Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [46]
“What should we do?” asked Paul.
“I am going to visit the doctor,” said Terry.
“Good,” said Paul. “Let us visit the doctor.”
“I must go alone,” said Terry.
“Okay,” said Paul. “I will talk to you after your visit. Good-bye, Terry.”
“Good-bye, Paul,” said Terry.
The two friends shook hands.
Paul felt tired. He drove his truck to his house.
Irving the cat was on the porch. He was eating a dead bat. Chomp, chomp, chomp, went Irving.
Paul petted Irving. “Hello, Irving,” said Paul.
“Meow,” said Irving.
NOTES:
Lisa,
Here you go. Hope you were able to follow along without pictures.
Dave
Dave,
My thoughts, in chronological order: 1. Fuck you. 2. Seriously, fuck you. 3. I wonder what John Vorhaus is up to these days. I never did call him. 4. What was I thinking collaborating with an unpublished, narcissistic poet? 5. We’ve sunk three months into this and there’s still a mystery to solve.
I am reminded of that standoff during The Fop over whether Claude Hindenberg would smuggle the bomb in his tuxedo jacket or a loaf of pumpernickel. You conceded to my logic—who brings bread to a catered ball? But every scene you wrote after that featured a loaf of fresh pumpernickel. You’re wasting our time mocking me instead of getting the job done.
I had always hoped this project would provide some kind of reparation for the slight you felt over that thing I did without you, but I have to question at what cost. I think we’ve sunk enough time into this project that it might be worth it to keep going, but you need to be on board with that.
If chapter 16 is replete with more Dick and Jane nonsense, then we’ll call it a day. Until then, I’ve decided to overlook this snag in the creative process and get back to work. We will repair it during revisions. Along with the repeated cat references and “subfusc.”
I do hope we can get past this.
Lisa
CHAPTER 15
When Terry was seventeen, he fell out of a tree, hit his head hard, and was never the same again. No thought that issued from his lips could be trusted as sound. That said, occasionally one of Terry’s paranoid theories would land in the general vicinity of the truth. But it was always a gamble with Terry, and Paul was happy to stay out of the whole business.
Because Terry had never visited a doctor without an appointment, he made one for four p.m. the same day—the only available opening. Perfect, he thought. An afternoon nap, a stiff Bloody Mary, and he’d be at the top of his game.
“Terry Jakes?” Doc Egan asked on the threshold of his waiting room.
“The one and only,” Terry Jakes replied. “At least the one and only in all of Mercer . . . and probably Emery.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jakes,” Doc Egan said, extending his hand.
“Wish I could say the same,” Jakes replied, sizing up the doctor as a crafty adversary.
Terry never trusted educated men. He read constantly to overcompensate for his own lack of formal education, but his reading comprehension was, to be polite, quirky. For instance, Terry had once read that the bathroom was the most dangerous room in one’s home, so he had his own bathroom knocked out and built an outhouse instead. The project was one of many grounds cited for his second divorce.
When Terry entered Egan’s office, instead of planting himself on the exam table, he sat down on the doctor’s rolling stool. Egan had heard rumors about Terry and so he took the move as an innocent mistake rather than passive aggression.
“You might find the exam table more comfortable,” Doc Egan suggested.
“I might,” Terry replied. “But I’ve never gone in much for comfort.”
“I see,” Egan replied.
“I see you see,” Terry replied.
“What can I do for you?” Doc Egan asked.
“It’s what I can do for you,” said Terry.
“Oh. You’re not here for a medical concern?”
“No, sir. Terry Jakes is fit as a fiddle.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are you now?”
“Yes, I am.”
“We cannot enter into alliances until we are acquainted with the designs of our neighbors. Sun Tzu,” Terry said, sliding