OKAY, SO TODAY… is a journal in which I share an important event from my day, with some exaggeration, embellishment, flights of fancy, and fibs. Because, as the old saying goes “Truth is stranger than fiction… but it’s not as funny.”
OKAY, SO TODAY A MAN STUCK HIS FINGER IN MY BUTT. Some other stuff happened today, but this is the thing that stands out most in my mind.
Okay, so my family, friends, and fellow commuters on the 550 bus to Bellevue with whom I shared this tale have all tried to convince me it was okay for this man to stick his finger in my butt, because he graduated magna cum laude from the Yale School of Medicine. So, what, a post-graduate degree from an Ivy League School should automatically give a person the right to stick his finger in my butt? Hey, my lawyer went to Harvard Law School. Does that mean that he should have the same access? I hope not, because my lawyer is also my father-in-law and that would just be weird.
Okay, so let me get this straight… my doctor spent a decade in college and went a hundred grand into student loan debt just to get a job where he has to stick his finger in people’s butts? Mostly old guys’ butts. Seems to me that should be a punishment for dropping out, not a “reward” for sticking it out through med school. If High School guidance counselors could tell kids thinking of dropping out that without a diploma, the only jobs they’ll be able to get are ones where they have to stick their fingers in people’s butts all day, it would cut the drop-out rate overnight.
Okay, so my last check-up was 50 years ago with my pediatrician, so I expected the protocol might be a little different. I’d prepared myself emotionally for no post-checkup lollipop. But not for the nurse who led me into the exam room, then told me to get completely undressed and put on this gauzy little pinkish gown with a provocatively high hemline that was wrapped in plastic and laid out on the chair. I found the demand that I change into women’s clothing before the doctor would see me a bit odd. It also gave me fraternity flashbacks. But the exam room window was locked from the outside, so I reluctantly removed the two rubber bands from around the bag and removed the gown…
Okay, so I’m not a prude. I don’t mind showing a little leg or occasionally rocking a bit of décolletage, but this thing had a neckline that started at the neck and didn’t stop until… well, it didn’t stop. It was like something J.Lo might wear to the American Medical Association Awards.
Okay, so the thing is, I was raised by conservative parents. When I was six and hip huggers for women were all the rage, my mother and I saw this girl at the mall in a pair of really low low-riders. My mom scowled, “If those jeans were an inch lower, you could see her knees.” As a result, I grew up with a rather distorted view of how the female anatomy was laid out. In fact, when I first saw my wife naked (on our honeymoon), I thought, “Boy, was I way off.” My whole battle plan for that magic nuptial night went right out the window as I had to adapt to this completely unexpected new configuration (which I have come, in time, to appreciate).
Okay, so the first thing the nurse said upon re-entering the room (after “Ready or not, here I come”) was that I had the gown on backwards, though I noticed that she never for a moment averted her gaze. I figured either she was just being very cool and professional or else I was about to have my “naughty nurse” fantasy fulfilled… albeit with a really, really, really “not conventionally attractive” nurse. Be careful what you wish for.
Okay, so as the nurse continued to gawk, her head cocked just a bit to the side, I spun the gown around to what was supposedly the “right way” (although it was clearly less flattering for someone with my build). They really should include how-to instructions with those gowns. For all I know, I wasn’t supposed to make pigtails with the rubber bands that were wrapped around the bag either.
Okay, so finally the doctor came in. He had his eyes glued to my chart, clearly being less professional than his nurse. Not even a word about how nice I looked in the gown he’d given me. After several silent moments, he coolly told me to hop up on the exam table, lie on my side and pull my knees up to my chest in a fetal position. Oh, and also to relax.
Okay, so in retrospect, I should’ve recognized this odd batch of requests as yet another warning sign (after the mandatory cross-dressing) that strange things were afoot at the Circle K. I’ve just never been very good at picking up on these subtle signals. So, I assumed the position.
