Doctor, you've got to help me!

Oh, do I, now? Not before you fill out this wagonload of insurance forms, young man. "Got to help you," indeed. Would you take food out of my baby's mouth by failing to sort out the payment arrangements first?

Not that I have any children, come to think of it, much less a baby -- but that's not the point here, is it? Right now we're focusing exclusively on your myopic presumption. I mean, maybe it's technically impossible for you to literally take food out of my so-called baby's mouth, but, but -- well, think of it this way: would you take stock certificates out of the bank account of one of my favorite significant others? No, strike that: You could very well say "yes" to that latter question: Let's stick with the baby analogy for now: Would you, once and for all, sir, take food out of my baby's mouth: yes or no?! This isn't rocket science, Mr... Smith is it?"


"Yes, Mr. John Smith."


Wait a minute: Where have I heard that name before? (John Smith, John Smith. Hmm.) Never mind. Mrs. Fairform -- I mean Mrs. Formfax -- oh, you know what I mean: MRS. FAIRFAX (ahem!) would you please get this "Mr. Smith" gentleman settled as regards all the red tape? Meanwhile, I'm going to go into my pretentiously oriental-themed psycho-lair and pretend to be very, very busy, indeed!


Oops: Mr. Smith, you didn't hear that! As far as you're concerned, I AM a very busy and important person. For all you know, I could be in there any minute now (in the aforementioned "psycho-lair," I mean) phoning in "prescriptions for the stars" over the latest in hands-free telephony equipment. "Yes, Beverly Hills Apothecaries? 200 milligrams of Ibuprofen for Jeffrey Lee Gibson: stat!"


Impressive, huh?


Oh, come on, don't tell me you've never heard of Jeffrey Lee Gibson, dude: What planet were YOU born on? THE Jeffrey Lee Gibson? He was no less than the chauffeur of the CIA director in the recent hit movie "The Bourne Ultimatum"!



(Psst! Listen, Mrs. Firefox -- oh, JANE! -- keep the patient in the waiting room here for 30 suspenseful seconds while I go into my office and hide behind my forbidding professional persona. In fact, quick, while the guy's not looking: give me your opinion on my facial expressions. Here: How is this for a "knowing leer"....


How's that? It's fine, you say, but it would be even better if I stroked my beard while I was "grimacing"? Oh, dear, Jane, I don't know if I'd call it a "grimace," old girl -- are you sure it looks like a grimace? hmm... I thought of it more as a benevolent SMILE -- (Grimace???) still, point taken: I will henceforth stroke my beard whenever I eye my patients knowingly like this.


Now, then: show John Smith in in exactly 30 seconds, yes? (John Smith. John Smith: Why is that name so familiar to me??!)





Doctor, whispering off-screen: One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.... 29 Mississippi, 30 Mississippi! Ready or not, here comes the madman! (Oh, I am terrible!)


Ah, yes, Mr. Smith, is it? Very good. Especially since you're a government employee with Blue Cross Blue Shield, since they generally pay me on time, and what's more, they don't make Mrs. Fox out there (Mrs. Fairfox, I mean) jump through a bunch of time-consuming regulatory hoops.


What's wrong? Have you never seen a bean-bag chair before? Please, have a seat. You'll forgive me if I myself sit down on this wicker chair -- normally, I sit on my own bean-bag, but my back has been acting up lately so I'm going to play it safe for a while -- chiropractor's orders. Rest assured, however, that my consequent physical elevation with respect to your person does not represent a power-play on my part. Remember, we're equal partners in this therapeutic venture. (Well, I say "equal" -- I'm the "know-it-all," of course -- hey, it took me 10 years of almost shockingly expensive college to earn the right to talk down to you like this -- but it's important that you feel free to offer your own relatively uninformed viewpoint on your situation, too, as the spirit moves you, no matter how silly such speculation might appear to a psychologist who, unlike myself, had not taken a vow of unflinching magnanimity with respect to the idle ramblings of his clients. Besides, you might accidentally say something of therapeutic importance -- and I'd rather you say a million silly things including one thing that was unintentionally profound, rather than having you saying nothing at all, profound or otherwise.)


Now once and for all, will you take a seat? Ooh, careful! You're falling backwards! Ha ha! (Oops. Sorry about that, I'm not supposed to laugh at you, of course. Still, you should have seen your face when you went flying backwards on that beanbag! Oh, dear! The things you see when you don't have a camera!)


Ahem. Right. (Incidentally, that was an aberration on my part: Rest assured that I won't be laughing at you from here on out, no matter how absurd your comments may appear to me. See? Look at this suddenly serious face of mine. Here, I'll even stroke my beard for good measure. You're dealing with a professional here, after all.)


Incidentally, you may want to put at least one hand on the carpeted floor before we begin -- you still seem a little wobbly in that beanbag, and to tell you the truth, if you were to fall over again, I can't be 100% certain that I wouldn't snicker in spite of myself. (You've been warned, right?)


Now, let me see your "chart," here. Smith. Smith. (Blast me if that name isn't familiar to me. You're not any relation to Granny Smith are you? You know, the apple lady? No? Hmm.)


