808 words
Doctor Obergeen came in with the news. “I have the news,” he said, rumpling some papers in an official sort of fashion and peering from behind his deep spectacles at the man and woman seated across from him.
“Okay,” said the woman, steeling herself for the worst, hoping for the best, and expecting something in between.
“We’re going to have to run further tests, further diagnostics, and move forward with the results of them,” said Obergeen. He was a doctor of EXCEPTIONAL reputation, moving through the ranks of his medical profession with a practiced ease that seemed less practice, more ease.
“I understand that,” said the man. His hands were clasped in his lap. They were intertwined in an iron vise-like grip that questioned the spelling of that word. There was no way to know at this point. Not with the timer running the way it was.
“Okay,” resumed Obergeen. “A couple preliminaries. Have either of you ever been exposed to the Bremberter Virus?”
“No,” both the man and woman said at once.
Doctor Obergeen knew at once they were lying. “Excellent. Then this should not require much of anything. You may go.”
“But—“ the woman started.
“YOU MAY GO!!!” Obergeen slammed his metal fists on his desk, where papers and paperweights and paper airplanes rattled in an ugly cacophony of irritation.
“Okay okay,” shouted the man in a whisper. “Thanks for your time, and we’ll be in touch.”
“We will not,” answered the doc. He had better things to do. He had all of the better things to do. In fact, he would be engaging in one presently. “Morphrovery,” he said to his intercom system that was patched to his secretary. “Cancel all my meetings for the next five years.”
“Okay will do. I can do that. I’m pretty sure I can do that with a single click of the button. Okay, I’ll just click this. Then I’ll highlight all the remaining items. Then I’ll go to Edit > View > Delete > Delete Selected. Yep then I’ll click OK. Okay looks good, sir, I have just done it.”
“Great, thanks. Thanks a lot.” Doctor Obergeen peeled off his white lab coat and began his giggling fit. It was impossible to ignore the impulse so he gave into it. It was really fun. Then, he moved over to the fireplace. His office was outfitted with all of the latest accoutrements and he had DEMANDED THE INSTALLATION OF A FIREPLACE.
“Why am I such a horrific fucking writer?” he asked the fireplace.
“It’s a matter of discipline,” answered the crackling flames. There was no such thing, of course, but the doctor could interpret the clicking sounds of the fiery blaze. “It’s a matter of focus, practice, and serious dedication to the craft of creation. Writing bullshit like this is doing nothing for your technique. It’s just moving in circles. No progress is being made in this way.”
“Understood,” nodded the doctor, considering for a moment the abandonment of his entire situation but chose to explore where his subconscious was taking him. “But if I enjoy the process, does it not matter what comes out?”
“Yes and no,” answered the fire in its seething heat. “You might enjoy the process, but do you enjoy the product?”
“Does that matter?”
“It matters if you value the craft and art. Process and product are linked. They’re intertwined. If the process is meaningful, the product might suitably reflect it. If not, is there a sense of pride in the product?”
Doctor Obergeen had no answer because he knew the truth.
“Consider a process where the product is meaningless,” the fire continued.
That was not hard. All he had to do was look at this fucking scene.
“A meaningless product has no value. It cannot be shared. It cannot be experienced. The experience of the product is something to behold. If you enjoy only the process, you may as well be playing in a box of sand, where everything you create is blown apart by the next gust of wind. It has no form, no structure. It has nothing to fortify it against the next moment of time. It is lost to the wind, and nothing in the world was impacted.”
The doctor paced his study. His office. The room of his. He took a sip of his Merdigan’s fire whiskey and pondered the situation. He was in a morass, a swamp, a stuck situation. What was the purpose of the process if the product was forgotten? He laughed as he pondered this elementary question, this question that young amateurs agonized over, and realized he was still agonizing over it. He reflected on it for the rest of his life.