Chapter One of The Radio

On the fifth morning of the second month of his sixty-third year Adam Merritt awakened feeling different. Although it was Monday morning and already eight o’clock, he had none of his usual urges to be up and about. What struck him also was that the cracks in the ceiling were no longer getting to him. They were directly above his bed and ordinarily he’d worry they might progress to a free-fall of crumbling plaster aimed at impaling some important part of him, even his head, with serious, possibly deadly, effect.

This had already happened two years before, not more than a few moments after he’d gotten up and headed for the john. Although repaired back then, several of the cracks had reappeared, and considering his limited confidence in the fellow who’d done the job, every morning tended to start off with a mix of relief for having survived the night and foreboding about what might still be brewing directly above his head. But on this bright day the cracks, albeit no less apparent, didn’t bother him at all.

His second observation was that until now, his daily morning beginnings had never managed to seem bright. Whatever their luminance, they represented just another dreary summons to get on with what had to be done. But presently, all he could do was simply lay there and marvel that whoever had the privilege of possessing this place, ceiling cracks or no ceiling cracks, should have such a neat set up.

He looked at the old and weathered green paint separating from the plaster, barely glanced at cobwebs in neglected corners, and took to admiring the Kashan rug in spite of the fact that it was resolutely determined not to stay put but rather to slide about persistently and rumple up into hazardous toe-catching hurdles upon the underlaid wall to wall carpeting. All of these previously, irksome things, seemed now, however, to give his bedroom a familiar patina that imbued it, strangely enough, with a comfortably familiar, lived-in feeling.

So Adam pressed his cheek against a seductively cool and soft percale pilow, perfectly satisfied to remain right where he was, but continuing to both envy and congratulate the person who might own all of this. On other mornings that would be himself. Today, in view of the radical shift from his habitual outlook, he was unhinged enough to be unsure of his very identity.

What was going on could have nothing to do with drugs. He’d given up on all of his antidepressant medications for more than a year. He was clean. And that extra single malt he’d had with Harold the night before couldn’t possibly be accountable, either, even though he didn’t remember anything the two of them had talked about. Harold, ever boring anyway, was apt to affect him that way.

Might it be that his prayers were being finally answered? And that all on his own, spontaneously, he was getting better, becoming more casual, less driven and picayunish about ordinarily bothersome trivia? What prayers? What the hell was going on? What could he be thinking? Never in his life had he prayed for anything! He didn’t believe in it. His wife, Annie, took care of that sort of thing. Well then, maybe hers were being answered and something really metaphysical was taking place here. But who could be answering her prayers? God? Christ? Both of them?

No answer forthcoming, just a friendly bump from Willy, his Doberman. The dog was burrowing his snoot beneath the bed covers having come upstairs to see why Adam wasn’t already down below, finished with breakfast, and getting ready to leave for his office. Ordinarily, by this time of day, Willy would be the only one left to wonder about something like that. Annie would be out shopping or swimming, or in church praying for the three of them.

Right after being nosed by Willy, the phone rang.

“Doctor Merritt! You oversleep?”

It was Agnes, his office nurse.

“No, actually. I was just thinking what a beautiful day it is! Much too nice, really, to do anything but maybe just lie around here a little longer and then head out of doors for awhile. What’s the temperature?”

“I’ve no idea. When do you plan on getting down here?”

She was not her usual all-business self, nor was she sounding one of her rare, gruff objections. It was a first. Agnes was clearly surprised and taken aback. “Well what’s the chance of me holding off maybe ‘til noon?”

“Zero. There are four patients waiting already.”

Merritt was a skin doctor, a dermatologist. But a dermatologist thinking only how nice it would be to simply stay put. His percale pillow was ever more inviting.

“Oh just do what I do. Pack ‘em all off with samples of a good steroid cream.”

“Doctor Merritt! I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Without careful examination? Or a skin scraping? I couldn’t be a party to something like that! But if you’re not well enough to come in, I’ll just reschedule everyone. Is that what you want?”

“No, no. That wouldn’t be right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just have them all wait.”

The business of the steroid cream had surprised him. Hard to figure. It was so easily asserted. And to know he was no longer on Prozac. And that Harold was a dull, dull guy. Or even that Harold existed. Or an Annie. Or a Willy. And that the ceiling cracks had been such a burden. But most of all, why it was so tough to get up in the morning.

How in the world had he come by the knowledge of all these things? And apparently gotten himself into such a fix! It was like waking up and finding oneself a character in a damned movie, but hopelessly miscast and far out of type for a carefree, happy-go-lucky guy like him! But he’d do what he could. Hell! What choice did he have? He felt himself being directed.

“Out of my way, dog! We gotta’ get moving!” Adam showered, dressed, made coffee, and drove to the office.