The little, warm bun is one of those small, good things. That and a hot cup of coffee on the laboratory bench make up my morning ritual at work. I heat the bun in the lab microwave for 25 seconds – too much and it gets mushy (ah, if we only had an oven). I had to ride an extra ten minutes to get this morning’s bun. The usual 7-11 had sold out, something truly odd, which I couldn’t help seeing as some kind of omen. Alas, I’ll have ten less minutes to peel off the little whirls of cinammon-flavored pastry. Am I unduly upset? It’s true that I hate to hurry. I am determined not to let my anger ruin it, though.
The phone rings. (I get probably one call a week.) I let the thing peep its electronic staccato for as long as I can, until I hear stools shift on linoleum, low coughs and what sounds like a sigh, come from neighbouring offices. I lift the receiver and hesitate – can I just hang up again? No! – then bring it to my head, “Stubmeyer.”
“Yes, it’s ringing. I’ll ask. Please, just…hello?”
“Yes, this is Dr. Stubmeyer. Who’s calling?”
“Hi, this is Dr. Raymond Cheever at Santa Anita General, how you doing this morning?”
“I’m OK, doctor. Can I help you with something?” It’s not easy to sound brusque and hushed at the same time, but I am damned if I am going to have my bun with this doctor on the line.
“Well, I’ve got this patient here – Leslie, he’s eight. Leslie’s been taking 100 gram doses of Orphion now for six months for his hyperactivity.” Dr. Cheever turns to someone else and says, “it’s OK, it’s OK”.
“That’s good, Dr. Cheever. I’m glad the Orphion’s helping. It’s a good treatment for hyperactivity.” What an inane doctor! Imagine calling the weatherman every time the sun shines! I normally let the bun cool a bit, so Dr. Cheever’s interruption still might not be a problem. There’s that 9 o’clock staff meeting, though. It’ll be hard, impossible, to come late.
“Yes, it’s true. Leslie’s parents and teachers say he’s improved a lot.”
“I’m happy to hear it. It’s a good drug Orphion. If there’s nothing else-“
“Well, that’s why I’ve called. It’s abnormal, I know. It’s just that Leslie’s parents are very concerned, you see.”
“What is it?” I’ll admit I sighed quite audibly, and then – reflexively – hope the doctor hasn’t heard me.
I am a high-jumper prancing toward the bar, each foot-fall timed and placed just so and then a sudden obstacle is thrust in my path. I know I can hop over it, but all focus is lost. Now the bar hangs impossibly high. I might as well give up.
“Leslie’s parents say that he’s been having a lot of bad dreams.” This new topic unnerves me. Suddenly feeling queasy and confined, I reach for the latch to my window. I need air.
“Nightmares.” Thank you, doctor.
“Yes, bad dreams. I understand. They’ll pass, though, right? I mean-”
“The parents feel like there’s a connection. That there’s a link between when Leslie started taking the drug and when his nightmares began.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
There was a long pause. He was holding the receiver against his chest, I guess. “Different things. That there’s a man in the house with a knife. Auto, or, eh, car wrecks. That it’s his birthday and he gets a cake with a”, another pause, “there’s a clown on the cake,” pause, “it’s alive. The clown, I mean. It’s calling his name.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Monstrous.
“The parents feel like the Orphion’s been somehow causing the bad dreams.” I’m not sure if the doctor expected me to say something here, but I was silent. “I know it’s unusual. I said I’d check, so we’re checking.”
“Checking what?”
“Well, is there any connection?”
“You’re asking me?” There was a gust of wind outside. An elderly woman’s hat flew off her head and tumbled down the street. Printouts slid off my lab bench.
“It’s unusual, I know. I said we could talk to someone and ask. I was just wondering if you had had any similar reports.”
“Doctor, I’m sure you know very well how these things work. These things go through countless trials, there is peer review, the FDA. It costs a billion dollars just to make a drug. And Orphion’s been around for a decade. It’s proven. But if you have a concern, you take it up with our marketing people. They’re the experts on,” – what do you call it? – “human factor. I work in the laboratory. I mean, really, I have nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, I know. It’s just. The marketing people never give you any answers. I wanted to ask someone who might actually know something.”
“I’m sorry. I assure you. I really don’t. If it helps you any, no, I’ve never heard about anyone getting nightmares from taking Orphion. Completely new to me.”
“No. OK. Well, thanks, doctor. You said Stubmeyer?”
“That’s correct.”
“Julie Stubmeyer?”
“No. Melissa.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks anyway. Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.” And he hangs up.
How naïve some doctors must be! Perhaps he imagines I sit in my lab with two reagent glasses like in the cartoons. Mix them and – poof! – we have Orphion. There are development teams, technology sharing agreements, managerial voodoo, ink blots and scatter trials. Even within our own company there was a school of anti-Orphionists, as there is with just about every drug, if I understand correctly.
Now my biscuit looks like a lame thing – something from little Lester’s nightmares. What was it that the doctor said to make me feel so uneasy? And it comes back to me; it was déjà vu! A doctor calls, interrupts my morning ritual and tells me a story about a boy having bad dreams. Déjà vu is a thing I abhor. I don’t know why.
I eat the bun and drink my coffee.
A colleague stops in front of my narrow lab door. “They’ve asked for you.”
Comments