Confessions
of a Coward,
and the Mysterious 'Dr. Singh'
by Ed Dewke
(a short story)
posted November 1997
What I was thinking when I
stepped out of the psoriasis clinic and into the freezing, moisture less winter day, was
how little warmth the clinic's ultra-violet light closet gave. No wonder, I thought, the
healing is so imperfect. Light should have heat! I never broke a sweat in my thrice-weekly
visits to the light closet. Its manmade sun was soulless.
There stood beside me a short
slender dark-skinned man in an expensive topcoat, leather gloves, and, almost comically in
contrast, an old Navy watchcap rolled down over his ears.
His breath steamed from his
nostrils. His black eyes studied me.
"Yes?"
"Sir. Forgive my
intrusion, please. You are a patient here at the psoriasis clinic?"
"Yes."
"My name is Sanjeev Singh.
I am a doctor." He raised his gloved hand and offered a business card. It said,
Sanjeev Singh, M.D., Ph.D. No address or phone number or logo. It was an old-fashioned
calling card; the type people used to drop on trays servants carried from front door to
parlor to announce visitors. I handed the card back to Dr. Singh. "What can I do for
you?" I asked.
"If you have a moment, I
would like to tell you about an experiment I am conducting towards a treatment for
psoriasis. I am looking for volunteers —trial subjects."
He smiled and I saw his perfect
and polished teeth.
In the warm diner, sitting
before our cups of steaming coffee, Dr. Singh started:
"I have perfected a
two-step treatment which, undergone a single time, will clear your psoriasis for at least
three months and, more typically, from six to eighteen months. It involves no dangerous
medications, nothing at all systemic, and, depending upon the severity of your condition,
requires from five to eight hours in a single session.... Step one is immersion in a
natural biologic mass which removes scales and breaks down lesions. Step two is immersion
in a compound of my own devising, the active ingredient of which is a coal tar extract.
"If you will become a
subject in my trial, you will undergo the treatment once and then let me examine you every
other month for as long as your remission lasts. When the lesions begin to reappear, you
may elect to repeat the process at no expense. Given the success of the trials, I hope to
have my treatment commercially available in two years."
I asked, "Are you afraid
the clinic might not endorse your experiment? Is that why you are soliciting volunteers
outside?"
"The treatment will
become, I believe, indismissable, and clinics such as this one will adopt it or go out of
business. My fear is that they would block the trials, or at least take them out of my
control."
"Is the treatment that
radical, or dangerous?"
He paused, then said,
"Radical, perhaps. Dangerous? No. However, I do require my trial subjects to be
asleep for phase one."
This alarmed me. "Are you
saying a general anesthetic is a part of your procedure?"
"No. That would be
illegal. My subjects ingest a common sedative and the procedure commences when they fall
asleep."
"May I speak to some of
your subjects?"
Singh frowned and looked away
from me. Finally, he said, "I have perhaps misled you. So far I have tested only one
subject, and you are speaking to him."
"You are a
psoriatic?"
"Yes. Severe.
Eighty-percent effected."
All I could see of the little
dark man was his face and his hands. Even now, shed of his overcoat and
watchcap, he was
wearing an impeccably pressed three-piece suit, starched white shirt with high collar, and
a garishly fashionable bright-colored tie. No signs of psoriasis anywhere. His thick head
of black hair—slightly askew from the watchcap—showed no trace of flaking scalp
beneath.
As if sensing my examination,
he withdrew a snapshot from a pocket of his suit. It was a picture of himself, naked
except for his jockey shorts, pathetically covered by lesions, including most of his face.
If it wasn't Sanjeev Singh, it was his awfully afflicted twin brother.
"That was me ten months
ago," he said. "One week before the only treatment I've had since then."
If what he claimed was true, I
was witness to a startling transformation.
"I'm impressed," I
said. "By the way, my name is Ed Dewke."
He studied my face. Then he
asked, "How do you spell that?" When I spelled it for him his frown went away
and his eyes widened. "I know of you," he said. "I pronounced your last
name ‘do-weck,' not ‘duke.' You are who I think you are? FLAKE
something-or-other?"
I nodded.
Then his frown returned.
"I am either most fortunate or unfortunate. I had not anticipated a prospective
subject known to decry the vagaries of his affliction to the whole world."
