The REDEMPTION of Doc Mathews

                                                            Saturday 7:00pm: December 7

         “Goddamned cat! ­­Fuckin’ hair!”

         Doc never liked the cat: or, so he claimed. It had belonged to Daisy, but during the divorce settlement, he took what he could get. Daisy got the kid, the car, the house, and the dog: Doc got the cat. The goddamned shedding cat. 

         “C’mere, Scooter.”

         Scooter, a jet black Malaysian that entered Doc’s family nearly six years previous, sat majestically on the well-worn arm of a used-to-be-white now-beige-from-neglect sofa in the living room of the only house for rent in Lake City within Doc’s meager budget. 

         The cat ignored Doc’s call.

         “I said c’mere, damn you.” Reaching tenderly beneath Scooters ribs, Doc lifted the cat to his chest. “Jesus Christ, you stink.” Purring gently, Scooter’s cheek rubbed against Doc’s unshaven face.

         Although, for a cat, Scooter did indeed produce a ripe odor, Doc was the last person in a very long line to judge the hygiene of another. Not only had the shower become a stranger to his presence, but the last pair of pajamas to his name had worn through the ass while the matching top had been discarded six-months previous. This, together with a faded green bathrobe that he received for Christmas from Susie only three years earlier − back when he was still a father and a husband: before he lost his mind − became Doc’s standard daily apparel.

         Holding the cat level with his own face, Doc conversed. “Well, what should we do today, Scooter? Huh? What’s that you say? I still have a bullet in the chamber? How kind of you to remind me. I have one for you too, you fury motherfucker. Soon. Soon.”

         Every night played out the same as the previous (How many times had he tried now?) and it always ended the same way: Straight shots of Jack Daniels for as long as it lasted, a joint if his stash had not run dry, and relentless attempts to set a new Vicodin record. Although pills often caused projectile vomiting and headaches, Doc’s resistance to alcohol had risen to the point of futility. A bullet was the only answer; the only way out. The only escape.

         Returning Scooter to the sofa, while crossing the room to the liquor/pill/television cabinet, Doc continued the conversation over his shoulder. “Tonight, Scooter! I’ve made up my mind that tonight is the night. Let’s celebrate.” 

Reaching for a half full bottle of Jack Daniels, Doc filled a large coffee-stained mug to the brim, and then downed its contents in two gulps without wasting a drop. A second dose, nearly as full as the first, was offered in Scooter’s direction. “Join me in a drink, you hairy bastard.” However, Scooter ignored the offer, and then glided to Doc’s feet. 

“Suit-choreself,” Doc muttered absently. The second went down smoother than the first.

         Each day, by noon, Doc pushed his blood alcohol to new levels. Everyone needs a goal. Vicodin eased the pain in his heart; pot eased the pain in his soul. A bullet, he often thought, would surely remove the thoughts and memories.

Gradually, as the whiskey settled into the support Doc needed just to feel human, a familiar warmth spread throughout his five-foot ten-inch frame. While fumbling through the dozen or so VHS cassettes sitting on his utility shelf, Doc intentionally avoided one tape in particular. 

         “What should we watch tonight, Scooter? Gone With the Wind? All Dogs Go To Heaven? How about Back To The Future? Michael Fuckin’ J. Fox! You like him, don’t’cha?”

         Softly, with a touch of sarcasm, Scooter replied. “How about the gray one?”

Shortly before the divorce, Scooter began speaking. Not much at first. Just a single word here, and a couple words there. But, as time passed, words became strings, strings became sentences, and sentences became conversations. 

         “You’re the only friend I have,” Doc would often tell the cat. In return, Scooter agreed to talk to help keep Doc from losing his mind.

         Scooter continued his query. “Why do you never watch the gray one?”

Doc Stiffened. “You goddammed know why, you furry fuckin’ head-knob.”

         Sensing a change in Doc’s demeanor, usually for the worse, Scooter returned to the safety offered by the distance of the couch before responding.