Okay, so it was then that the aforementioned sphinctoral breach occurred, without so much as a “Relax” or a “Ready?” or a “Let’s choose a safe word” from the doctor. Just the sudden, unexpected and completely unsolicited anal plunge.
Okay, so the heretofore stoical doc suddenly decided this was a good time to start in with the small talk. He clearly didn’t realize that that ship, the S.S. Foreplay, had already sailed. He chirped, “So, do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” Wait, was he hinting that I should cancel those plans? Just how long was he planning on continuing this rectal spelunkery? (And for those of you who stumbled onto this website by Googling the phrase “rectal spelunkery”, I say “welcome.” I hope this is what you had in mind.)
Okay, so here’s a bit of advice from someone who learned the hard way: when it comes time to choose a doctor, forget prestigious diplomas on the wall, or whether he accepts your medical insurance, or even if he validates; always go with whoever has the longest and slenderest fingers. That should be the sole criteria for choosing a physician. Because when you’re lying there in a fetal position in a backless gown, you want a man who only has to go knuckle-deep, and is in and out before you even realize there was a finger in your butt.
Okay, so because no one gave me this advice, I ended up with a doctor with the shortest, fattest, nubbiest fingers I have ever seen. He had the hands of a cartoon character. Unfortunately, that meant whatever it was he went in to make contact with was obviously just out of his reach. Like a cookie jar on the very top shelf or the bag of M&M’s that didn’t fall all the way down to the vending machine trough. But he kept pushing and pushing. Occasionally grunting. Once even whispering “I think I can, I think I can.”
Okay, so at this point, I want to propose a radical idea. I suggest that, just like pets, all medical types should be divided into “inside” (Surgeons) and “outside” (General Practitioners) doctors. And that “outside” doctors, like mine, should have only very limited, strictly delineated access to the Great Indoors. Call it the “Where the sun don’t shine” rule.
Okay, so I’m maybe willing to give outside doctors some limited right of entry. Say, three quarters of an inch into the ear canals and maybe half an inch into the nostrils. As for the mouth, let’s pretend there’s an impenetrable force field emanating from the back teeth that no starship or medical implement can penetrate. However, as far as the butt is concerned: zero tolerance. Their right of access ends at the puckered portal. This is non-negotiable.
Okay, so on second thought, all of these arbitrary boundaries should be non-negotiable. Otherwise, every orifice becomes a slippery slope. I don’t care if it’s a case of life and death and the doctor says, “Oooh, I can see the problem right there just beyond the impenetrable force field”, anything beyond that imaginary threshold is out of their jurisdiction. They have to stop immediately and go get an “inside” doctor. And maybe even a court order. Or, better yet, they should get a machine.
Okay, so there’s a reason why Steve Jobs invented X-Ray machines and MRI’s and that one they use on pregnant women to look for baby penises. It was to stop the senseless digital adventurism. To send doctors a message, “Hey, not in my backyard!”
Okay, so after what seemed like a week, but was probably only half that, the doc was still loitering in my viscera, groping around for the elusive unholy grail. I considered suggesting maybe it was time to stop and ask for directions. I tried to convince myself that maybe he was actually checking my tonsils, but was invading from the south out of respect for my extremely low gag threshold. (My gag threshold is so bad that I even gag when I’m putting on Chapstick .)
Okay, so just as I began to worry that maybe he was stuck like he’d blundered into nature’s fingertrap (and wondering how to explain to my coworkers who the strange man following me around with his hand down my pants was), the doctor apparently reached the promised gland, because he shouted “Bingo!”, made a hasty rectal exit, removed the plastic gloves from his hands (at least he used protection) and tossed them into a chute marked “BIO-HAZARD.” I worried, if a little schmear on those gloves made them a “ BIO-HAZARD”, then what did that make me, seeing as how I was walking around with 28 feet of intestines just chock full of the stuff?
