Coffee? Perhaps Tea?

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Coffee? Perhaps Tea?

1

Sometime in the past, Mr. Wilson had misplaced his mind.

That was the collective, agreed-upon theory.

Now he sat in a comfy, overstuffed chair in Dr. Swenson’s seventh-floor office—yes, that Dr. Swenson, the world-famous psychologist—in what everyone who knew him hoped would not be a vain attempt at locating it.

Whether Mr. Wilson himself entertained any similar hopes was something nobody knew, quite possibly including Mr. Wilson.

As for those who knew him, why exactly none of those concerned family members had seen fit to accompany this poor misguided man to the office was beyond the doctor’s comprehension.

2

Mr. Wilson watched as sunlight streamed through the window between the slats of the wide wooden blinds.

Miniature worlds danced in the light beams.

Billions upon billions of miniature worlds with trillions upon trillions of sub-miniature humans scurrying about on them.

It is safe to assume that at any given moment, hundreds of thousands—maybe even millions—of those trillions were looking skyward and wondering what’s out here.

And it’s nothing but me.

All along, that’s all it was.

Me.

The whole experience reminded Mr. Wilson a great deal of home.

3

Dr. Swenson opened the session with a question, as well he might and as Mr. Wilson had hoped he would. Every good guise needs an accomplice.

Whether or not anyone else knew it, and whether or not Mr. Wilson cared whether anyone else knew it—but he did not—Mr. Wilson did indeed harbor hopes.

No dreams. Dreams are for fools.

But hopes are lightweight enough not to drag one to the ground when they go unrealized.

And had Mr. Wilson actually dreamt the doctor might ask a question rather than having merely hoped for it, he might well have been dragged not only to the ground but below it by several floors.

Oh yes, the doctor asked a question, but certainly it wasn’t a very interesting question. Nor was it one befitting the status or reputation of Dr. Swenson. Certainly it was not the quality of question one might hope (not dream) would come attached to such an excessive fee as the doctor charges.

Why does he charge such a high fee? Not that it matters personally, but what does the man spend it on? Certainly not food. He’s spare at best, not over five feet, eight inches and pushing a hundred and ten pounds on a good day.

But the question. At a bare minimum, the question is disproportionately low in quality when compared with the fee the good doctor garnered even during the few seconds it took him to ask it.

The question? A completely ludicrous waste of time, really.

And Mr. Wilson made sure the doctor knew it, too. Or would have if he had deigned to speak aloud.

These people are such fools. Such complete fools.

But the question then?

4

The world famous psychologist lowered himself at least a few paygrades and wondered aloud about Mr. Wilson’s desires as regarded beverages. “Would you care for a coffee, Mr. Wilson? Or perhaps a tea?”

Mr. Wilson smirked.

The man would have made a perfectly delightful secretary.

“A coffee, Mr. Wilson? Perhaps a tea?”

A squirrel, Mr. Wilson? Perhaps a rabbit?

An aspirin, Mr. Wilson? Perhaps a twelve-pound suppository?

No really, Mr. Wilson, one sugar? Two? Three? Arsenic, Mr. Wilson? Perhaps cyanide?

Would you like that to go, or will you be dining-in with us this evening?

Paper or plastic, Mr. Wilson?

Belladonna, Mr. Wilson? Or perhaps a hemlock?  

As the pressure mounted in the back of his mind, Mr. Wilson responded, in a way.

5

The smirk disappeared.

Mr. Wilson averted his gaze from the worlds over which he was now hanging invisible in their universe, turned to the doctor, and rendered his best possible imitation of a blank stare.

Will the doctor recognize my response in my gesture? Or will that have slipped past his rusty bear trap of a mind?

The doctor countered with a frown, no doubt his way of indicating that such matters must be taken seriously. He might have used the same advanced technique to indicate to a child why he would not enjoy an ice cream bar before supper.

Or to a rock star to indicate that removing one’s pants on stage after forgetting one was—ahem, ‘going commando’—was not appropriate behavior.

But if the look was to indicate that such matters must be taken seriously:

Which matters? Which matters must be taken seriously, Dr. Fraudulent Miscreant Sa-sa-sa-wenson? Only the matter of a doctor posing a thoroughly inadequate and off-task question to his patient?

