Emergence, Part Three
And in that very instant, Dr. Stewart Hardlypie — obsessive-compulsive biographer for the Junkyard of Reality — begins to see the first scintillations of light coloring his favorite autumn-leaf quilt, and hear the jury of birds disposing the arrival of morning.
With a great sigh that would deflate the belly of a lesser man, Hardlypie peeks heavenward and exuberantly praises the Lord. “Oh thank you, God, for springing me from my own designer hell of having to spend eternity in a coffin with Mama’s voice… Even if your messenger was the Devil himself!”
“That will do for now,” he adds, as his limited attention span shifts to more urgent matters: the inchoate litany of the prostate’s release and the belly’s desire for inflation singing together, close harmony which propels most 60-year-old men to the bathroom on the way to the kitchen. Yet, the recollection of the voice of foe (Mama) morphing into that of an honorable patient (the Devil) intrigues him, since what truly fuels his mortal life is neither bread, nor faith… but irony.
When does the diagnosis occur to Hardlypie — in midstream? Or after the cookie he attempts to swallow, outside the periphery of his wife Bethany’s inspection? “Stewart! You look like the snake who swallowed a mouse whole — gross!” (Swallowed a mouse hole, excellent! the doctor reflects. Pun!) But some processes are by nature veiled, especially those which have been shaped by the fortunes of brain damage, so let us take a short leap of faith to the doctor’s psychotherapy session, where he strives to clarify his thoughts in a manner that even the Devil himself can appreciate.
“Stewart, I’m desperate. Even more so than when we met the first time and I offered you anything to accept me as one of your patients. And now that I know your heart’s desire, I’ll surely grant it, should you cure me of God’s Repossession.”
“Heart’s desire?” the doctor asks, shifting his right leg across his left — a pale attempt to mirror a posture which the devil effects gracefully.
“Why yes, Stewart. I can arrange it so that, wherever you journey, you’ll never again be trapped in a coffin at the mercy of your mother’s voice!” Hardlypie feels a prickle of panic at the very possibility that there’s something worse than Mama’s tirade bed-fellowing his coffin forever, but he’s determined not to go there.
“You see, Stewart, I’m losing control,” the Devil continues, pausing to gaze downward in introspection and then suddenly bursting forth, out of nowhere, with a volley of squeaks and the explosive pronouncement: “JESUS IS THE SON OF GOD, PRAISE THE LORD!” He bites off the end, intensely embarrassed, and continues. “It just pops out of me, like some distasteful heavenly weasel, and I fear I can’t go on. Tell me you’ve treated cases of Repossession before, that I need not abandon all hope.” The Devil’s tone is hopeful, but his manner powerfully, pridefully crestfallen.
“Your Honor, you seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Dr. Hardlypie begins slowly. “Repossession? Surely you haven’t failed to make a monthly payment on your car.”
“Oh no, Stewart — the Hearse has been paid up in perpetuity. It’s my soul, you see. The All Mighty gets on His High Horse every few thousand years and proclaims, ‘ALL SOULS ARE MINE’, and now He’s welshed on His Covenant which designates me THE OTHER CHOICE for all eternity. Why, curse me, Stewart, I cry like a baby all the time now, and between you and me I’m not the crying kind.” At the termination of this sad statement, Hardlypie now flashes an entirely fraudulent smile of confidence, belying his sudden realization that he may not know anything about anything… and yet here is another patient who actually believes in him.
“Your Honor,” Hardlypie asks intently, “Are you familiar with children and adults who, try as they might, fail to prevent obscenities from bursting forth in speech, against a background of transient motor dysfunction, tics and the like?”
“Yes, of course,” the Devil replies, a smile darkening his handsome features as he recalls a moment of pleasure: “Georges Gilles, a most creative medical student who suggested my Body of Satan might chorus magnificent obscenities, if I merely rewired those I sought to possess, a ridiculously easy feat of legerdemain for one like me, the Emperor Of Affliction. Ha ha, for that suggestion I greased his way through medical school though his hands shook so badly, patients experienced shock and awe when he introduced himself as their doctor. And, beg pardon my minute of pride,” chuckles the Devil, “As a conscript in the French army, he was the first soldier to occasion the term ‘friendly fire’!”
“But Stewart,” the Devil continues, “How utterly amazing. You’re telling me my spiritual contract with God has never been in danger, that aeek — JESUS IS THE SON OF GOD — BLAST…!”
“Yes indeed, Your Honor,” Hardlypie reassures despite the dramatic interruption. “For you have been immortally afflicted with Georges Gilles de la Tourette’s Syndrome!”