"Does this mean our
interview is over?" I asked.
"That depends," he
said. "I will require from you a promise of non-disclosure."
"What if your treatment
works? Wouldn't you want it disclosed?"
"Of course. But my
way."
"My assumption, Doctor, is
that you intend to get rich from your treatment."
He did not respond.
"At least confirm or deny
it," I added.
"Mr. Dewke, I have
sacrificed a considerable amount of income and amassed an even more considerable amount of
debt across the period of time I have been perfecting my process. My labor warrants
compensating, and I do believe that if my process is successful in removing the hideous
symptoms of this disease from humanity, I will have earned what I might reap. Would you
disagree?"
I sipped my coffee while
composing my words. "Let me tell you what I have seen, Dr. Singh. I have seen
manufacturers release products which they sincerely believe will help
psoriatics. Indeed,
some psoriatics may be helped for some period of time. But I have seen an awful greed
behind the marketing of these same products, and perhaps this was out of the hands of the
well-intentioned inventors. What I have seen is products priced high, sold quickly through
expensive ad campaigns, so that the cost of research—if any—and the cost of
marketing is swiftly recovered and the gravy train begins. But the truth is always the
same. These palliatives help some of the people some of the time, and millions of dollars
which might more meaningfully have effected a cure, are gone."
"So you advocate suffering
until a cure is found?"
"No, not at all. I
advocate money-back guarantees and a portion of proceeds donated towards a cure."
Dr. Singh sat back in his chair
and sighed. "Would that the world worked with such beneficence, Mr. Dewke. Hardly a
compound can be brought to market under such a scheme, I am afraid."
"Why not?"
"There would be too little
profit. As you well know, most approaches to the treatment of psoriasis benefit, at most
eight out of ten psoriatics—and them only for awhile. Perhaps one out of ten will
find a remedy sufficient long enough to make of him or her a profitable client. And were
money-back guarantees and donations a part of the equation, the income generated from the
other nine people, who buy once or twice then never again, would be insufficient to
maintain the product for those few who wish to keep on using it. Is that so difficult to
understand?"
"We are talking margins.
Profitability. The exploitation of suffering."
But Singh was not yet finished
with his argument. "Besides, Mr. Dewke, the money-back guarantee you seem to think so
fair happens all the time with prescribed drugs. Surely you have received many samples
from your doctors over the years?"
"Yes."
"Those are
try-before-you-buy arrangements paid for by the pharmaceutical industry."
"Then you see yourself and
this new regimen of yours fitting quite nicely into the status quo."
"No! You mistake my
arguments on behalf of the rest. My treatment is likely to work for all
psoriatics. At
least, that is my hypothesis. If you help me prove that, we shall see. But perhaps you can
see how threatening my success would be to the ‘status quo' as you put it?"
"Let's table that issue
for now," I said, shifting self-consciously in my seat. "Why this requirement
for the patient to be asleep through your process?"
"It is ... for the comfort
of the patient, not a requirement of the treatment."
"Why?"
"I am not prepared to
disclose that," he said.
"You are asking me to
submit to a treatment, while I am asleep, about which I know nothing?"
"That is precisely what I
am asking. You must trust me."
"Tell me. Am I the first
person you have approached with this proposal?"
He drew a deep breath and would
not look me in the eyes. "No."
"Others have told you to
go fish."
"Not always so
kindly."
"Surely you understand how
we feel? You sound like a mad scientist. Frankly, I'm surprised you have not been reported
to the authorities."
He lowered his head in
exasperation or shame. He muttered into the tabletop, "The treatment works and is
harmless, but it is repugnant."
"It is what? I didn't hear
you."
He raised his head. "I
said, it is repugnant. It is a process which you would be unlikely to subject yourself to,
until you had been through it once and found out how well it worked. Then, I believe, you
would gladly go through it again; however, you would ask to sleep through it."
"Well, Doctor," I
said. "You have already dissuaded me and I haven't a clue what's involved. If I
could, I'd fetch your pole and bait right now."
"Let me ask you this, Mr.
Dewke. Is there someone you trust implicitly, whom I could trust? Someone to whom I could
disclose the process completely, and then you would trust them if they told you to go
ahead and try it?"
"What if they told me
'don't do it'?"