Respect! That’s what the good doctor is demanding. Yes, yes. Demanding. Earning it is too much to ask. Earning it such a strenuous, arduous, peril-fraught path. 

After all, the doctor had expended a great deal of his parents’ time and money to sit through several years of classes and learn which answers the puppeteers wanted to hear. And in the end he had answered just enough of those questions ‘correctly’—with all the connotations of that word—to be awarded his doctorate.

And the man—excuse me, the doctor—had struggled to remain awake in class all those years specifically so he could render aid to poor souls like me. And those poor souls like me should darn sure appreciate it, by golly.

At least enough to respond to a question regarding something as inconsequential as one’s choice of hot beverage.

Well, lukewarm at best by now.

6

The doctor huffed. As he did so, he made an exorbitant gesture with his right hand, by which he opened his tablet to a blank page.

The doctor stared at the tablet. The vegetable-bin bound Mr. Wilson wouldn’t notice anyway. It truly was amazing. The tablet, not Mr. Wilson. Or rather his streak of flip-opens without yet having opened it on a page that contained writing.

For all of the past thirteen tries—no, fourteen now—the doctor had flipped open the tablet to a blank page, his Mont Blanc pen poised over the page just as a master swordsman might flash to the en-garde, pre-battle position.

That was a completely appropriate analogy. Because if the doctor was doing anything at all to help his patients along toward a cure, he saw himself as engaging in battle.

7

“Now,” the good doctor said.

And a common housefly buzzed past the doctor and the inscrutable Mr. Wilson and alit on the arm of the overstuffed chair in which Mr. Wilson was seated.

The doctor stared at the fly for a moment, no doubt transmitting to it through his desultory look what he had conveyed to Mr. Wilson a short while ago with his ominous frown: a demand for respect.

Then the doctor began again, his pen poised ominously over the blank page to which he had opened his book. “Now, Mr. Wilson, what first caused you to suspect you have misplaced your mind?”

But Mr. Wilson had cupped one hand and extended it to the outside of the arm of the chair. In the space of a moment, the heel of his hand was resting a mere fly’s step away from where the fly was standing.

It was a show of respect and gratitude for the lowly creature. Mr. Wilson would give the fly a lift should he need it.

The fly looked at him with all four thousand lenses of each eye, focusing its attention as a show of respect. No easy feat, focusing your attention when you have four thousand lenses in each eye.

And the fly bowed.

The second and third joints on its front legs on both sides flexed enough to set it at a precise thirty-degree angle with its head on the low end.

Then again, was it bowing to Mr. Wilson or displaying its disdain for Dr. Swenson?

The doctor asked in a desultory tone, “Do you recall your wife’s name, Mr. Wilson?”

Mr. Wilson looked at the fly, then glanced toward the window and nodded, all but imperceptibly.

The fly understood. It picked up and moved to the window.

The fly was careful to swerve around the worlds floating in the sun’s rays.

The fly remained distant enough from most of those worlds that not only did the denizens notice no ill effects of its passing, but they noticed nothing at all save the inverted blue bowl of sky above them and the clouds floating lazily past.

Unfortunately, the eighty-fourth flake of the thirty-second sub-stem of the fly’s right antenna—and anyone but a self-important fourth-class common housefly antenna technician would simply have said “the topmost, outermost flake of the topmost, outermost sub-stem”—brushed close enough to the atmosphere of one micro-earth to create a great upheaval in weather patterns on the planet for the next two hundred and eighty-three years.

Which was roughly one point seven seconds to massively gigantic people sparring in a world famous psychologist’s office.

This particular fly was versed fairly well in the social graces and probably would have said, “Oops” if he could talk.

But of course, he couldn’t. He was a fly, after all. So for the time being, he hoped Mr. Wilson hadn’t noticed his faux pas.

But Mr. Wilson had noticed, as dutiful deities generally notice everything that their trembling minions would just as soon they would ignore. And all in the space of a split nanosecond, he accused, tried, and convicted the poor fly.

Again, just as deities generally do once they realize that they, imaginary beings, have been created and given omnipotence over actual beings. It goes to their head. Or heads, if they happen to be a hydra. Which Mr. Wilson was not.

But Mr. Wilson was a kind and benevolent deity.

As a way of chastising the fly without having to go through the seemingly interminable paperwork that would be required to dock his pay, Mr. Wilson absentmindedly picked at his nose with the first finger of his right hand, the harvest of which he flung in the general direction of the window sill on which the fly waited, once again bowing low.

