Oh, thank you doctor for seeing me on such short notice, I’m such a mess here I tell you, a real freakin’ mess.
My pleasure Mick, where shall we begin?
It’s Mic, pronounced Mike like Michael and I sure as hell don’t know where to begin, you’re the therapist, you tell me where to begin, you tell me!
Okay Mike, take it easy, we’re all friends here, let’s start at the beginning shall we…with…your father, tell me about him why don’t you?
Well okay, let’s see, I was born in a small factory in Carlsbad, California, you know, by the shore. The man that performed my final assembly, the one who clicked all my parts together and did all the finish soldering, oh he had such strong hands and a voice that’d make all the angels cry. That’s all I know of him, I only assume he’s my father, but again, I really know very little of the man.
How about your present owner then, does he treat you well?
Oh yes, yes he does, he rolls my cord up real nice, tightly, but is careful not to pull, there’s thin wires in there you know. He lays me down gentle in my soft foam case until he needs me again.
How does that make you feel, being pulled out only when needed?
Well, really a bit like a tool; a penis maybe? I don’t know…
Cough, cough, excuse me, go on…please.
Well I’d imagine like a penis, a shovel, a microphone, or any other tool for that matter how would I know for sure. It’s really best that way, I mean, a man brandishing his tool out of context in the public sphere is sure to be looked upon strangely don’t you think?
Imagine a man with his gun out in plain sight on the sidewalk, his shotgun mind you on a busy, busy sidewalk. There’s no ducks around, in this day and age it’d go over like a lead balloon; he’d be arrested, or beaten up something silly.
Or a man with his power drill in hand walking down the street…a man, his drill in hand, and nothing around to screw…he’d be labeled a freak and side-stepped like he was contagious with something bad. So , yeah, while it would be nice to be pulled out a little more often, to do so other than when absolutely needed isn’t really practicable in my case, not in this little town anyway. A lot of cowboys here, pretty conservative.
So open and forthcoming you are Mike, an open Mike indeed…uh, your job then, do you like your job?
Well, it’s not like I can retire now is it. I’ll be used until something better comes along, then I’ll be sold or tossed in the trash, forgotten like any old, outdated, electronic waste, tube televisions, VCRs and whatnot. It’s not like you, oh no, you can retire from Psychiatry and still lead a normal life, but a microphone retiring from microphony, is still a microphone…I can’t retire any more than you can retire from being human. So I guess it’s a good thing…that I do like the job that is…
Go on.
Oh yes, I like the work but of course, like anything, it does have its drawbacks…it’s the breath and all. All evening, the whole of my existence even, spent looking up into wide mouths and teeth oh so white. All those cavities and…nasal…cavities. The bats in some people’s caves, it’s like somebody get this guy a tissue for god’s sake, if that thing takes flight in an uncovered sneeze it’s liable to take out someone’s eye.
For me you know it’s all voices and vibrato, timbre. I know very well when someone nails the note or croons a bit off key. I am such a critic, oh yes, I am, and I try to offer my advice, I try I do, to whisper to the performers but they can’t hear me…maybe they’re too nervous or something, or don’t want to be labeled as a loony tune listening to a microphone’s suggestions. I can even sense the nerves of a public performance you know, taste the stress, the Cortizol tastes funny, like pop-rocks. But that’s nothing, the worst of it is I know for sure who’s been brushing, who’s been diligent with the floss, who ate a steak three days ago and still has a bit of fetid meat stuck way down past the gum line. It smells like death. I can smell the coffee breath and metabolized alcohol from the evening’s indulgences, or sometimes they overindulge and get so spitty, especially when pronouncing the letter “P”, by the end of the night I’m just damp with spit. And you, I can smell you, you know you could probably use a tic-tac yourself you stinky bastard. And you really should get a haircut, look at that mop on your head, and honestly you’re too old to be wearing sneakers like that, and…
OH-KAY, THAT’S enough for today Mike, we’ll pick this up again in a couple of weeks. If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my six-thirty, good evening.
Goodnight doctor, goodnight.