         “You always promise me that we will watch it tomorrow, Doc. However, tomorrow never comes. Now, does it?”

         Not realizing that Scooter had retreated, Doc kicked half-heartedly into the air. “Go lick yourself.”

         Moving to the opposite end of the couch, Scooter offered a retort. “Now, that is clever, you stinking sack of piss. You should take a shower every so often so that I can tell the difference between you and the litter-box in the dark. What are you afraid of?”

Holding the mysterious gray box high in his left hand, Doc readied to throw it as he spun quickly to face the area of the couch recently vacated by Scooter. “I’m not afraid of nothing, you feline fuck.” Pausing long enough to find, and focus, on the cat’s current location, Doc added, “You think I’m afraid of a movie? A goddammed movie taped from television?” 

         Blinking lazily, Scooter matched Doc’s gaze. “You should call her.”

         Embarrassed, Doc turned back to absently searching tapes. “Call who?”

         Still lazily, yet sharply sarcastic, Scooter offered a grammatical correction. “WHOM! Call WHOM! Besides, you know who.”

         Half inside his head, half out loud, Doc responded nearly imperceptibly. “You want to talk to her so bad, why don’t’jew call her?”

         Unbeknown to Doc, Scooter did hear. “Because I am a fucking cat, you ass-hole.” He displayed a paw. “I cannot dial the telephone.”

         Doc returned the gray VHS box (the tiny ragged homemade label had two words scribbled in six-year-old penmanship: Daddy’s show) to its original position on top of the television shelf among several bottles of Jack Daniel’s: Black Label, of course. While doing so, the discovery of two white, oval shaped pills – Vicodin, of course – bouncing inside one of the two prescription bottles inadvertently knocked to the carpeted floor, perked Doc’s excitement.

         In Doc’s past life, Susie recorded ER for her daddy every Thursday, at 10:00pm………………...

         “It’s Daddy’s show,” Susie always insisted. “Is Daddy gonna be on tonight, Mommy? Can we tape it for him?”

         “You know your Daddy is not an actor. He’s a real doctor. In a real hospital. He’s not on television.”

         “But, he’ll be on there someday, Mommy. I just know it.”

         “If you say so, honey.”

         “My Daddy’s the best. You wait‘n see………………..”

         Lying motionless on the sofa, inside of a Jack Daniels coma (aided by two recently found Vicodin), Doc’s memories of Susie quickly turned to dreams.

                                                            Sunday 3:00pm: Dec. 8

         “Wake up, Doc!”

         Without rising, Doc slowly opened his eyes. “Huh? What? Shit, Scooter! What time… is it?”

         Sitting majestically on the armrest above Doc’s head, Scooter motioned generally with his tail. “There is a clock on the wall, if you can focus.” Looking downward in an upside down orientation to Doc’s world, the cat’s eyes met Doc’s blank gaze. “Or are you trying to bleed to death through your eyeballs?”

         The stench in the air hung heavy of damp carpeting, bad breath, and the general odor of neglect. Doc’s eyes truly held their own share of swollen blood vessels. Rising slowly, orienting his own rhythm to match the gentle rocking of the room, Doc muttered, “I think I’m gonna be sick.” 

         Careful not to be overheard, Scooter silently mimicked Docs’ words sarcastically.

         Stumbling through the kitchen, in route to the bathroom for his ritualistic morning puke, the sour odor of six-day-old cat food forced the contents of Docs stomach to exit into a partially emptied Hungry Howie’s Pizza Box. Between convulsions, he scolded the feline. 

         “Goddammit, Scooter. I put this food out every single day, and you ignore it like it was poison.” 

         Sniffing at a slimy lump of moldy gray matter sitting inside a discarded Styrofoam carryout container, Scooter crinkled his nose. “You expect me to eat this crap? It smells like shit.” As an afterthought, he added, “Just like this house.”