The doctor frowne again. “Mr. Wilson, did you nod to indicate that you do recall your wife’s name, or were you perhaps beginning to drop off?”

What a rotten little rodent this creature is. Do you recall? Or perhaps nodding off? Coffee? Perhaps tea? Pretentious ass.

“Mr. Wilson, if I am to help you, and that is most certainly my intent, you really must answer my questions.”

“Intentions,” came the barely audible answer.

“What?” Glancing first at Mr. Wilson, then at his notebook, then back, then back, then back, then back, the doctor scribbled furiously in his notebook on the heretofore blank page, then looked up. “What was that again?”

The booger had missed the fly, who dutifully teetered to the side as if stumbling and unable to catch his  balance. Finally he splatted against it with almost as much velocity as if it had struck him in the first place. Having thusly thrown himself onto his sword, so to speak, the fly again assumed the submissive thirty-degree bow.

“Intentions. Intentions. Not intent. Intentions.”

“Very well then.” The doctor seemed pleased.

This, it appeared, was the beginning of what such doctors call a breakthrough. “So I will ask you again. What caused you to suspect you had lost your mind, Mr. Wilson?”

Mr. Wilson was still looking at the window sill. “Disregard.”

The doctor frowned again, but this was not a frown that was filled with disdain. This one appeared unexpectedly and was loaded with absolutely no meaning at all. “Disregard, Mr. Wilson? Disregard caused you to suspect you had lost your mind? Disregard of what? Or of whom? Or by whom?”

Of what? Or of whom? Or by whom? I’ll see your what and raise you two whoms. Whom really gets around doesn’t he?

Coffee? Perhaps tea? Arsenic? Perhaps seltzer water? Who? Perhaps whom?

Y’jerk.

Impatient, the fly leapt off the window sill, flew about for a moment, then landed again.

Mr. Wilson spoke as benevolently, as patiently as he knew how. “I know. I know.”

“What is your wife’s name, Mr. Wils—Wait. You know what?”

“Okay.” Mr. Wilson nodded in the direction of the window sill.

“Mr. Wilson, what is your wife’s last name?”

“Okay. All right.”

The doctor slammed his notebook shut. “Mr. Wilson, you must answer one question or the other! Do you understand?”

“Okay.” Mr. Wilson’s attention still was riveted on the window sill.

The doctor, being a doctor and stuffed to the gills with all his doctoral certainties regarding his own importance, didn’t notice. “Okay indeed, Mr. Wilson! So which will it be? Which question will you answer?”

Still looking at the fly, Mr. Wilson said, “Okay. All right.” He looked at the doctor. “Is there any way we can open the window farther though?” He shifted his gaze back to the fly. “You can’t do it, can you? You’re far too small.”

The doctor stared at the man in disbelief. All his life. All his life these bullies—His face glowed red. “I can’t open the window? I’m far too small? Here, Mr. Wilson. Here, watch this!”

And he strode to the window—Oh yes, he strode—with perhaps the most intention-filled, determined steps ever taken by any little man complete with the complex anywhere on Earth.

Especially when encountering beings from another planet without realizing it.

And even more especially while wishing to diagnose the larger, more normal looking of them.

And all of that without realizing for a moment that he was a non-entity even to the lesser of those beings.

He strode to the window, grasped the bottom of the frame, and heaved upward.

And was very nearly bowled over when Mr. Wilson rose, raced across the room, andhurled himself headlong through the window.

Gone white with fear, the poor, insignificant doctor—currently feeling very much like a doctorate-holding layman and wishing he were on vacation in the Bahamas—leaned out the window up to the waist.

Just in time to see the translucent wings sprout and spread and flash red green gold and blue in the sun.

He watched as long as he could. Very soon the smaller—whatever it was—was out of sight. And the larger had faded almost to a dot on the horizon. Which is when Mrs. Abernathy rapped on his office door and unexpectedly opened it.

The doctor jerked himself back from the window, taking great draughts of air, turned and ran a nervous hand over his hair. “Y-yes?”

“Doctor Swenson? Your four o’clock is here: Mr. Wilson and his daughter Jenny.” She put the back of her hand to the corner of her mouth and faux whispered, “They think he might have misplaced his mind.”

* * * * * * *