"Then we would part
company forever. I would only ask that your confidant not disclose my process, not even to
you, especially not to you."
I looked at him in silence for
close to a full minute. Finally, I said, "My wife."
"I must interview
her."
"Of course."
*****
Clara Dewke is level-headed to
a fault. She has a nose for malarkey and a natural defense against bad ideas. When I told
her about my unsolicited meeting with Dr. Singh her unsurprising response was to laugh.
"Forget about it," she said and strode off to the kitchen.
But I followed her. "I
would like you to at least talk to him," I said. "I mean, what if he really is
on to something?"
"On something is more like
it," she suggested.
"What's the harm in
talking to him?"
"A waste of time,"
she said. "We don't know this guy. He says he's a doctor. Anybody can say they're a
doctor. You wanna be a doctor? Dr. Dewke. There. How does that sound?"
"I'm serious," I
implored. "You're probably completely right, and no matter what he tells you, I
probably won't go through with it. But think what a story this would make for Flake! If
he's bogus, I could warn others—"
"Don't you have enough to
do?" she asked suddenly. "I know I do."
"Thirty minutes. An hour,
at the most."
"What's to be gained? You
told me I can't tell you what I learn."
"Hey. If he's bogus,
neither you nor I need to honor our commitment to him. We'll expose him!"
It took most of the evening,
but finally she agreed to an interview. Dr. Singh had given me a phone number which he
said was a service. I was to leave my number and he would return the call. I did this and
he returned my call in about an hour. I put Clara on the phone, first admonishing her to
be civil.
He did most of the talking. At
one point I overheard Clara ask, "And you promise me this won't take more than an
hour?" Sometime later she scribbled something on a notepad. Finally, she said,
"I'll be there," and hung up.
"I'm meeting him at a
diner tomorrow morning," she said, tucking the note she had scribbled into her purse.
"He sounds like a lunatic."
"Well, what did he say?
Obviously he had a lot to say."
"We're going to meet at
this diner and he's going to show me some pictures and explain what he has in mind—if
I promise not to tell anybody. He says if I advise you not to take his treatment it will
be okay. But I'm to keep an open mind. That's what he said. An open mind. Sounds like a
waste of time to me. That's it. Can we go to bed now?"
*****
The next evening, after Clara's
appointment with Singh, I had to open the subject. Clara was behaving as if no meeting had
taken place.
"Well?" I asked as we
cleaned the dinner mess. "What did Dr. Singh have to say? Should I do it?"
"Forget it!" she
said. "The man's a lunatic. It's not worth discussing."
"What is it? What does it
involve?"
"It's horrible. But I
can't tell you. That was part of the deal."
"Wait a minute! What if
the next guy goes along with it? If it's that horrible, shouldn't we try to stop
him?"
She raised her hands to silence
me. "It's awful. Okay? It's disgusting and it's awful and I don't want you to do it.
But I didn't say it was bogus or that it wouldn't work."
I sighed. "You mean to
tell me you think this guy might be on to something yet you don't want me to go through
it? He might be able to help my psoriasis and you don't want me to be helped?"
"Oh hell," she said.
"Let somebody else try it out. If what he claims is true, you'll learn about it soon
enough. There's just no reason for you to be a guinea pig."
*****
The next day I called Dr.
Singh's service and left a message for him to return my call. Again, about an hour later,
he called.
"I enjoyed meeting Mrs.
Dewke," he said.
"You impressed her,
too."
"Then you will do
it?"
"Yes. When and
where?"
We made arrangements. I wrote
down the address, which was in an industrial park I knew, and set a date for the next
week. I was to come at 9:00 and be home by 7:00 that evening, or earlier. I let all this
transpire before dropping my ‘condition' on him.
"I will undertake the
treatment," I said, "so long as I do not sleep through phase one."
There was a moment of silence
on the other end of the phone. Then: "Surely Mrs. Dewke did not recommend this."
"Do you accept my
condition?"
"I cannot believe that is
what you want."
"That or no deal,
Doctor."
"What did Mrs. Dewke tell
you?"
"Nothing. She kept her
promise."
"Did she suggest you be
awake for phase one?"
This time I paused. "No.
That's my idea."
"Have you shared it with
her?"
"No."
"I think you should
discuss it with her."