         The kitchen (same as the living room, laundry room, garage, or any other first floor space) had accumulated to a state of dysfunction. Custom made pantry cabinets − oak and always empty − lined the walls from top to bottom, corner to corner. When the capacity of the standard double compartment porcelain sink – complete with garbage disposal and removable spray wand – overflowed with food-stained dishware, general refuse, and Doc’s unwashed socks, the kitchen’s once elegant center-island marble countertop evolved into a staging area for misdirected cat food, carryout containers, pizza boxes, and emptied Peanut Butter jars: complete with mouse turds deposited into the stainless-steel vegetable sink.

         Mail, in various stages of open/discard, littered the table, cabinets, counters, and appliances, with depth of dust betraying the “past-due” of each. Many were the times Scooter recognized, and appreciated, the advantage offered by Doc’s eventual refusal to retrieve the mail all together. 

         Centered perfectly in the living room’s ceiling hung the room’s sole source of lighting. Paths worn into the carpet, and scratched into the once pristine hardwood kitchen floors − which revealed Doc’s limited locomotion through the house − remained cloaked by means of heavy window coverings stapled together to insure a constant state of gloom. 

         Doc confined his use of furniture (whether passed out, vegetating, or asleep) to the couch. Scooter, when not sleeping soundly on Doc’s chest or stomach, claimed the grayish, faded captain’s chair near the large bay window. A combination television/book/VHS stand supporting bottles Du Jour Whiskey or Scotch (in various stages of empty), multiple prescription containers (mostly empty, and always Vicodin), several VHS tapes, and a shiny silver object selectively out of focus, rounded out the room’s contents entirely.

         Scattered pictures, candleholders, and empty shelving adorned walls once-upon-a-time-ago clean. However, these remnants − carryover from a time long past − belonged to the landlord: as did the furniture, curtains, television, and the entirety of scattered kitchen utensils. The only thing belonging to Doc, was Doc.

         When Docs’ vomiting eventually turned to dry heaves, and finally subsided, Scooter gazed into the bathroom at the emptiness that, at one point in the past, had been Doctor Kenneth Grant Mathews.

         Standing five-foot ten-inch in his stocking feet, with sandy-brown auburn-highlighted hair, confident hazel eyes, and reassuring smile, Doctor Kenneth Grant Mathews presented as pleasantly handsome with a well-defined body in his prime. However, the only image available to Scooter was that of a silver haired, bone thin shell of a man called Doc, kneeling in the bathroom, hovering over the toilet bowl. His once confident eyes now bloodshot and scared; the reassuring smile abandoned forever.

         “You should eat something, Doc. A shower and a shave wouldn’t hurt, either.”

         Silently appreciating the cold offered by the porcelain against his cheek, Doc whispered, “You should curl up and die.”

         The insults were constant − and usually overlooked − but every cat has its pride, and Scooter had his limits. In disgust, he disappeared silently into the basement. 

         Doc wondered how long it had been since he had last eaten.

         For Doc, every day began the same way – nausea, headaches, tremors, and puking – except, of course, for the third day of the month. That was Doc’s payday.

         The United States Government Social Screwity Disability Disorganization, in its infinite wisdom, saw fit to provide twelve-hundred dollars per month as severance pay to support an ex-surgeon with a disability. What did they call it? Psycho-something? More like Post-Traumatic Fucked in the Head, or some such technical bullshit.

         After wiping his mouth on a random cloth he found lying next to the toilet, Doc reacted to something taking place somewhere deep inside his own thoughts. “IT WASN’T MY FAULT!”

         Scooter, silently as ever, reappeared in the bathroom doorway. “Who are you talking to, big guy?”

         Doc’s muscles contracted. “Jesus Christ, Scooter! You scared the hell outta me! I thought you left.”

         “No. I will never leave you, Doc. She would not like that.”

         “Who wouldn’t like that?”

         “You know whom! Besides, I decided that taking a shit was better than listening to you tell me I should die, and then bitch about my eating habits.”

         Doc rose slowly. “Yeah? And, that’s another thing. How is it that you never eat the food I put out, but you always leave to take a shit whenever things heat up around here?”