Okay, so after his long, grueling, Keystone Cops-esque prostate hunt finally led to contact, my doctor just looked at me, shrugged and said simply, “You’re okay.”
Okay, so wait! That’s it?! After all that we’d just shared there on the exam table, I didn’t want to be told that I was just “okay.” I wanted to hear my doctor say that I was incredible. That I had rocked his stubby fingered world. That I had ruined him for all his other patients. I wanted to be told that he wanted to make plans right then and there to reunite in exactly one year, same time, same place, to do it all again. Anything but a bored shrug and a dismissive “You’re okay.” Especially after I went to all the trouble of donning the “come hither” gown he’d picked out for me and done my hair up special with the rubber bands.
Okay, so I guess maybe it could have been worse. As he took off the gloves, he could have said, “Okay, that was a test just to see if you’re ticklish.” Or even worser, ““Damn, I know I had my wedding ring on when I went in.” Or even worstest of all, “Okay… now you do me.”
Although, on the upside, I did get a lollipop!
OKAY SO TODAY I GOT TRAPPED IN AN ELEVATOR. Now, one of the most time-honored agreements between humans and technology is that elevators are supposed to be catch and release. But this morning, I stepped into an elevator that violated that understanding and, at the conclusion of our interaction, refused to return me to the wild. The ensuing nightmare, which lasted for several days (more or less – the actual duration of the ordeal isn’t important) was like being held captive by a wood-paneled coffee can.
Okay, so you might say I should have heeded the hand-written note by the call button on which someone had scrawled “Out of Order – Take Stairs”, but I don’t think “victim blaming” benefits anyone at this moment. Besides, I refuse to take trip-planning advice from an anonymous Post-it. Especially when it tells me to take eleven flights of stairs. Anything higher than the fourth floor and the only reasonable options to get home are elevator, parachute, or ruby slippers.
Okay, so I removed the warning note and stuffed it in my pocket (so no one else would fall for the scam or choose the stairs and make me look lazy), then pushed the call button. The doors immediately lurched open, which meant the elevator was obviously already there and lying in wait for me. Instead of seeing this as an ominous sign, I chose to take it as a good omen because, you know… eleven floors. Even the fact that its doors only opened about a quarter of the way before stopping would not deter me because, you know… eleven freaking floors.
Okay, so I squeezed through the slim opening into the cramped metal box that would whisk me down to the underground parking garage, where my Subaru Legacy, Motor Trends’ top-rated sedan for three years in a row (“Look Ma, I’m an influencer!”) awaited my return.
Okay, so for some odd reason, the moment the doors shut, I felt strangely disoriented. I looked at my reflection in the polished stainless-steel doors and a slow panic overtook me. Had I stumbled upon a portal into an alternate universe where an alternate me was also riding an alternate elevator? But then, I remembered how the scientific principal of reflection in shiny objects works. Mere moments after I entered, the elevator was playing mind games with me. I sensed I was in for a long ride.
Okay, so I looked over the generous offering of buttons and settled on “G” for “Go.” But after only a few seconds of fairly decent descent, the elevator suddenly shuddered. Then it lurched. Then it swayed. Then it jerked. Then, with a deafening screech, it finally slammed to a sudden stop. Who knew elevators could be such drama queens? I was alarmed to see that the elevator in the alternate universe had also stopped, but then I remembered how the scientific principal of alternate universes works and I shrugged it off.
Okay, so there I was… halfway between the 9th and 10th floors, which was apparently not an approved exit for this particular elevator. Which meant that I was basically trapped inside this sealed metal box 200 feet above the ground supported only by a system of cables and wires that mere moments before had demonstrated in loud, fitful spurts that it was not feeling up to the task of supporting me and my ride.