"No need. I've made up my
mind. Now it's your turn to decide."
"Frankly, Mr. Dewke, I do
not think you will go through with it."
"Why? Does it hurt?"
"Psychologically,
perhaps—"
"You said it was
repugnant. I'm prepared for that. You want to immerse me in horse shit? I'll just think
about ponies. How bad can it be?"
"Mr. Dewke, except for a
breathing apparatus, you have to be completely submerged in a biologic mass that is, for
most people, quite frightening ... and you have to stay immersed for several hours.
Psychologically, it could be excruciating. I know this. I have been through this
myself."
"Are you saying I will be
frightened out of my mind? Or tortured?"
"More importantly, you
will be stressed and, as you know, stress works against the very thing we are trying to
accomplish. You do believe, don't you, that stress exacerbates psoriasis?"
"How stressful can a few
hours dipped in shit be?"
"Mr. Dewke! We are not
talking about ‘shit'—"
"Then tell me what we are
taking about."
"You have convinced me of
one thing."
"What?"
"Your wife did not tell
you about the treatment."
"Of course she
didn't."
"We would not be having
this conversation if she did."
*****
Of course, that same day guilt
set in. Despite my wife's good judgment, I was preparing to undertake something probably
stupid. I am a dolt. What can I say? I could not tell Clara what I had done, but I knew my
total silence on the subject would make her suspicious. So, for the next few days, I would
periodically prod her, surreptitiously to get more information. She grew irritated by the
prodding, but also, I think, unsuspecting.
A week later I was with Dr.
Singh in his modestly appointed office in the industrial park. I had come prepared for the
treatment, but with no promise it would be given to me. Dr. Singh had agreed merely to
talk further.
"I have tried to find
other subjects," he said to me from across his desk. "I have tried very hard the
past few days," he added, "in hopes that I would find someone and could tell you
to go back home and forget we ever met. I am inclined to say that even now," he said,
and drummed his fingers on the desk. "But I believe I have come up with a
compromise."
"I'm listening."
"You may or may not be
able to endure phase one awake, but I am almost certain you could not do so completely
unprepared. So, I wish to prepare you. I will give you a small sample of what the full
treatment would be like and, if you find it unendurable, we can reconsider your sleeping
through it, or you can elect to leave."
I did find relief in this
proposal. But he wasn't through. "You must promise me that you will write nothing
about this procedure, good or bad, for at least two years."
"What? No scoop?" I
was teasing, but Singh was not in the mood.
"No scoop!"
"Well, what if it works
and you go public in the interim?"
"You will know and then
you may write about it."
I nodded my agreement.
He opened his middle desk
drawer. I was afraid he would draw out some non-disclosure agreement for me to sign, so I
said: "Unless I determine your treatment to be cruel and inhuman and maybe dangerous.
If I thought you were putting people's health or lives in jeopardy, I would do my utmost
to shut you down."
He removed his hand from the
drawer, clenching something I could not see in his palm.
His face tightened. "Who
is to make that determination, Mr. Dewke? If I say my treatment is harmless and you say it
isn't, who is correct? By what measure are you going to determine if my treatment is
harmless?"
"By my own experience, I
guess."
"If you choose to go
through with it."
"Of course."
"But what if you
don't?"
I did not know what to say.
Singh took advantage of my moment of silence. "You see? It is a quandry. No, sir. I
must ask that you say nothing at all. You must make me that promise or our meeting is
over."
In my mind I held my fingers
crossed. My promise, I knew, was only as good as the Doctor's ethic, which it seemed only
my promise would reveal. So I made that promise, and a moment later he opened his hand.
He held a small vial, the cap
of which had holes to admit air. I spied a fleck of something inside the vial. There was a
magnifying glass on his desk and he handed both the vial and the glass to me. "Look
closely," he said. "Meet my little soldier in our war against suffering from
psoriasis."
Inside the vial was a tiny
light brown spider, no larger than a common tick. I counted the legs to make sure I was
observing a spider and not a six-legged insect. Even with the glass, it was difficult to
see detail on the little arachnid. "A spider?" I asked.
"Yes. An unnamed
species."
"Unnamed?"
"So far, yes. It will
probably bear my name somehow, as its kind have been engineered by me."
"You created a
spider?"