         Scooter shrugged, as best a cat could. “When you get mad, it scares me. Especially since that kitchen is full of knives, and you know how it is with you and sharp objects.”

Using the fingertips on both hands, Doc massaged his temples. “I was the best damned surgeon that hospital ever saw.”

          Scooter followed as Doc returned to the kitchen. “You humans are too unforgiving. One slip and you are branded for life. Hell, the cat next door once mistook me for a female until I ripped his left nut off. But, I forgave him, eventually. By the way, if you ever see him, do not turn your back.”

         Doc closed his eyes. “I told’jew it wasn’t my fault. Don’t’chew ever listen to me? IT WASN’T MY FAULT!”

         Leaping to a sitting position upon the sole kitchen chair, Scooter scratched at a flea behind his ear. “Then how come you live in this toilet, all alone, and talk to a cat? Why do you smell like my ass? When was the last time you ate something solid?” Pausing to consider whether he should continue, Scooter could not help himself. “Where is your family, Doc?”

         Embarrassed from the sudden tears, Doc turned his head. Scooter jumped to the floor, and purred softly against Doc’s calf, as if to say, It’s OK, Doc. You know I love you. Doc leaned down to pick up the feline, and then held him close to his face. “What would I do without’chew, Scooter?”

         “You should call her.”

                                                            Sunday 7:00pm: Dec. 8

         “Come on, Doc. Let us watch the gray one. She taped it especially for you. Besides, if you hold onto it any longer you will rub a hole right through it.”

         Doc turned his head. “I gotta have another drink.”

         With eyes nearly closed, Scooter’s head shook slightly as he folded his claws beneath his body. “What do you mean another one? You only drink once a day. Trouble is, you start each morning, and do not quit until your brain explodes each night.”

         Doc hated to admit it, but the cat was right. A sixteen-ounce Coke glass filled with Jack Daniels was never far from reach, and the damned gray box seemed to follow him everywhere. 

         Upon closer examination, Doc chuckled. “I’ll be goddammed, Scooter. There is a groove worn into the box.”

         Scooter continued his urgings. “What are you waiting for? Put it in before they turn off the electricity.”

        Washing down three more Vicodin, Doc drained his glass, and then lit a joint.

         Although the dust on top of the VCR sat thick, the green digital display constantly blinked 12:00; a mechanical heartbeat to prove that life still flowed through the circuits. The nineteen-inch RCA – another concession from the divorce – projected all images in shadowy red pigmentation, however Scooter often reminded Doc that it simply matched his eyeballs: that is, whenever he was conscious.

         “Come on, Doc. What are you waiting for? It will not start itself.”

         Doc searched for the PLAY button. “I know! I know! Why don’t you relax? Better yet, go lick yerself for a while.”

          “Jealous, Doc?”

         “Fuck you, Scooter!” 

         Inside Doc’s brain, the massive volume of recently ingested narcotics began to slowly overload his endorphin receptors, causing extreme feelings of relaxation and pleasure. Twenty-four months of narcotic abuse prevented his presynaptic axons from producing opioid peptides and endorphins, while the saturation of alcohol suppressed the production of excitatory neurotransmitters. This highly addictive combination allowed Scooter to get in the last word. 

         “Not even if you were a cat.”

         Since the batteries inside the remote control had died many months previously, and then leaked acid until it crystallized, the unit had been rendered inoperative.       Therefore, while standing next to the television out of necessity, Doc realized that his knees were weak, and ready to collapse.

         Scooter whispered. “Did you forget what to do?”

         Doc closed his eyes. “You know what’s on here, don’t’cha?”

         “Yes, Doc. We both do.” 

         Turning slowly, Doc faced his questioner. “Then, why do you want to watch it?”

         “Because you will not call her.”

         “You’re a bastard, Scooter. You know that?”

         After two more Vicodin, a full glass of booze, and the last half of his joint, Doc finally found his courage. He pushed PLAY.

         “You okay, Doc?”

         “I’m Fine!”