http://www.peterlangston.com/Fun_People/1995/1995BCF.html###
Quantum Optics
by Simon Travaglia
It's an early morning and I'm waiting for my bus to oblivion, return
ticket of course.
Beside me in the queue is a stunning blonde, the like of which is only
lied about in cheap novels as the detectives never-attained love
interest. The fool.
I glance over at what she's reading and freeze. "Quantum Optic Theory".
A huge book, 300 pages and least, and *really* small writing with NO
pictures. I glance away as quick as I can, hoping she didn't spot me
looking her way, my mind screaming "INTELLECTUAL THREAT!" at the top of
it's pasty alcohol-soaked lungs.
"You like Physics?" she asks, keenly interested.
I hate good looking women who do that. She doesn't even FAKE dumbness,
she's that sure of herself. (They're brainy on purpose you know. Some
people pretend that you're born with it, but I know better, it's all an
act, they're brainy because they like to be.)
So now I'm on the horns of a dilemma. Big Horns, Big Dilemma. Dinosaur
Horns maybe. I can tell the truth, that I know about as much about Quantum
Optics as she knows about Peruvian jungle Vine climbing (although she's
probably got a book about that in her bag as well) *OR* I can try and fake
it. If I fake it, I'll have to skilfully turn the topic from Quantum
thingies onto something I have the remotest chance of holding my head above
conversation water in.
I go for the fake.
"Yeah, physics is great. You know, Quantum theory is such a universal thing.
Do you know that I always think about it when I'm watching the Lakers play"
...So smooth I won't need oiling for a year...
"You're a lakers fan too?!!"
excrement!! I went for the sports option because it usually kills a conversation
with a woman within two sentences, (leaving *her* feeling awkward about her
ignorance) but this is really putting the pressure on. For a start I haven't
watched the Lakers for a couple of months. BACKUP RESERVE-PLAN STRATEGY!
"Yeah, the Botswana Lakers, what a team!"
(What a mindnumblingly awesome save!)
"YOU'RE A BOTSWANA LAKERS FAN TOO!!! I WAS THERE FOR A YEAR ON A STUDENT
EXCHANGE PROGRAM IN 1982"
So I'm intercoursed. It could be the start of a meaningful but exhausting
relationship, or I could just say nothing and step out in front of the bus
when it comes.
I choose the bus, nothing's worse than being caught lying by an attractive
woman. Except being caught lying by my mum of course, but that's a universal
fear. ("It's not what that, it's the lies that hurt" (just kill me now))
The bus trundles up and I step out, but the bastard driving it is new on
the job and hasn't got the common courtesy to run me down.
"What were you doing? You could have been killed!" the blonde pipes up
"Yeah, well.."
.. I see my chance for a fantastic super-save ..
".. it doesn't really matter for me, as I have only 2 months to live
anyway..."
THE SYMPATHY VOTE!! A LATE SAVE FROM THIS PLAYER WHO TILL NOW WAS
STARTING TO WORRY THE VIEWING MILLIONS, BUT NOW HE'S ON THE HOME STRETCH
AND POURING IT ON!
"OH NO! Why? How?"
"I've got... "
My mind whirs madly as I try and think of something really disgusting that
isn't sexually transmissible but that I can use to explain my failing memory
of Quantums and Botswana..
".. Altzheimers.."
"BUT THAT'S NOT FATAL, NOT NOW, THEY HAVE A PLAN TO PUT THE DISEASE INTO
REMISSION, I WAS JUST READING ABOUT IT THIS MORNING!"
(typical)
".. and a tumor the size of a Brussl Sprout in behind my left eye..."
"CHEMOTHERAPY AND RADIOGRAPHY HAVE ADVANCED SO FAR IN THE LAST COUPLE OF
MONTHS, YOU MAY BE ABLE TO BE CURED, LET ME TAKE YOU TO THE CAT SCANNER
AT MY WORK TO GET A LATE DIAGNOSIS, IT COULD BE WORTH THE CHANCE!!!!"
(That meddling bus driver has a excrementload to answer for)
"Well, if you think it would help, but frankly >cough< I doubt it. That
two months was an outside guess, anything from two months down to two hours
the doctor said... ...this morning"
"THEN WE'VE GOT NO TIME TO LOSE, QUICK I'LL GET US A TAXI"
I lurch to the taxi, not wanting to appear ungrateful, acting the dying
selfless bastard to the full, milking it for all it's worth, and wouldn't
you know it, the prick of a taxi driver has those doors that lock when the
car's in motion so you can't leap out into the path of an oncoming
articulated lorry to save yourself embarrasement, IF and ONLY IF, you're
lucky enough to spot one in the first place.
"Oh excrement! I haven't got any money for a cab, can you pay?" she says
"Why not, I won't be needing it anyway where I'm going.."
