A Real Medical Condition

A long narrow 1950's style kitchen. On the far side of the room is a countertop with a white ceramic sink. Behind the sink is a window that allows warm sunlight to politely enter. Below the counter are white-doored cabinets and above... open faced cabinets that house drinking glasses, dishes, and various nicknacks.

A figure makes it's way across the cold tiled floor over to the counter.

Carl is the oddest looking young man you would ever want to meet.  Exhausted and disheveled, he reaches up to one of the shelves and takes down a glass. The glass looks like it has been broken several times but has been repaired with elmer's hot rubber cement tape sticky-tack glue. If you take a closer look, you'll notice that all of the other glasses and nicknacks in the cabinet are in the same condition.

Carl gingerly places the glass on the counter, then walks over to the refrigerator. Like Wally or the Beaver, he takes out a thick glass jug of milk. Cold creamy white goodness poors into the glass - almost in slow motion.  Then Carl chugs the entire glass without coming up for a single sip of air. He slowly returns the glass down on the counter - exhaling a sigh of disappointment; then he just stands there, looking out the window for several awkward moments.

A car honks outside, but it doesn't surprise Carl one bit. He mozzies to a door that is at the end of the counter and pokes his head outside. The honking car is parked by the curb with Carl's co-worker, John, anxiously sitting inside. He rolls down the passenger window and barks across the lawn.

"This is the third time this week, Carl!" John says. " Hurry up, will ya! We're going to be late... again!

Carl waves off the complaint and heads back inside.

Carl's house is a two story cape cod he inherited from his great uncle on his father's side twice removed. His bedroom is upstairs. It typically takes him at least a minute and a half to reach the top. Not because the staircase is too steep or exceptionally long. No, Carl is just slow like molasses after a deep winter freeze.

Lingering in front of the bathroom mirror, he takes a deep whiff of his pits. The stench is too much even for him. He yanks his white t-shirt off, turns on the sink, and splashes water under his pits. Then he dries off with the shirt he just took off. As he opens the medicine cabinet to retrieve a can of spray deodorant, it leaps right off the shelf and nails him smack dab between his eyes. It's a good thing his parents decided to save a few bucks off their medical deductible by asking the doctor to just leave that metal plate in his forehead after the accident.

He fumigates the most offensive areas, then grabs a dress shirt and tie off the floor. After buttoning his shirt incorrectly a couple of times, he slipping a pre-tied neck-tie around his throat... while plodding downstairs. He exits through the front door and immediately shuts it behind him. But after a few moments, a wave of realization rushes over him. He left his keys inside along with all his other earthly possessions.

He peers through the long rectangular windows that run down both sides of the front door. It's difficult to see through the curtains, but there is a small table just inside the door to the right. It's where Carl religiously puts his keys, wallet, and cellphone every day. He does it to prevent something like this from happening... again.

"My name is Carl..... And I have a problem."

The knob continues to rattle over and over again. Maybe he thinks a few more pitiful pounds might help. It doesn't help.

5:43 PM

John and Carl return after a long day at work. As Carl exits the vehicle, it become apparent that something is not right with John. Both of his eyes are blackened. He is wearing a nose brace and his hair is all messed up.

Carl shuts the door and leans back into the window.

"Look man, I'm really sorry," Carl says. "I know it's hard to believe, but I can't help it."

"That's what you said last time," John fires back. "... and I was dumb enough to believe you."

"John, It's the truth... I swear."

John gives him the stink eye and starts revving the engine.

"You are the absolute worst. Now get away from my car, before I run you over."

Carl takes a single step back. The car peels out... leaving skid marks on the pavement and smoke rolling from the tires.

"It's a real medical condition!" Carl yells with his fits pumping in the air.

He knows all to well that John can not hear him. It really doesn't matter to Carl either way, but it  feel so good to blow off some steam.

7:45 PM

Blue flames appear as the gas stove ignites. A skillet comes down onto the flames. The handle is held on by duct-tape. A hand smashes a couple of eggs against the side of the skillet... allowing the yoke to escape into the pan. Their freedom sizzles with glee. (Not the tv show)

Carl reaches up to the open face cabinets above the sink where he keeps his best plates. He makes his way to the dining room and places an arm full of plate pieces on the table. He systematically rearranges the jigsaw puzzle till it resembles a single plate again.

He makes a second round trip back into the kitchen to pickup the skillet and a hot pad for the table. Then he begins fishing the eggs out of the skillet. A light dusting of salt and pepper finished this gourmet meal off.

As soon as Carl pulls out the rickety chair at the head of the table and sits down... his elbow knocks his fork onto the floor. So he bends low like a giraffe reaching for a single blade of grass on the Savannah. This simple move reveals that the table has been busted and repaired many times over too. A couple of uneven legs are being propped up by several books. A 2x4 has been nailed between the table top and the last leg standing. It seems to be playing both the role of a cast and a crutch.

As he eats his eggs, slowly / methodically, Carl begins to nod off. His eyes struggle to stay open... his head begins to bob. He falls sound asleep sitting up.

"I'm not different than anyone else," he thinks to himself. "Not really... I have dreams, aspirations..... I think I deserve to feel loved and appreciated for who I am. I don't think that's unreasonable."

A loud shatter jolts him back awake.

9:23 PM

A lanky jail-striped Carl stands beside his bed wearing his favorite PJs.  He's barely awake enough to keep from falling over as he takes off his brown house shoes and scoots them neatly under his bed with his feet.

9:24 PM

Snug as a bug in a rug, Carl covers pulled up to his chin. He softly mumbles his favorite show tunes till he is swept away by magical dusting of mr. sandman.  He is peacefully sawing logs. His feet, however, are exposed to the elements. His toes begin to twitch as they try to avoid hypothermia.

"But like I said, I have a problem... a real problem."

All of a sudden Carl's legs begin kicking violently into the air. Like a drunken power ranger from the waist down - feet of fury thrash uncontrollably. The comforter, pillows, a near by lamp, the painting above his headboard, the picture of his mom on the nightstand - all destroyed. The epileptic frenzy concludes with his foot punching a hole in the wall.

Carl wakes up - confused at first, then saddened that "it" has happened again. He pulls his foot out of the wall and leans down to look through the hole. Blackened eyes, nose brace, and a busted lip. He's seen that face before.

Filled with more rage than any human should hold inside, co-worker and next door neighbor - John, lets out an impressively gruesome cry.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

A single tear rolls down Carl's quivering cheek. Heartbroken and ashamed, he lowers his chin to his chest.

"I wish I were, John... but this isn't funny. I have... a Real... Medical... Condition!"

©2014 Marshal Hunter. All Rights Reserved.