Running With Scissors

Memento Mori

"...and so Dobby said: Such a beautiful place, to be with friends. Dobby is happy to be with his friend, Harry Potter. And then the movie fucking ends there. Bullshit."

"Peter, why are you telling me how Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, part 1 ended?" asked a very confused James Truman-Conelly as he sat by the windowsill of Peter's hospital room.

Peter couldn't help but snicker. "I thought we were exchanging bullshit stories, 'cuz you're telling me you have been coming for almost a week, witnessed how I died, and waited for me to be cleaned like a toddler, just to make me pay you for some nuggets. And that's bullshit."

Bullshit as it was, it dawned on Peter that, not counting the nurse and Dr. George, James Truman-Conelly was the only person that visited him in his time of need. That was the real bullshit.

Another real bullshit was how Peter had begun to take a liking for the tall, fat man. Maybe because he liked fat people. Or maybe because he was a pushover. James, not Peter. Peter liked to push people. Over a flight of stairs, if he had to make a choice.

"I just want some nuggets," said James. "I'm kinda broke."

Peter sat on the bed as he knotted a fresh, silk tie around his neck. He made it as tight as possible. He liked how tanned his skin looked when half-choking. "You need a better lawyer."

"Someone like you, I suppose?" asked James.

"You can't afford me," said Peter, finally content on the most attractive oxygen-depriving knot he could muster.

"You can afford a few bucks for some chicken nuggets."

Peter took out his leather wallet and threw a hundred dollar bill at James. "Go get all the nuggets you want"

"This is a hospital," said the heavenly voice of Sarah McGuffin, who was leaning against the door of Peter's room. Sarah, not her voice. "This is not a Gentleman's club."

"I would make a lousy stripper," said James, inspecting the bill to make sure it wasn't fake. It was, but he didn't realize it. Little did he know, that bill would put him on a dangerous and murderous path. But saying more would be a spoiler.

"I don't judge other people's fetishes," said Sarah as she shoved a clipboard and a pen on Peter's hands.

Peter took a look at the papers in front of him. Row after row of bills, each more ridiculous than the last. A single Tylenol pill: $15; a box of tissues: $8; nonsterile gloves, one pair: $53; emotional damage of an unnamed nurse: $77. And the list went on and on.

"You know how I figured it out this isn't a Gentleman's club?" said Peter as he signed the dotted line at the end of the bill. "It's because I'm getting fucked instead of doing the fucking. Speaking of, Miss McGuffin-"

Sarah took the clipboard from Peter's hand in one swoop as she took a few preventive steps back. "For the last time, Mr. Katz, I will not go out with you. In fact, the opposite. I'm here to make you go away. You are officially discharged."

"Alright!" said Peter as he clapped like a dumb walrus. "I'm out of here." He turned around to face James Truman-Conelly and placed his small, squat hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't a pleasure. Hope to see you never. Go fuck yourself. And you," he said as he pointed at Sarah, "amuse bouche?"

"There's still the matter of your treatment, Mr. Katz," said Sarah without missing a beat.

"The only treatment we're gonna have is me treating you to some Oysters Rockefeller."

For those of you not familiar with the dish, Oysters Rockefeller were first invented in New Orleans by Jules Alciatore, chef of the Antoine's restaurant. The dish consisted originally of escargot being served with butter and spinach sauce. One day, following a shortage of escargot, Jules Alciatore substituted it with oysters in a half-shell, topped it with a watercress and parsley sauce with butter, placed some breadcrumbs on it, and baked them.

There's really nothing to it, and by all accounts of its taste, is an amusing appetizer at best. They were named Rockefeller out of the richness of the dish provided by the butter rather than their worth.

Just like Peter Katz, Oysters Rockefeller were simpler than they appeared, more common than they looked, cheaper than they looked, and the only people that ate them were people dumb enough to confuse them for a dish that is actually good. But Sarah was a foodie above all else, second only to being an Administrative Assistant, and as a proper Administrative Assistant, she had a duty to perform.

Sarah's face turned solemn, almost as if sending a silent prayer to the universe. We do not encourage doing this, as the universe is often more worried about making and destroying things like a baby with building blocks than to answer the prayers of a sad little American Administrative Assistant. "Mr. Katz," she said, "could you please follow me? I have something to show you."

"We're skipping foreplay, I dig it," said Peter.

"You too, Mr. Truman-Conelly," said Sarah, ignoring Peter's advances.

Of course, Peter protested immediately. James Truman-Conelly was not the face he thought of when thinking about a nice amuse bouche.

James Truman-Conelly was quiet because he was content with being involved in whatever they were talking about.

But alas, they all ended up tailing Sarah along the hallways of Saint Judas Thaddeus' Hospital.

Saint Judas Thaddeus is often called "The Forgotten Saint" as he plays second fiddle to the most famous Judas, the one who had that one guy nailed to a cross, kickstarting the biggest "he said, she said, the Saracens said" discussion in human history.

He is also often called the Patron Saint of lost causes, which, as Patron Saints go, is a pretty crapy deal. You're expected to materialize a miracle every time someone prays to you like a needy high schooler trying to impress the popular cheerleader girl who needs a ride at 2 in the morning from her boyfriend's house, and only gives him a "Thanks, you're the best!" as a reward.

Incidentally, that's exactly how Peter Katz felt when, as he followed the beautiful raven-haired angel down the sticky hallways of Saint Judas Thaddeus' Hospital, he was led not to a closet for a quick in-and-out, but to the Oncology ward.

Let's talk a bit about comedy. If you have seen any modern stand-up comedian, you would find that most of their routines revolve around suffering and tragedy, and that is by design. Comedians are, in most cases, extremely depressed people, constantly juggling addictions, suicidal thoughts, and general pain and suffering. They are able to harness that pain into comedic situations because they present their suffering in light and funny ways that put themselves as the butt of the joke.

But that is not a new development in comedy. We love watching human suffering as long as the subject of the suffering is okay with it. You wouldn't face a victim of breast cancer and laugh at her face, but when comedian Tig Notaro goes on stage and jokes about her own struggle with breast cancer in a light and comedic way, we can't help but laugh.

Humanity loves sad clowns. From Pagliacci to whichever comedian trends on Netflix, there's something about it that taps into a sadistic side of us. It's not bad or wrong to do it, but we have to understand the science behind comedy and understand that it is intrinsically tied to tragedy in a way we as a society won't be able to divorce any time soon. The element that ties those two together is time.

Time, when applied to tragedy, becomes comedy. No matter how funny someone can be, nobody can go on stage and joke about a situation they're suffering and have a laugh at it.

When you try to turn tragedy into comedy without time, it becomes something dark, sinister even. It becomes a mirror held to suffering itself, and it becomes uncomfortable. It becomes a reminder of your own mortality.

And that's how Peter felt when standing at the threshold of the Oncology ward. Like a mirror held to his own pain.

Suffering. Sadness. Mothers crying for their children. Wives mourning their spouses before time. Hopelessness. Prayer upon prayers to Saint Judas Thaddeus, unanswered.

"I hope you take your treatment seriously, Mr. Katz," said Sarah. "This is not a joke."

And with that, Peter made a choice.

"Come on buddy," said James Truman-Conelly, "let's get some nuggets. My treat."

He chose to get some nuggets.