"Oh, don't be like that. Driver - The Lyndon Institute for Medicine"
"You sure lady, that's way across town?"
"Yes, of course I'm sure, this is an emergency"
I think the window's probably not armourglass, so if I smash it open with
my head, I could probably get out and into the path of that lorry with a
bit of luck...
"Hey buddy" the taxi driver calls "You wanna put your seat belt on?"
Now I KNOW that I'm completely stuffed - I've got the ONLY TAXI DRIVER IN
THE *WORLD* WHO MAKES YOU WEAR A BLOODY SEAT BELT!!"
Stuff it, I buckle in and resign myself to fate in the hopes that I can
change the Cat Scanner settings from "Scan" to "Cook 20 pounds of Steak
Mince in 1.5 seconds, burning most of it" when no-one's watching.
I also decide to enjoy the ride and be nice with it.
"Hey, thank's for all your care and attention, you know you're a pretty
good sort..."
THEN IT HITS ME, THE ANSWER TO MY PROBLEMS!!
".. for a blonde chick.."
I wait for the explosion, but none comes.
"Did you here what I said about you being good for a blonde chick?"
"Oh yes. Your poor mind must be so garbled by your tumour that it's
normal, balanced outlook is tainted by archaic sexual stereotypes."
She's too good for me, I pin all my hopes on the Scanner using
microwaves and lapse into silence.
=======
So we get to the Lyndon Institute, after a scenic cab ride involving crossing
town three times (only because the driver was taking the quick route) and
wouldn't you know it, it's one of those HUGE places that have more medical
research underway than the combined third world. I can see that my "dying"
story's going to hold about as much water as an 80 year old's bladder, so
I'm going to have to think of something fast.
Fast is, of course, my middle name.
We roll up the steps, me stumbling and coughing the while, trying all the
time to remember the name of that doctor. You know the one.
I get express service to the X-Ray room first off for a couple of diagnostic
xrays leading up to the Scan. On the way, I palm a scalpel and pop the blade
out of it.
They chuck me into the perfectly harmless X-Ray machine, then retreat behind
the Armageddon-proof Lead screen. "No more rays than sunshine" they say as
they buzz the profile of my head. While they're opening the screen door, I
pull the scalpel blade from behind my ear. They re-arrange my head for a
frontal shot and then retreat back behind the screen, during which time I
stick the scalpel blade, side-on, to the back of my head with some gum.
They buzz me and I grab the blade and stash it in a pocket.
Blondie comes in and starts orbiting the radiographer in the hopes that it
will speed up the development process some. Meantime I become the cheery
poor bastard who has come to terms with his imminent demise.
"What the hell" I say "I'd die for a coke. Really. Ha ha ha"
One is delivered in .003 seconds.
I keep up appearances except when I catch blondy out of the corner of my
eye glancing at me. Then, "completely oblivious of her attention" I sigh
deeply and look out the window at the Sun, sniff slightly, and pull myself
together.
Works every time. If they think they've caught you in an unguarded moment,
they think it's the true you.
The radiographer comes back with the X-rays and there's a lot of hurried
whispering with blondy.
"Simon?" she calls.
I wander over, fresh-faced and innocent, making a brave play of it.
"Yes?"
"Simon, have you ever been operated on before?"
"Well, yes, when my tumour was first diagnosed they did some kind of
exploratory or something where I had to get all my hair shaved off. It
wasn't fun at all. But my surgeon helped me through it, he was such a
character.."
"Oh? And who was that?"
"Dr Brain Analpeeper, a great guy"
The room went dead quiet, as it always does when someone mentions the worst
surgeon in medical history..
"Not Dr Analpeeper at Landsdown?"
"You know him! He was such a great man! And I don't believe for a minute
all those things they said about him. He was a true gentleman. He calmed
my fears about the operation completely. Why, he even took me drinking
the night before the operation as a bit of a fling. What a night! We must
have got back to the hospital about 6am!"
"You mean he discharged you from the hospital on the night before your
operation?"
"Oh no, we went up to his office and drank there!"
"And what time was your operation?"
"Oh, I dunno, sometime about 9 I think"
"And exactly what was he looking for?"
"Oh I don't know it was something technical with a really long name"
"Simon, come over here and sit down"
"Why? What's the matter? Hell, it can't be any worse can it? Ha ha "
My conscience is trying to revive itself so it can be properly disgusted at
me for twisting the knife like this, but my ego slips it a mental kick to the
groin and it shuts up.
"Simon, as far as we can see there was no reason to operate on you at all.
We see no xray evidence of a tumor. Of course, we'll run a CT scan to be
sure.."
"SO I'M CURED!"
"No, not exactly. I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but,
there appears to be an item lodged in your brain. A scalpel blade to
be precise."