"I genetically engineered
a new breed. Not such a feat, I assure you. Happens all the time."
He was silent until I lowered
the glass and looked back at him. "Okay," I said. "Tell me the rest."
"This spider eats
flakes," he said.
I had not begun to contemplate
the Doctor's assertion when I said, "He'd have to be a good bit larger to do me much
good."
"Or," Singh said,
"have several million brothers join him in the feast."
I looked at Singh, epiphany
dawning. "No—"
"Quite. Phase one is
immersing you in a chamber filled to brimming with these spiders."
At first my mouth worked but no
sound came out. Finally, I was able to say "You've got to be kidding."
"Are you sufficiently
horrified, Mr. Dewke?"
Repulsed was the right word. My
constant itching from psoriasis unbelievably worsened that instant. "You mean to
stick me in a whatever, filled up with these things, and let them munch away at me?"
"Rather unscientifically
stated but to the point."
"You're nuts."
"Sane enough to have
anticipated your reaction. Wouldn't you say?" He seemed pleased with himself, as
though vindicated.
I realized my pulse was racing.
All I could think was, Clara would not tell me this?
"Now let me tell you about
the preparation I have concocted," Dr. Singh said, either not noticing or choosing to
ignore my anxiety. "I see you have flaming lesions on both your hands. I propose that
you allow me to subject just one hand to my critters"—that's what he said, my
critters—"and you can judge for yourself whether or not you could endure the
full phase one."
My mouth moved silently some
more.
Singh continued: "Mind
you, Mr. Dewke. Allowing my critters to descale the lesions on one hand will not prove
anything. I know this. I have tried this. This is not a treatment you can embark upon
piecemeal."
"And why," I
stuttered, "is that?"
"I'm not sure. The skin is
a single organ and psoriasis is a root condition. I believe some certain percentage of a
problem must be addressed and that, if you address less than that percentage, you are
wasting your time. Does that make sense?"
I nodded. While he was speaking
my eyes had wandered back to his critter in the vial. I believe it moved inside its glass
cell, but that could have been a trick of light. As far as I really knew, the thing could
be dead.
Singh opened another drawer and
this time withdrew a document. "This is a report by a colleague of mine," he
said, "an entomologist who has studied my spider and certified, here, that it is
non-poisonous and non-toxic."
I took the sheet and scanned
it. "Oh fine," I said. "What makes your critters stop eating when all the
flakes are gone? What stops them from eating all my skin?"
"They are genetically
predisposed to find living cells undigestable."
I didn't buy that. "Even
my healthy skin is covered with a layer of dead cells I'm quite fond of," I said.
"Quite true," Dr.
Singh said, "and you will sacrifice some of those cells. I monitor to ensure you do
not lose too many. The spiders are drawn to the lesions because the tissue there is easy
to harvest. Like ants or honeybees, there is a biochemical communications accomplished
within the colony that alerts all the individuals to where the feeding is easiest and they
will, for the most part, ignore your healthy skin on their way to the psoriasis
lesions."
"What's this
for-the-most-part mean?"
"If the entire colony
becomes traumatized, they will feed wherever they find themselves."
"And what might traumatize
the entire colony?"
"A thrashing, anxious
patient, for one. Which is why I would prefer for you to be asleep. Panic inside the
chamber is not good."
"What's this chamber
you're talking about?"
"A slightly modified
sensory deprivation chamber. You may recall the experiments that were popular in the
sixties? People would float in a saline solution without light or sound for hours on
end?"
I recalled. The Doctor went on.
"You can pick them up relatively cheaply from institutions that have outgrown the
fad. It was expedient for me to do so. It works just fine. As I've said, I've been through
this myself."
Though my pulse had slowed, now
I felt sweat pooling in my armpits. Involuntarily, I shuddered. I think the Doctor
noticed. He smiled his best bedside manner smile and asked, "Do you feel up to the
test?"
"You mean—a
hand?"
"Yes."
"If it's not supposed to
do my psoriasis any good, what's the point?"
"My hope is that it will
give you a sense of what it feels like to have the critters on your skin, eating the
flakes. Hopefully the experience will desensitize you. Perhaps you will be able to
undertake the full treatment awake or—and this is more likely—you will decide to
sleep through it."
"Or," I jumped in,
"I will decide to be gone in a flash."
