Peter Cherches

A Chip Off the Old Block

 

I went to the dermatologist. It was only my second time on the subway since the lockdown started six months earlier. I combined a visit to the dentist, for a check-up and cleaning, in the morning, with an afternoon dermatologist appointment. The subway ride was reassuringly uneventful. There were only a few other people in the car, they all wore masks, and were spread out. I was relieved, as I’d approached the trip from Brooklyn to Manhattan with anxiety. I wore one of the KN95 masks I had bought specifically for the subway and longer times in enclosed spaces than a quick visit to the bodega.

 

I went to the dermatologist because I had this thing on the side of my head, near my right sideburn, that I wanted removed. He had seen it a couple of years ago when it was smaller and flatter, and he told me it was nothing to worry about, but it recently started pushing outward and had become more unsightly, and I was uncomfortable shaving around it, so I wanted it gone. He said it was a keratosis, nothing to worry about, but that if it was bothering me, sure he could he remove it and cauterize the site. He said he’d send a biopsy off to the lab just to make sure.

 

He said there was no need to remove my mask, that it wasn’t in the way. He gave me an injection, and then did his thing. I didn’t feel a thing. Then I heard him say, “Oops!” He turned to the nurse and said, “That was a feisty keratosis. It flew right out and onto the floor. Could you pick it up?” But before the nurse could pick it up, we saw it scamper away, out the door of the examination room. The nurse tried to chase it, but the keratosis was too quick. It was nowhere to be found.

 

“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said. “Like I said, a biopsy would have been pro forma.” Then he cauterized the wound. I felt a little warmth. 

 

“I assume this would feel much hotter if I weren’t numbed?” I asked.

 

“You’d be howling,” he said.

 

He gave me my care instructions and sent me on my way.

 

Later in the afternoon, I got a call from my bank. “Mr. Cherches?” the representative asked.

 

“Yes?”

 

“This is United Bank. We are holding an individual—though I hesitate to use the word—who was trying to withdraw a large sum from your account. We suspected it was an imposter from its appearance. It’s a small, brown, irregularly shaped crusty mass, wearing a minuscule surgical mask.”

 

Damn, I thought, my keratosis is trying to commit identity theft! I checked my wallet. My ATM card was gone. The keratosis must have deftly picked my pocket as it flew to the floor.

 

“That must be the keratosis I had removed earlier today,” I said.

 

“Oh!” the rep said, surprised. “Well, we can freeze your account, destroy the card the er kera...”

 

“Keratosis.”

 

“That the keratosis tried to use, and send you a new one by overnight.”

 

“That would be great,” I said.

 

“Well, what should we do next? Would you like to press charges? Should I call the police?”

 

“No,” I said, “I don’t think that will be necessary. I don’t think we can expect any more funny business. You can let it go.”

 

“All right,” the rep said. “Is there anything else I can help you with at this time?”

 

“No, I think we’re good.”

 

Damn incorrigible keratosis! The nerve! But it was a part of me once, wasn’t it? And it did, after all, wear a mask, and, to tell the truth, that did make me feel rather like a proud papa. 

 

A chip off the old block, my keratosis.

 

A friend of the Macabre from way back, Peter Cherches has recently published Tracks, a chapbook of musical memoirs from Bamboo Dart Press. His wacky miscellany Whistler's Mother's Son was published by Pelekinesis in 2020.

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