It says here that you're hearing noises?


Yes, doctor.


Describe them for me.


Well, it sounds silly but --


Try me.


It's real loud...


Yes?


And it's like whiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! CHIP CHIP CHIP! whiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr! CHIP CHIP CHIP!


Very interesting. Tell me, Mr. Smith, where do you live?


In an apartment complex at --


Just as I thought. And have you noticed any signs of ongoing construction work outside your apartment building?


Ongoing --


You know: small armies of men wearing hardhats and moving up and down the external walls of the building by means of platforms that are apparently anchored to some sort of pulley system on the roof?


Now that you mention it, I have noticed such workers outside -- but what does that have to do with my hallucinations?


Well, hold on tight to your beanbag because what I'm about to say may surprise you: You are not hallucinating anything, sir: The noises you have described are the admittedly annoying but very real sounds that inevitably emanate from a construction crew that is "repointing" the bricks on a building.


Repointing?


Yes. You see, bricks can wear down over time and they can begin to erode thanks to water damage. So it's eventually necessary to scrape out the old mortar with which they were erected and to replace it with new.

Gasp!

I see it all now! It was the repointing all along!


That's right: that noise you heard -- that:


whiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! CHIP CHIP CHIP! whiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr! CHIP CHIP CHIP! --


had a perfectly logical explanation!



I see -- yeah, but it's still driving me crazy!

Sigh!

Well, at least I know it's completely necessary and unavoidable work.


Tut-tut, not so fast, Mr. Smith: I didn't say that the work was "completely necessary and unavoidable," as you put it. You know, there are 600-year-old castles in England which, even as we speak, are getting along just fine with their original bricks and mortar.


But my apartment complex was only built in the 1970s: Why does it already need repointing, then?


In a word, because of Portland cement.


I beg your pardon?


Because of Portland cement. You see, back in 1870, brick masons started using the newly available (cheap and fast-setting) Portland cement as the major ingredient in mortar, never mind that the time-honored formula of "three parts sand to one part limestone" (championed by Roman architect Marcus Vitruvius himself) had worked fantastically since well before the time of Julius Caesar.


So this new cement-laden mortar didn't really work?


Oh, it worked all too well. In fact, it made darn sure that the bricks on the outside of a building wouldn't budge an inch, period.


So what was the problem, then?


Think about it, babe: It's elemental physics: The bricks WANTED (nay, NEEDED) to budge from time to time: In winter, when their inner moisture freezes, they need to expand -- likewise in summer, when the bricks heat up, they need to expand.


Oh, I see: And so the overly powerful mortar keeps them from doing so -- hence they crack?


By George, I think you've got it.


Hence the need for a new "repointing" job on many of our modern buildings long before one might otherwise have been necessary.


Amen, brother: you're preaching to the converted here.


So... even though you've proven to me that I'm not "hearing things" after all, I still have a right to be somewhat angry about the REAL noise that I am hearing, insofar as the repointing that's to blame for it might well have been avoided (or at least put off for another century) if brick masons hadn't so rashly abandoned the tried-and-true 3-to-1 formula of their forebears.


Bingo! That will be $150, please! (or at least your $40 deductible -- cash "on the hogshead," please, no checks).


There's just one thing that bothers me, however.


Oh? What's that?


You're a psychiatrist, right?


Do chickens have lips?


Well, then, why do you know so much about bricks and mortar?


Good question: It just so happens that I am the nation's number-one expert on Bricks-and-Mortar Syndrome. That's right, you aren't the first apartment-dwelling madman that's walked into my office complaining of loud whirring and chipping noises. Of course, a sane person immediately makes the obvious connection between the outdoor construction activity in their vicinity and the noises that they're hearing. But certain sensitive (not to say neurotic ) souls find these noises so unexpectedly loud and annoying that they can only assume that they issue from some evil spirit or force that is intent on driving them crazy.


But then there's nothing you can do for me? Don't get me wrong, it's reassuring to know that the sounds I'm hearing are not coming from some fiendish spirit, but the noise itself could still drive me crazy all by itself!


Don't worry, I've got you covered. In fact, I'm writing out a prescription right now.... for one set of Bose QuietComfort 2 headphones. They're extremely comfortable and their noise-canceling technology is state-of-the-art.


Swell!


I'm also going to write out a generic prescription in case your medical coverage is too chintzy to "spring for the real thing," so to speak. Ah, here we go: One set of Sony MDR-NC11 "ear buds."


Ta-da! Ooh, here, let me help you up from that bean bag: I can see you're about to fall over again and I don't want to end our session on a sour note by unprofessionally laughing at your expense -- for the second time today, no less. And... UP you go! There!


Now then, get one of these two prescriptions filled at the Radio Shack down the street -- and you can give that $40 deductible you've got there (ooh, I like that: two nice, crisp 20-dollar bills! let me have a sniff: Ahhh!) to Mrs. Flying-fox on the way out -- Mrs. Frying-fox, I mean. Oh, JANE!