Texts for Translation 2009:
  Ian Ferguson

AN APPLE A DAY

Ian Ferguson © 2008

   “You can go in now, Mr. Ferguson, second door on the right.”
I pushed myself from my seat, nodded a thanks to the receptionist, and headed up the corridor. I hesitated at the mahogany door, always nervous about walking straight into a doctor’s consulting room, worried that I stumble on a procedure being performed with lubricant and a gloved forefinger.
“Come.”
That word of invite did nothing to allay my fear. I pushed the door open slowly and peered around the edge.
“Hello,” I said, slightly alarmed by how self-conscious I felt.
“Yes, in you come,” replied the doctor without looking up from the papers on his desk. As I took my seat he said, “What seems to be the problem?”

For, “What seems to be the problem?” read, “Whatever you think your problem is you’re probably wrong and, anyway, I’ll decide, so don’t give me that amateur medical detective bullshit, and in any case there’s probably nothing wrong with you that can’t be sorted with a good pull through with a wire brush.”

I tried to ignore his indifference and cleared my throat.
“Well, the bottom line is I’m not firing on all cylinders.”
“Oh yes? Tell me more,” he replied with just a hint of sigh.
“To be honest, I’m not sure where to start.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
I leaned forward in my seat, took a deep breath and began.

   “It’s like this,” I said. “To cut a long story short, I’m concerned about my speech. It’s as plain as the nose on my face, and yet, it’s nothing I can put my finger on.”

For the first time since I’d stepped into his room, Doctor Melvin Davies stopped writing and looked at me over the top of his varifocals. He put his pen down and stared at me with an amused look.
“And how long since you noticed this?” he asked.
“How long’s a piece of string,” I replied.

He looked thoughtful for a few moments and then he said, “Of course, you know what it is, don’t you?”
“In a word, no.”
“It’s clichés? You’re speech has become characterised by clichés.”
“You’re having me on, aren’t you?”
“Actually, no, I‘m being perfectly serious. Well, this is a first. I’ve never heard of anyone complaining of this before. So, how has it affected you?”
“The fact of the matter is that I‘m being shunned by my friends. I’m being avoided like the plague. Lately, I’m as welcome as a Nazi at a barmitzvah. So, as sure as night follows day, it’s affecting me.”
“Ok, so you’re using a few clichés, is that really such a bad thing? I mean, doesn’t everyone these days?”

I felt my ire rise. I had come into the surgery worried that I wouldn’t be taken seriously and I was beginning to think my worst fears were about to be realised.
“If you don’t mind me saying, Doctor,” I said. “Ignorance is bliss. You don’t know what it’s like. The bottom line is, I used to talk the hind legs off a donkey and always avoided clichés like the plague but now I’m in the depths of despair.”
“Oh, come on, surely it can’t be that bad?”
“There’s just no light at the end of the tunnel, I’m shot to pieces.”
“Really? Is it that bad?”
“To be honest it’s make or break for me now.”
“Hmm, I can see it’s had a big effect.”
“My wife told me if I don’t get help she’s moving in with her mother. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.” The Doctor shook his head.
“This is last chance saloon,” I continued. “I’m between a rock and a hard place and if you can‘t help then nobody can.”

He drew a long breath and held it while he leaned back in his chair. After a moment he exhaled long and loudly.
“I hate to make light of your plight,” he said . “Hey! I’m a poet and I don’t know it.”
I stared at him, my expression saying more than any rebuke ever could. He looked at me over his varifocals. I held my gaze and he dropped his. This gave me a boost and I felt my posture straighten.
“Listen,” he said. “You must understand that I’m not a specialist in this field. It’s probably a speech therapist you need. But I do like a challenge so let’s see what we can come up with.”

He pulled his swivel chair up to his desk and started typing on his computer keyboard.
“Now, let’s see ... clichés,” he said, more to himself than to me.
“Eh, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you ... em ... looking for?” I asked.
“I’m googling ‘clichés’ to try to get a handle on our dilemma.”
I was amused at his reference to ‘our’ dilemma but I let it go.
“I see,” I said. “Ok, Doctor, well fill me in, I’m waiting with baited breath.”