"There is that
possibility, too."
I was not ready to make a
decision, or perhaps I was and just denying my fear. "How did you come upon
this—this treatment?" I asked.
"A combination of
anthropology, entomology, genetics and an itching desire—no pun intended—to
alleviate my own suffering," he said. "Purgation of skin lesions by insects has
been practiced probably since prehistory. There are people in Africa that practice it to
this day. All sorts of creatures are happy to consume our dead skin, but I found none that
were easy to—to domesticate."
"Oh! These fellows are
pets, are they?"
"No. But nor are they
wild. Remember, none exist outside my colonies. They serve but one purpose and that is to
make you and me and, someday, all psoriatics, feel better."
"Right now I'm feeling
anything but better," I said.
"See how much easier it
would have been to let me do this my way?"
"What is that? You would
have put me to sleep then stuck me in your spiders' den without my knowing it? Later I
would have woke flake-free and grateful?"
"More or less."
"That's not how we
practice medicine here," I said. "There are rules about being forthcoming."
He shrugged, "Tell that to
the thousands of people taking placebos, or who are about to undergo surgeries with names
they cannot pronounce, or who, in comas, do not even know they are being treated. But
enough." He stood up suddenly and came around from behind his desk. "Let me show
you what I have in mind for you."
With me sitting and him
standing close to me, he did not look like such a small man. I doubted my command of the
situation. Despite the quiet that surrounded us, I had a flash that others might be
waiting just beyond the door of his inner office: perhaps two very large and burly men in
white smocks ready to grab me and drag me to that awful chamber. But I shook the thought
from my mind and stood myself. My perspective improved. I was ready to follow him.
*****
On our way to another room in
the Doctor's offices a phone rang. The Doctor paused and so, of course, did I. His message
machine answered first, then I heard a familiar female voice, the operator from his
service, say he received a call. The operator left the name and number. The Doctor
blinked, then continued on to another door through which we both passed.
I saw a plexiglass box atop a
high table, next to which was a backless stool. As I drew closer, I saw that the clear box
was filled with Dr. Singh's critters. They were packed in: a biologic mass indeed! Unlike
the single specimen in the vial in his desk, this batch of spiders were teeming. With my
eyes as close as I felt comfortable bringing them to the box, I could see them moving.
Thousands of them; perhaps hundreds of thousands of them. The Doctor moved the box
slightly so that I saw another of its six sides. This side had a round hole over which had
been fixed a slit rubber drum. It was immediately obvious that I was to stick my hand
inside the box through this aperture.
We had been silent for nearly a
minute, my eyes frozen to the clear box and the horrifying life thriving and looking very
hungry inside it, when finally Singh said, "Would you excuse me long enough to make a
call? It would be good for you to have a moment alone with our friends to further consider
our next step."
I nodded and the Doctor left me
alone with his critters.
There is a stupidity about
grown men when they are deathly afraid. It's as though fear is mind-numbing. Dr. Singh had
not been gone a minute when something compelled me to stick my finger into the box. Was it
pride? Did I think by sneaking this experience I might find it tolerable and therefore
come off more heroic when the Doctor returned and I would stick my whole hand in there? I
don't know. It was a stupid, compulsive thing to do; yet I did it. I gently nudged my
right index finger into the hole.
I felt them. At first it felt
like sticking your finger in the bathtub drain while the water is running out. But it was
dry, and in a few seconds I could feel the randomness of the movement. Too many tiny
spider legs to make out anything distinct, but then I felt a concentration of activity at
the edge of my fingernail ... no ... more precisely, beneath my finger nail, where the
psoriasis-swollen bed of my nail was so obvious.
I tried to concentrate solely
on this sensation at the end of my finger. What I felt and what I imagined could not be
separated. I sensed hundreds of tiny mandibles pulling ... tugging ... cutting. How many
times did I catch myself chewing away at this same tissue with my own teeth? But this was
entirely different. I thought I could feel minute particles of my nail bed being pulled
away, devoured. At the same time, but gradually, I sensed the nibbles on the top of my
finger, over the two psoriatic knuckles I had so blithely offered up.
