leaned back in his chair.
John took a swig from his glass, wiping it clean. He flinched a little and cleaned the excess scotch off his mouth. He looked out to the downtown and contemplated for a few moments.
“So tell me how it works.”
“Well…I can’t tell you everything, John. It’s a trade secret.” Dr.Cox smiled back cockily.
“Not the internal mechanisms, necessarily. I understand that that’s solid, but how would you transform me such that I don’t write books anymore? I’m a writer at heart! I have written all my life. How will you make sure I don’t pick up a computer and start typing a story?”
Dr. Cox smiled back. “You’re wrong, John! You’re not a writer at heart. You’re a writer in mind!” he tapped his temple.
“You weren’t born a writer. You became a writer. And you became a writer because of your surroundings. You saw things, met people, had experiences that had an impact on your mind. You were inspired, disappointed, heart broken, excited by certain events in your life. And all these events lead you down a path…a path of becoming who you are today.
“If I can get into your mind and replace those memories, change how you remember certain events from your life, or remove them from your mind entirely and replace them with something else, I can change your likes, your dislikes, your instincts, your entire personality.
“Our transformation is flawless, John! In a matter of a few days, we’ll change you from a writer to a Banker, Data Analyst, Digital Marketer…whatever you like!”
“That sounds…”
“Ridiculous…I know. I get that reaction all the time. But we have been doing it for years. And I’m definitely simplifying it a lot. There’s painfully little I can reveal unfortunately. But just know that it’s carefully researched, tried and tested. We have transformed so many dead beat guitar players, writers, designers to successful Corporate Professionals. You could be one of them!”
John thought about what was said. All the information that he had been presented so far with had been very convincing, yet he couldn’t lay all his doubts to rest.
“Okay…let’s say this procedure works.” he finally said.
“What about my belongings? My home is littered with manuscripts, transcripts, awards, copies of my work, my writings, my diaries, my notes…Surely I’ll come home to that and realize something’s amiss.”
“Well…we take care of that. The surgery lasts a few hours. And you’ll stay with us for a few days as we stabilize and monitor you, train your brain with new skills, contact your friends and family with details of your new life…a host of other things…
“We use that time to clear your home of all belongings that harken back to your old professional life. Letters, books…everything you said. We erase your digital footprint. And anything that’s of value, we sell and give the money back to you. It’s brilliant! I architected the whole process.”
It sounded all too simple to John. It was as if he had been living under a rock and the world had changed around him.
“Well…I don’t have anything valuable. So that parts taken care of, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes you do, John!” Dr. Cox said as he flipped open the file once again.
“You have something very valuable that I am personally very excited for!”
“And what’s that?”
“Your vintage Malling-Hansen Writing Ball Typewriter” he said as he slid a picture towards John.
John looked at the picture of his typewriter laid atop an accent table in his living room. Everything in his body rejected the very idea of separating himself from this artifact.
“I can’t…This is my prized possession. I have painstakingly preserved this typewriter. It’s…it’s my inspiration to write…It’s been in my family for decades…my father passed this on to me…I can’t…”
“You’ll have to, unfortunately. It’s a risk to keep this in your life. Let’s be honest no kind of Corporate Professional has that in his home.
“Anything that’s such a strong connection to your previous professional life to be kept so close to you could cause a lot of complications. I have seen people lose their mental stability over things like this. They feel something inside themselves, looking at such objects but have no explanation in their mind for it. They have to undergo therapy. Sometimes more. It’s the worst. Trust me on this.” Dr. Cox said with genuine concern.
Once again, John couldn’t find any valid argument to provide. He found a sense of helplessness envelope himself.
“And don’t worry! You’ll get a great price for this! We’re going to sell it to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They have a brand new writer’s exhibit coming up. They are desperate for things like these. It’s going to be the center piece!” Dr. Cox said sensing John’s despair.
“Are there any side effects to the procedure?” he veered the discussion.
“Minor side effects, yes. Occasional headaches, bouts of feeling low or lost. Sometimes people tear up without explanation. Nothing that can’t be managed by over the counter medication…or a stiff drink.”
John sat back in his chair staring out into the downtown area. He exhausted his list of questions and didn’t have any further doubts of the veracity of the process. Yet, something inside his chest, lingered on, leaving him with a sense of unease.
“You need this, John. Once the procedure is done, you’ll never have to look back. A new life — Comfortable, relaxed, steady money, easy life. Writing has done you more harm than good. The initial success was great, yes? But the failures? The bad reviews, loss of income, publishers turning their back, fans turning away, your wife leaving you, kids being separated! Your love for writing has taken a lot more than it ever gave you!”
John felt a deep pit forming within his chest. The ache grew deeper. It was a familiar ache. One that he felt a year back. When the family court announced it’s verdict. A sense of helplessness, a sense of loss. The ache of being forced to give up something you love so deeply. His eyes started to well up.
“It’s just that…I love writing so much!” he finally found the words.
“It’s who I am. It’s my identity. It’s how I engage with the world, how I communicate. Without that, who am I? I have spent years and years of my life, painstakingly creating characters and plots from thin air. And to see them come to life on paper and share it with the world has been the greatest joy of my existence.
“And to come this far, only to give it all away! I can’t do it.” he shook his head in despair.
Dr. Cox looked at him quietly. For the first time in their interaction, he restrained himself.
“Getting my first book published was a gargantuan task. The endless hours of story boarding, writing, first drafts, second drafts, editing, re-editing, finding publishers, all the rejections and heartaches….” he trailed off as he looked outside again.
“It’s an unforgiving art form. And so lonely! Sitting by yourself in your chamber, staring into the blankness, trying to dive into the depths of your imagination to pull out just a few words…I gave a part of my soul to every book I wrote.
“But the joys are boundless. I have cried in joy every time that a publisher sent me the first copy of my book, every time I saw it arranged in a book store for the first time, every time a young fan gushed over how much they related to my work. I can’t explain how special it is. If I am not a writer, then who am I?”
“I know, John. But to get somewhere you need to be, you need to leave from where you are.” he said as he opened up another binder and laid it in front of John. He opened a fountain pen and laid it on the binder.
“Just sign the release papers. And we’ll take care of the rest.”
John looked at the papers laid out in front of him and then to Dr. Cox. A few moments went by…and then…time stood still for him.
The Metropolitan Art Museum was a stunning piece of architecture that lay smack in the center of the city. While the metropolis around it had changed at a frantic pace and embraced all the trappings of a modern, financially rich city, the museum had preserved its early mid-century look albeit with some tasteful updates. On this Friday evening, the museum was buzzing with visitors, that filed in in ball gowns and tuxedos. It was the opening day to their new Writer’s exhibit. People from all walks of life, tourists and locals alike were buzzing around, taking selfies, recording stories, sipping wine and sampling cheese.
A lot of interesting artifacts from several years ago adorned aisles and display cases. But the chatter in the room was centered around the glass exhibit housed behind red velvet ropes in the center of the room. In it lay an artifact of a bygone era that hadn’t been witnessed in public for years. It was described as — One of the earliest inventions that put fertile imaginations on scrolls of paper. Something that laid the foundation for every recorded written word from the moment that it was invented.
Everyone around this display stood in awe and wonder, straining to take the best picture of it, scratching their heads for the best hashtags to put with their picture. John Morris, a Director at a local tech start up, looked at this artifact in awe. He was observing and absorbing every little detail of it from a distance, mesmerized at the timeless beauty of it. His vision blurred after a few minutes as tears rolled down his face.
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