I stared at him trying to gauge whether he was mocking me. His face was impassive so I decided to let it go.
“It’s not rocket science,” he said. “It seems ‘cliché’ actually means ‘stereotype’ in French. It says a cliché is really a phrase which was once original but has become predictable and stale through constant use.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about it like that before.”
“Yes, every cliché’, when it was spoken for the first time, was shiny and polished like a new registration car. The shine has only worn off because it has caught on and become, well, successful, I suppose.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“You know, Bernard Levin once said: ‘Today’s striking thought is tomorrow’s platitude, next week’s cliché.”
“Well, when it’s put like that, I ….”
“So, it seems that it is common and largely accepted within society, and I’m thinking that you may be getting this a bit out of propor ....”
“Bear with me, Doctor,” I interrupted. “I hear what you’re saying but the bottom line is, I still need help.”

Doctor Davies sat silently for several moments while considering his response.
“Look, I can see the affect this could have but would you accept that there are times when clichés are necessary.”
“Oh yeah? Like when?”
“Well, for instance, what about when people meet each other in the street but don’t have the time to stop? They say things like, “Long time no see,” or, if they don’t have time to chat they’ll maybe say, “Let’s do lunch.”
“Does anyone say, ‘Let’s do lunch’?”
“Yes, at least I think so. I’m sure I heard it on ‘Desperate Housewives’.”
“Oh really?” I said hoping Doctor Davies had picked up on the sarcasm.

   “And then there’s the self-conscious conversations of strangers on long train journeys,” he continued. “The forced interaction at cocktail parties or the desperate platitudes which follow a funeral. Surely clichés have got a place in these everyday situations.”
“Yeah, I hear what you’re saying, but you’re moving the goalposts. The fact of the matter is that, it’s not these everyday situations I’m talking about. It’s my whole life. I mean, on a scale of one to ten where one is utopia and ten is hell, I’m eleven.”
“Look, these things happen, it’s not the end of the world.”

I looked at Doctor Davies but he seemed oblivious to the fact he’d just used a couple of clichés himself. That got me thinking …..
“I hope this isn’t contagious?” I said.
“Contagious means spread through touch,” replied the Doctor. “Don’t you mean infectious?”
“Well, infectious then.”
“I very much doubt that it’s infectious, unless each cliché you use is carrying some kind of bacteria or virus. Most people use clichés in their everyday speech, it doesn’t mean it’s a problem.”
“Is there light at the end of the tunnel, do you think?” I said trying to keep the tone of desperation from my voice. “Is there a glimmer of hope?”
“As I said before, I’m not really a specialist but there might be something we could try.”
“What is it, Doctor?” I asked, my spirits lifting a little. “I’d bend over backwards to get rid of this.”
“I appreciate your determination, however it’s an oral treatment.”
“And what is it?”
“There’s a new drug on the market for schizophrenia. The way I see it, when your speech was cliché-free, you would think of yourself to be in ‘normal’ mode, whatever that is these days. Now, you’ve slipped into this habit, and it’s like you’ve been taken over by another person, sort of like having two personalities, like a schizophrenic. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“No, I’m afraid that went right over my head. You’re not trying to pull the wool over my eyes are you?”
“No, of course not. Did you get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?”
“Sorry, I’m tighter than a coiled spring right now.”
“Look, let me call a spade a spade, this new drug might not work but it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll try anything once. What do I do.”
“Keep taking the tablets. Doctor Davies laughed loudly but stopped abruptly when he saw the look on my face. “Sorry.”
“So they’re tablets?” I asked.
“Yes, they’re called Iamintwomindzapam.”
“Iam .. What?”
“Iamintwomindzapam. Now you must understand, this isn’t an all-singing, all-dancing panacea, it might work but then again it might not. And there are could be side effects, but you can’t have your cake and eat it.”