Perspiration from my forehead
was stinging my eyes and I moved to wipe it away. Did I imagine this, or was my slight
movement enough to disturb the spiders on the finger of my other hand? It was as though,
for an instant, they stopped what they were doing. Carefully, I wriggled my finger ever so
slightly. Then I felt the movement again, much stronger, much more seemingly aggressive
... a few perhaps imagined stings ... the ouchful tearing we psoriatics sometimes feel
when we peel away a not-yet-ready-to-be-shed flake. Altogether, what I sensed seemed
suddenly frantic, as though the spiders knew before I did that I was about to chicken out
and they must feed harder, faster, for they were certainly about to be denied their
dinner.
I panicked and jerked my finger
from the box. Of course, a few of the spiders were still there. I shook them off
violently, unheedful of where they were flung. Then I inspected my finger. I should have
looked at it closely before I stuck it in. Perhaps, in so doing, I would have had an image
to compare with what I saw now. As it were, I could tell little from my inspection. I
could not see what had been removed. In fact, I couldn't see that anything at all had
happened. But I remembered the feel of it. And I began to imagine the whole of me in
there....
Quite, quite impossible.
Absolutely out of the question.
Dr. Singh returned. He seemed
excited but disturbed. It took all my stamina to try to look unchanged, to disguise my
panic. My mind raced to find an excuse. Yes, even at that moment I was too vain to simply
admit I did not want to go through with this. But then, a miracle happened.
"Mr. Dewke," the
Doctor said. "I think that today is not the day for you to decide to do this. You are
sworn to secrecy. I do not want you to feel pressed into this. Perhaps you should go home
and discuss this further with your wife. If you still want to proceed, you have my
number."
Try as I might, I know it was
impossible not to display the relief that overwhelmed me. It was ludicrous to act
affronted, so all I did was shrug. In fact, I could not be ushered from that room fast
enough. There were spiders lurking about, spiders that I had shaken off my finger.
Perhaps, I realized in horror, they were still on my person ... in my hair ... beneath my
clothes. My skin crawled as I hurried from the room and the Doctor hurried after me.
"You will not forget your
promise, Mr. Dewke?"
At the outer door to his
offices I took great gulping breaths of air. Could it be possible that I had not breathed
for several minutes? I felt flushed and drenched in perspiration. For a moment I thought I
had wet myself. "You will not forget your promise, Mr. Dewke?" he repeated.
I looked at him. I knew that I
would never forget his face. I imagined that I would have nightmares involving him.
"No," I said. I was able to make my voice sound almost normal.
*****
November, 1998
All that I have recorded here
happened a year ago. I have honored my promise to Dr. Sanjeev Singh across these months,
but not because of any good reason. In short, I have been embarrassed by my cowardice.
What do I know about Dr. Singh or his arachno-therapy? What could I have said about it,
and who would have listened?
About a week after my flight
from the Doctor's office I stopped shaking when I thought about it, and a week after that
I felt compelled to follow up. I believed I might actually reschedule a visit, this time
exposing my own hand. But I will confess a part of me was relieved when his answering
service reported they no longer serviced him. Dutifully, nonetheless, I asked about
forwarding information. Equally relieved, I learned he had left no forwarding
instructions.
For weeks I contemplated his
last minute change of heart. I believe I know what turned him around in my case.
Undoubtedly that phone call he left me to answer was from another subject, probably one
more amenable than I. I could not remember the name I overheard the operator leave on
Singh's message machine—only a certainty that it had been a woman's name.
It made me feel strange to
think a woman might go where I feared to. Of course, if she was that much more desirable a
subject than myself, she would have agreed to Singh's proposition. She would have slept
through phase one, perhaps never learned what in fact she endured.
In the months passed since my
encounter with Sanjeev Singh I have had nightmares. It is not his well-groomed
dark-skinned face that haunts me in those dreams; it is, of course, his critters. Some
nights I wake certain they are upon me between the sheets, but always it is the persistent
itch of a flaming psoriasis lesion. On the days following these nightmares I have been
tempted tremendously to write about this, to post my experience on my web site in some
glib fashion, hoping someone out there might make a connection and e-mail me with recent
news of Singh and his spiders. But, as I have said, it wasn't the honor of my promise that
kept me silent, but the embarrassing explanations (or risky fabrications) that would no
doubt become necessary if I opened this can of ... spiders.
But then, last week, I received
this e-mail:
