Weston hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this, but he assumed the position while Dr. Waggoner applied some chilly lubricating jelly to his hand and the point of entry.
“Just relax. You’ll feel some pressure.”
It was a hell of a lot worse than pressure, and impossible to relax. Weston clenched his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on something, anything, other than the fat fingers going up the down staircase.
“You said this began three months ago. Has it been nonstop? Intermittent?”
“Only two or three days out of the month,” Weston grunted. “Then it goes back to normal.”
“When during the month?”
“Usually the last week.”
“Have you . . . Wait a second. Stay still for a moment. I think I feel something.”
Which is the absolute last thing you want to hear when a doctor has his hand inside you. Weston held his breath, scrunched up his face. He didn’t know which was worse, the pain or the humiliation. Blessedly, mercifully, the hand withdrew.
“What is it, Doctor?”
“Hold on. I think there’s more. I’m going in again.”
Weston groaned, hating his life and everyone in it. The doctor went back in four additional times, so often that Weston was becoming used to it, a fact that disturbed him somewhat.
“I think that’s the last of it.”
“The last of what?”
Weston turned around, saw the physician staring at several objects on his palm.
Dr. Waggoner said. “A coat button, part of a zipper, and sixty-three cents in change. Apparently you’re not eating as healthy as you think.”
Weston blinked, as if the act would make the objects disappear. They remained.
“This is going to sound like a lie,” Weston said. “But I didn’t eat those.”
“I had a colleague who once examined a man who wanted to get into one of those world record books by eating a bicycle, one piece at a time. He removed a reflector from the man’s rectum.”
“I’m serious, Doctor. I’m not eating buttons or change. I certainly didn’t eat a zipper.”
“It looks like a fly from a pair of jeans.” Dr. Waggoner chuckled again. “I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.”
“I didn’t eat a fly.”
“Okay. Then there’s only one alternative. Are you sexually active?”
Weston sighed. “I’m straight. Currently between girlfriends. And the only person who has been up there in my entire life has been you.”
Dr. Waggoner placed the objects in a bedpan and said, “You can sit down now.”
Weston got off all fours, but preferred to stand. He didn’t think he’d ever sit again.
“You think I’m lying to you.”
“These things didn’t just materialize inside you from another dimension, Mr. Smith. And you probably don’t have a branch of the U.S. Treasury inside you, minting coins.”
At least someone seemed to be enjoying this. Weston wondered when he’d ask him to break a dollar.
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Do you have a roommate? One who likes practical jokes?”
“I live alone.”
“Do you drink? Do any drugs?”
“I have an occasional beer.”
“Do you ever drink too much? Have blackouts? Periods where you don’t remember what happened?”
Weston opened his mouth to say no, but stopped himself. There were a few moments during the last few weeks that seemed sort of fuzzy, memory-wise. He wouldn’t call them blackouts. But he’d go to bed, and wake up in a different part of the house. Naked.
“I think I might sleepwalk,” he admitted.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Dr. Waggoner pulled off his gloves, put them in the hazardous materials bin. “I’m going to refer you to a specialist.”
Weston scratched his head. “So you think I’m eating buttons and spare change in my sleep?”
“They’re getting inside you, one way or another. Consider yourself lucky. I once had a patient who, while sleepwalking, logged on to an Internet casino and blew seventy-eight thousand dollars.”
“So he came to see you for help with sleepwalking?”
“He came to see me to set his broken nose, after his wife found out. Don’t worry, Mr. Smith. I’m going to prescribe a sleep aid for you tonight, to help curb late-night snacking, and the specialist will get to the root of your problem. Sleepwalking is usually the result of stress, or depression.”
Weston frowned. “This doctor you’re referring me to. Is he a shrink?”
“His name is Dr. Glendon. He’s a psychiatrist. My nurse will set up an appointment for you. In the meantime, try to lock up all the small, swallowable objects in your home.”
Weston walked home feeling like an idiot. An idiot who sat on a cactus. His apartment, only a few blocks away from the doctor’s office, seemed like fifty miles because every step stung.
The sun was starting to set, and Naperville had its holiday clothes on. Strands of white lights hung alongside fresh evergreen wreaths and bows, decorating every lamppost and storefront window. The gently falling snow added to the effect, making the street look like a Christmas card.
None of it cheered Weston. Since his job moved him to Illinois, away from his family and friends in Asheville, North Carolina, he’d been down. But not actually depressed. All Weston knew about depression came from watching TV commercials for antidepressants. He’d never seen a commercial where the depressed person ate nickels, but maybe Dr. Waggoner was on to something.
Fishing his keys from his jeans, he was about to stick them in the lock of the security door when it opened suddenly. Standing there, all four feet of her, was his mean next-door neighbor. Weston didn’t know her name. She probably didn’t know his either. She simply called him “Loud Man.” Every twenty minutes she would bang on the wall between their apartments, screaming about him making noise. If he turned on the TV, she’d bang—even when it was at its lowest setting. If the phone rang, she’d bang. When the microwave beeped, she’d bang. She even banged while he was brushing his teeth.
He’d called the landlord about her, three times. On each occasion, Weston got the brush-off.
“She’s eccentric,” he was told. “No family. You should ignore her.”
Easy for the landlord to say. How do you ignore someone who won’t let you into your own door?
Weston tried to step around her, but the old woman folded her arms and didn’t budge. She had light brown skin, and some sort of fabric tied to the top of her head. Weston couldn’t help staring at her ears, which had distinctive, gypsy-like gold hoops dangling from them. The ears themselves were huge, probably larger than Weston’s hands. Maybe if his ears were that big, he’d complain all the time about noise, too.
Her dog, some sort of tiny toy breed with long fur and a mean disposition, saw Weston and began to yap at him, straining against his leash. It had a large gold tag on his collar that read ROMI.
“Excuse me,” Weston said, trying to get by.
The old woman stayed put. So did Romi.
“I said, excuse me.”
She pointed a crooked old finger at him.
“Loud Man! You keep noise down!”
“They have these things called earplugs,” Weston said. “I think they come in extra large.”
She began to scream at him in a high-pitched native tongue that sounded a lot like “BLAAA-LAAAA-LAAAAA-LEEEE-LAAAA-BLAAA!” Romi matched her, yipping right along. Weston took it for about ten seconds, and then pushed past, heading for his apartment. The chorus followed him inside.
Though it was early, Weston yawned, then yawned again. He hung his keys on a hook next to the door, switched the TV on to one setting above MUTE, and sat on the sofa. There was dog hair on the carpet, which made no sense, because Weston had no dog.
But the crazy old lady had a dog.
Could she be getting in my apartment somehow?
Panicked, Weston did a quick tour, looking for anything missing or out of place. He came up empty, but to his shame he realized he was picking up everything smaller than a matchbook and sticking it in his pockets. He took these items and placed them in a junk drawer in the kitchen.