"Well, that's no trouble is it, I mean hell, we could leave it there or
maybe I could get it taken out?"
"Ordinarily, we would operate to remove it, but it looks to be lodged at
a junction of nerve endings, and any mistake could leave you paralysed or
even worse, kill you!"
"So that's it then, my brain's just a time bomb?" >sniff<
"Simon, I don't know what to say, it's so unexpected.."
I check to see there's no guys in the room before I pull the sure-score
move. I start sobbing.
"SO THAT'S IT, I'M REALLY GOING TO DIE..."
"Well, not necessarily. With an altered life-style you could live out a
long and fruitious life"
"YOU MEAN LIFE IN A BED!! NEVER GOING OUT AND EATING PASTE TO STOP MY
JAW MUSCLES PUTTING PRESSURE ON MY BRAIN!!"
"Uh, well, Simon, I don't know exactly how you would..."
"I'D RATHER BE DEAD!!! HELL, I WOULD BE DEAD FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES!"
"I don't think.." she starts, but it's no good, I'm reeling her in and she
doesn't even know it.
"No, I suppose it was always going to happen. Oh well. It's just..."
Killer move. She has to know what I was going to say. She probably doesn't
really want to ask, but she's got no choice, it's that or be a heartless
clinical observer...
"Just what?" she asks. (I TOLD YOU SO)
He sweeps the pad clean, he roughs up the mound, he scuffs up the ball, and
then.... DELIVERS...
"..I just don't want to die alone."
STEEEERIKE ONE!
Her brow furrows, but there's still a chance of rejection
"I always thought it would be different. I never thought I'd die a virgin"
STEEEEEEEEERKIE TWO
He eyes get a little teary, now for the follow through.
"Oh well, it's like they say, you can't always get what you want. I spose
I'd best go and see my Mum, she'd want me to be with her..."
SSTTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERIKE THREE! SHE'S OUT!
"No you won't! It can't be like this!"
YES YES YES YES YES!!!!
"We'll operate!"
NO NO NO NO NO!!!!
excrement!
======
Stuffed again is what I am.
Before I can say "Why don't you and your precious institute take a running
leap sideways onto a greased hockey stick strategically mounted atop a 16
foot pile of sharpened ashtrays" I'm being dragged by blondy and a couple
of other surgically addicted brain scum towards what will either be my
death or my transformation into mentally dead. (Read DOS user).
It's time for quick thinking once more.
"WAIT!" I shout at the top of my lungs "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
"Well there's risks of course, but some of them have to be taken if you
want to lead a long and full life"
"Long and Full?!?." I sigh heavily and work up to plan Q, which has the
same intended result as A-P, but hopefully will work.
"Tell me, have you ever listened to Henry Rollins?"
"Rollins.. rollins... Oh, isn't he that loud shouting singer?"
Obviously not. The way is clear.
"Well, I suppose you could call him that. But have you ever listened to
his words? The *essence* of what he's singing is life! Real Life, not
30 year old in a wheelchair wetting his pants and dribbling his fish paste
out onto his lap..."
She's getting hooked, you can tell.
"You mean..."
"Yeah. I want to SHINE. Hey, maybe I won't shine for long, but for once,
I'd just like to *shine*! I haven't got a hundred years to mess around,
so I want my time to start right now. I want it to be my time to shine"
["Shine" (c) Henry Rollins]
"That's so.." she chokes (sucker) "...so... ...deep"
"Yeah, I guess" (pffft!)
She eats all this up and I'm starting to feel like a complete seal-basher
as her eyes fill up with tears, but what the hell, I've suffered for this,
it's time to share something with those around me.
"What are you going to do now?" she asks, oozing pity at every pore
"Well I don't know. I really want to *live* but I guess I've got to take
care of some stuff, pack up my things and give them to a Relief-Aid shop
and go and see my Mum, she'd like to see me before I go..."
>Pregnant Pause<
"Look, what you just said, about shining - did you mean that?"
"Yeah, but I guess I've just got to look after all these things, reality
is such a bummer"
I can see the gears turning: Should-I, Shouldn't-I, Should-I, Shouldn't-I, so
I ease a bit more pressure on.
>cough<
>cough< >cough<
I work out a couple of those really awful wretchy coughs that sound like
I'm backflushing my scrotum, and the deal is done.
She takes a deep breath and:
"LOOK, I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG YOU'VE GOT, BUT HOW ABOUT TONIGHT, YOU AND I
JUST SHINE?! WE'LL GO EVERYWHERE DO EVERYTHING? WHAT DO YOU SAY??!?!!"
"I.. I don't know what... I..."
"OKAY, LET'S DO IT, COME ON. FIRST STOP YOUR PLACE, YOU HAVE TO GET READY!"
She waves a cab and milliseconds we're at my place. Cooo-el.