Okay, so I was trapped. I started out by doing all the cliché things. I banged on the doors with the palms of my hands, which just looked like alternate me and I were having a high five-a-thon. I called out, “Hello, can anybody hear me?” to no response. Either no one could hear me, or I was just being cruelly ignored. I checked my cell phone, but as you would expect in an elevator, under a tunnel or within a half mile radius of an elementary school in Utah, there were no bars.
Okay, so then, I saw it. The elevator equivalent of a life raft. The yellow “HELP” button at the bottom of the control panel. Relieved that this whole ordeal (which was rapidly approaching a full minute in duration) was about to be over, I pressed the godsend of a button.
Okay, so what I expected was that suddenly a half dozen men would come rappelling down the elevator shaft to rescue me. Or that a loud voice from outside would shout, “Stay clear of the door!” and I would crouch in the far corner as an explosion ripped a hole in the sealed doors through which I could exit. You know, something along those lines…
Okay, so what actually happened next was that the elevator car was suddenly filled with music. Elevator music. Aural crimes against nature, humanity, and… the Beatles?!
Okay, so after about a minute of the Muzak version of the Beatles’ “Helter Skelter” (this was no doubt the version that drove Manson over the edge), a voice finally crackled over the speaker. And the first thing my elevator savior said was “Please stay on the line for the next available operator. Remember, your call is important to us.”
Okay, so, knowing that my call was important to the yellow button, I stayed on the line. I passed my time waiting by etching the word “NO” above the “HELP” button with my car keys, trying my best to match the font of the original.
Okay, so after a moment, the voice returned to reiterate how important my call was to it and to thank me for my continued patience. I patiently etched a single vertical slash in the wall above the control panel, just in case I might at some point need to keep track of my days in confinement.
Okay, so finally a new voice came over the speaker. He said his name was Skip, but from his accent, it was obvious he was Indian. A people not usually known for naming its male offspring “Chip.”
Okay, so Skip the Indian assured me he was there to help. Just like the button promised. He was going to talk me through this. I felt confident knowing that my life was in his hands. The first thing Skip wanted me to do was check to make sure the unit was plugged in and powered on. My confidence flagged just a bit. I told him I assumed it was but didn’t know how to check. He told me to turn the printer around so the paper input side was facing me.
Okay, so I told Skip the Indian I wasn’t calling about a printer problem. Skip asked if I was sure. I told him I was 90% sure, as the elevator I was trapped in had no visible paper input tray or ink cartridge access door. He asked if I was calling about a lost or stolen credit card. Nope, again. I began to suspect that Skip the Indian might be multi-tasking. As if to confirm my suspicions, he next asked if I was calling for my free personal psychic reading? I told him if he were truly psychic, he wouldn’t have to ask. After waiting for the laugh that never came, I told him I was calling because I was stuck in an elevator.
Okay, so almost immediately, the speaker stopped broadcasting Skip the Indian, replacing it with the Muzak version of “Revolution 9”, which I thought just might be the single most disturbing thing I had ever heard. Right behind the Beatles’ original version.
Okay, so after what seemed like an eternity (albeit, in dog years), Skip the Indian’s voice interrupted the music once again. “You said ‘elevator’, right?” I said “Yes” and he put me on hold again just as a dulcet “Eldorado” wafted from the speaker. I decided to pass the time looking around the elevator for a paper input tray on the off-chance Skip had been right and I had been wrong all along. Nope, I was definitely trapped in an elevator.
Okay, so eventually Skip the Indian returned. He assured me he had the checklist for elevator help this time. First, he asked me if there were any “pregnant women, heart patients using pacemakers, epileptics, diabetics in dire need of insulin, or federal marshals escorting dangerous felons in shackles” on the elevator. I looked around the empty car and told Skip I would have to get back to him on that one. Hey, I’m no fool. I know from the movies that cliché-filled elevators always get bumped to the top of the “rescue” list.
Okay, so next Skip the Indian asked what I had done to make the elevator stop working. I assured him I had done nothing. He sighed, then told me that I must have done something, as elevators don’t just stop working for no good reason, and that he would be better able to assist me if I would just tell him what I had done to break the damned thing. I countered that maybe it wasn’t me, but rather that maybe his company just made crappy elevators.