I sighed. I hated taking medicine but this had become a blight on my life. I was becoming a recluse, self-conscious to the point of being a blithering wreck. I had to do something and it seemed these Iamintwomindzapam were my only hope.
“Ok, Doctor. I’ll try them,” I said resigning myself to my fate. “How long do you think the treatment will last?”
“Well, that’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question,” he replied. “How long’s a piece of string? One thing I do know, the treatment will be undoubtedly be quicker if you’re in a positive frame of mind. Don’t forget, every cloud has a silver lining and time heals all wounds.”
“Next, you’ll be telling me Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Hey, that’s a good one. Look, if you want a ballpark figure, I’d say about a fortnight and you’ll be as right as rain.”

Doctor Davies leaned over his desk and scribbled on a prescription pad. He pulled it off and handed it to me. His writing was horrendous but I could just decipher that it was made out for twenty-eight Iamintwomindzapam.
“Take two a day, with food, and come and see me next week,” he said. “I’ll be very curious to see how you’re doing. Good luck”
“Thanks,” I replied and stood, tucking the prescription into my back trouser pocket.

I walked to the door and when I turned he’d gone back to writing notes. I wondered if they were mine and what he was saying about me.
“Maybe this’ll get you a paper in The Lancet, Doctor?” I said. He looked at me over his varifocals.
“I only read the Lancet for the ‘Spot the Boil Competition’.” He managed to keep a straight face for about a second before he collapsed into convulsive laughter. I searched for something witty to say but couldn’t so I smiled and stepped out into the corridor.

As I passed the front desk, the receptionist called a Mr. Smith for Doctor Davies. Mr. Smith muttered, “Better late than never.” Christ, it’s infectious, I thought. I hope these fucking Iamintwomindzapam work?

Two weeks later, I was back and feeling much better. I chatted amiably with the other patients as I waited to be called. My self-esteem had returned and I was looking forward to the rest of my life.
“You can go in now, Mr Ferguson,” said a smiling receptionist.
“Thanks,” I said returning the smile.
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Have a nice day.”

I walked along the corridor to the mahogany door I’d tentatively knocked on some two weeks earlier. My new-found self-image hadn’t quite given me enough confidence to barge straight in so I knocked on the door and waited.
“Come.”
This time I strode into the office and sat down across from the doctor.
“Mr Ferguson,” he greeted me. “Good to see you, let’s chew the fat. Tell me all about it. Give me the complete picture, don’t leave anything out. I’m waiting with baited breath”

I began to tell the doctor about my last two weeks.
“Well, Doctor,” I said. “The medicine you gave me was a bit hard to swallow.”
“Oh dear,” he replied. “It sounds as if it hasn’t worked. Well, it’s not the end of the world, eh?”
“No, I meant it literally. The tablets were so big I could hardly get them over. But they have been effective. I feel much better and my condition has improved. My speech isn’t totally cliché-free but I’ve got my mojo back, so thanks.”
“So you’ve got a clean bill of health, then?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“So all’s well that ends well? My prognosis was worth its weight in gold? Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Doctor Davies picked up a blister pack and popped a yellow tablet into his hand. He reached for a glass of water and used it to get the tablet over. He looked at me and, as if reading my thoughts, said, “Yes, Iamintwomindzapam.”
“You’ve got it?”
“You’re not wrong,” he said with a deflated air. “The fact of the matter is my theory about it being infectious was fundamentally flawed. To be honest, I now see how it affected your life. But it could be worse, at least I know these work, you’re living proof.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said feeling a little guilty. “One question, Doctor, will I need to keep taking the tablets?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied. “I’d be tempted to stop and keep your fingers crossed. You don’t want to have to pin your hopes on these for the rest of your life.”
“Ok, I’ll stop and see how it goes. What are you going to do?”
“Keep taking the tablets, I suppose.”

I stood and walked to the door. I looked back and was about to say, “Don’t worry, you’ll be right as rain.” But I decided not to. I quietly slipped out leaving Doctor Davies to his work and his clichés, and left the surgery.

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