Pineapple

Henry Gould

This doctor I’m listening to, I call Pineapple. Pineapple means just one Lady, the females, Lady, the males, Mister, but Pineapple says Ladies, anyways. Something sweet and fruit-like, like under all of his toughness. He doesn’t try and ply you with his sweet.

You wonder why, though, always Pineapple. It’s so thorny how he just calls everyone just Lady or Mister, like everyone was all the same. Plus, Pineapple never uses the name of his patients.

Which leads us to Dead.

My father is dead.

All of my grandparents, except for the one, are dead.

Just how many of these people — just how many that were being seen by this doctor here, Pineapple?

Just how many of these people died in 2005, exactly?

Actually, I don’t transcribe for this doctor Pineapple, whose broom closet I inhabit. Actually, I’m not in Doctor Pineapple’s office.

But, if it were Doctor Pineapple’s office.

Oh, if it were Doctor Pineapple’s office!

And they don’t think that it’s HIPAA compliant, they don’t think that it is HIPAA compliant that I have access to my medical information at home.

They stick me in an unused office, like it feels all of the time like it was unused.

Like it shrank down from an office to a broom closet.

And my dad thought that I was becoming a doctor. They thought that they would rent out a broom closet, from a doctor, so that I could transcribe the doctor’s dictations to me in a medical setting.

Well, that box over there, it’s full of all of the medical records of all of those that were RIP’ed in the year of our Lord, Two Thousand Aught Five.

It would get me more money. Typing out Two Thousand Aught Five, instead of 2000 and 5.

Four words instead of one.

I would have just quadrupled my salary!

Thankfully, I’ve only been transcribing for the ten months since I graduated.

I’m just a community college grad.

Now I’m up to nine words. That’s eighteen cents.