Okay, so I guess I hurt Skip the Indian’s feelings by implying that he was in the employ of a company who manufactured sub-standard products, because it was back to the elevator music. Skip and I were not off to a good start.
Okay, so at this point, I began to question my recent life choices. I scolded myself for not having taken the simple precaution of making sure I had two changes of clean clothing, a week’s supply of food and water, waterproof matches, a life vest, and a canvas tent with me before I climbed aboard this deathtrap. Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, it was obvious I should never have entered an elevator so blithely. So woefully unprepared. But at the time, I was thinking only of getting to my car. Ah, the follies of youth.
Okay, so then I suddenly remembered the hand-written “Out of Order. Take Stairs” Post-it I’d stashed in my pocket. I started tearing it into confetti, because on the remote chance that I was going to die on this elevator, I didn’t want them finding an “I told you so” note on my person. For the first time in my life, I worried about a coroner’s opinion of me.
Okay, so next, despair began to really take hold. I slumped to the ground and positioned the contents of my wallet all around the elevator floor to make it feel more like home. That way, I was surrounded by the photos of the people I loved, the credit cards I used, and the prophylactic I had forgotten was in there. Then, I used the handrail bar that ran around the sides of the elevator to practice my ballet pliés. Then, I used the shiny reflective doors to see what I looked like from behind when I’m naked. Then, I used my socks as hand puppets and acted out a childhood trauma I had heretofore kept sublimated, but had obviously been triggered into my conscious by my current ordeal.
Okay, so then, the inevitable happened. I realized I needed to pee. I looked around the elevator for security cameras and was relieved to see none as this expanded my options. My first thought was to simply pee on the carpet in the corner. Then, I would tell my rescuers that there had been a small dog in the elevator with me who was the one who actually peed on the floor. Then, if they asked me where the little dog was now, I would simply say that I had been forced to kill and eat it for my own survival… and also to punish it for peeing on the carpet. It seemed a solid plan.
Okay, so then I remembered seeing a survival show on TV and wondered if I shouldn’t actually collect my urine. I think it was Bear Grylls who said that if you filtered urine through an ordinary sock, it would come out as clean and clear as ordinary tap water. But I rejected that idea, since I knew I couldn’t do that to my socks/new puppet friends, as they had already been through enough trauma for one day.
Okay, so it was back to the “little dog” scenario, and I suddenly realized I was actually starting to get hungry for some “little dog.” But since “little dog” was only an imaginary excuse for peeing on the carpet, it dawned on me that if anything was going to be eaten, it was me.
Okay, so I wondered how long I could survive on a single foot, then realized I had no idea how long an unrefrigerated severed foot would be safe to eat. Maybe instead of cutting off an entire foot, I should just lop off and nosh on individual toes as needed.
Okay, so luckily this train of thought was derailed by the return of Skip the Indian. He assured me that there were currently crews from both the fire and police departments at work on extracting me from the elevator. I thanked him for the happy news, but just to cover myself for later, I casually mentioned that my little puppy friend and I were starting to get a bit anxious. That it looked like it needed to pee and that I was getting really hungry.
Okay, so Skip the Indian told me the rescue crews were about to try something, and that I might feel the elevator jump or even fall a little bit. I told Skip to tell the crews “Don’t do that.” That if they did anything that made the elevator jump or fall or even shudder, I would kill and eat “Scruffy” (I thought it would have more emotional impact if the little dog had a name). Scruffy was turning out to be very handy to have around in this situation.
Okay, so with that, I was put on hold again. This time, the speakers played Muzak songs from Ringo’s solo career. I made a mental note the next time Skip the Indian checked in to ask if he could at least switch it to Lennon or Harrison.
