always be oatmeal

by nick nelson

I hate the whole stinking human race, the richest man in the world said. I’m sorry, could you repeat that? nurse johnson asked him. the richest man in the world looked around the office of dr harold hoover, the world’s most eminent psychoanalyst. ithe office was small, with room for only the doctor’s desk and chair, and one chair for a patient or other visitor. a single diploma hung on the wall, its type too small to read. dr hoover himself was not available on this particular morning, and his place was taken by nurse judy johnson, the nicest person in the world. i said, the richest man in the world said, that i hate the whole stinking human race - except for my old dog suzy smith. was your old dog a member of the human race? there you go again, getting picky. can’t i make a simple statement without you jumping all over me like a jungle full of ants? i was just trying to clarify your statement, nurse johnson replied mildly. she carefully wrote something in her little notebok. dr hoover, and anyone else who had occasion to consult nurse johnson’s notes, always marvelled at the clarity of her handwriting. so, nurse johnson resumed. why do you hate the whole human race, give or take an ambiguously defined member or two? because it doesn’t show me the proper respect. of course. that tallies with the doctor’s notes. and why should you be shown respect. if you don’t mind my asking? because i am the richest man in the world. entirely by my own efforts, i hasten to add. nobody ever gave me anything, i did it my way. of course you did. what did you say your name was again? drake. dexter drake, and i am the richest man in the world. let me see - mr drake - richest man in the world - no respect - and having trouble sleeping, and having bad dreams, correct? yes, that’s about right. we find, mr drake, that in these sorts of situations the problem is often caused by what we might refer to delicately as affairs of the heart. might that be the case here , do you think ? don’t you believe it. women flock around me like moths around a flame. i get my share, don’t you worry about that. there isn’t a woman in the world who can resist me, even if i didn’t have a dime to my name. all right then. nurse johnson wrote something on her notebook with a little flourish. i think we should be all set this morning. i see you have enough pills for almost a month, is that right? yes. and i will give you a ticket for breakfast, and the doctor or some appropriately authorized substitute will see you in two weeks, and we should be all set. the richest man in the world nodded. do you know what they have for breakfast this morning? he asked. no, i am afraid i don’t , nurse johnson smiled. the usual, i suppose, but what do i know? here is the security guard now. the door opened and olaf olaffson, the world’s biggest and strongest security guard, entered. he was a big strapping fellow with freckles the size of australia and a smile as wide as a prairie sky. hello, ray, old buddy, olaf addressed dexter drake. you sure look fine this morning. let’s get some fuel in your tank and you will look even finer. olaf and dexter left the office, and nurse johnson checked her copy of the doctors schedule. next up - kenneth king, the world’s number one gangster. do you know what they have for breakfast this morning? dexter asked olaf as they headed for the elevators. i heard they might have kumquats this morning, olaf said, to put in the oatmeal. but that might be just a rumor, don’t hold me to it. they took the elevator down to the cafeteria. but there were to be no kumquats that morning. dexter got his usual breakfast of oatmeal and black coffee and headed over to “his” corner table. jud and jed were waiting for him. jud was the world’s oldest philosopher, and jed was the world’s most philosophical old timer. jud and jed were not allowed to smoke in the cafeteria, but they were reminiscing, as they often did, about great pipes and cigars they had known. at an adjacent table a heated discussion was going on as to whether michael jordan, if he had chosen to take up literature, would have been a greater writer than shakespeare or stephen king. morning, ray, jud greeted dexter as he put his tray down on the table. you look a little out of sorts this morning, jed added. aw, gee, fellows. sometimes i just feel so downhearted. when will it all end? don’t worry, ray, jud assured him, it will all end. time will go by, the universe will explode, and it won’t always be oatmeal.