Okay, so unfortunately, the next time the music stopped, the voice wasn’t Skip’s, but rather that of a very gruff and impatient-sounding man. “Mr. King…” he growled, “Mr. King, we have your mother.” Oh, my god. What a horrible day. First, I get stuck in an elevator and then someone takes my Mom captive.
Okay, so then, I heard my Mom’s voice over the speaker. “Ty…? Are you there? It’s Mom.” I told my mother that I was okay, and she should do whatever the bastards who were holding her captive wanted, until I could get out of this damned elevator and scrape together the ransom. My mother assured me that she was safe, down in the lobby with the elevator crew.
Okay, so apparently, the cops had gone to rouse my parents from their sleep to tell them I was in trouble. And apparently, my father had said it was my Mom’s turn to go, so she hustled down to the scene of the drama. “Ty. Listen, you must come out of there right this instant. There are other people who need to use the elevator.” Then I heard her whisper to someone, “Believe me, if he has his magazines in there with him, he won’t be out for hours.”
Okay, so I assured my Mother that I wasn’t just holing myself up in the elevator, refusing to come out, but rather that the elevator itself had malfunctioned and was stuck. She paused, then asked, “What did you do to make it stop working? Because elevators don’t just stop working for no reason.” I asked my Mom to put the gruff-voiced man back on the line. The gruff-voiced man assured me that they could only fix the elevator if I admitted what I had done to it. I asked the gruff-voiced man to put Skip the Indian back on.
Okay, so by this point I had lost all confidence in those who would rescue me. I was ready to accept death as the only possible outcome. With broken spirit, I asked Skip the Indian if he believed in God. After taking a moment to consult his manual, he assured me that he did. “I’m going to die in here, aren’t I, Skip?” I whined. More fluttering of manual pages and Skip told me there was no way in hell I was going to die. Not on his watch.
Okay, so I was encouraged by Skip the Indian’s pep talk, until a moment later when he told me it was 5pm, which meant that his “watch” was over. He then turned me over to his replacement, Chuck the Indian. Apparently, I was going to die on Chuck’s “watch.”
Okay, so the first thing Chuck the Indian asked was what I had done to break the elevator. When, for the third time, I denied any culpability, Chuck assured me that elevators don’t just break for no good reason. I told him that his predecessor, Skip, had confided to me that it happens all the time I lied. “Really? Skip said that?” an incredulous Chuck asked. I found some little consolation in the fact that no matter what happened to me, tomorrow morning, Skip the Indian was going to have some ‘splaining to do.
Okay, so then, the elevator suddenly shuddered, then it lurched, then it swayed, then it jerked, and then, with a deafening screech, it finally continued its slow descent down to the parking garage. Drama, drama, drama.
Okay, so as the lighted buttons slowly counted down, I imagined what sort of scene might be awaiting me below. I thought there would surely be live “breaking news” coverage from all the networks, as I had become the 21st century version of Baby Jessica in the well. Or, maybe, my entire family would be waiting for me with open arms, weeping in delirious happiness at my safe return and apologizing for the only recently remembered childhood trauma they had inflicted. Or maybe it would the SPCA, who was there just to check on Scruffy. My relief turned to dread as I just knew the whole Scruffy thing was about to come back and bite me in the ass.
Okay, so the lighted buttons finally arrived at “L” for lobby… and continued right past it to “G” for Garage. The elevator doors both here and in the alternate universe both opened at the same time. In my universe, there was a short, impatient-looking man, who looked at his watch, snorted and snarled, “About time, asshole.”
Okay, so I held the door for the impatient man to get in. Then, as they slowly screeched closed, I smiled, “Say ‘hi’ to Chuck for me.”
Okay, so as I walked across the empty garage to my car, I heard the unmistakable deafening screech in the elevator shaft that meant it was rescuing time. I didn’t even bother to look back.
But on the drive home, I stopped by a pet store and bought a little dog I named “Scruffy.”