“HELLO? Do you have a crisis?” A gleeful query. The hotline had rung, which could only mean one thing. He chided with a snort, “Duh.” Then chirped into the bright red receiver, “Of course you do or you wouldn’t have phoned my number. Give me your address and I’ll be right over!”
In Dagdon Klinker’s world, if things didn’t add up, it was a state of emergency — time for a new calculator. Or a visit from a specialist. He was sum-moned to solve those pesky little discrepancies and odd mysteries that could ruin one’s day. In short, he was a logical man in an illogical world. It was his sole purpose to rectify abnormalities by offering the most practical of solutions to irrational problems. What made perfect sense to him didn’t always seem prudent to others. But then, nearly everyone else was rather quirky. The mathematician detested quirkiness. It was the next thing to craziness in his estimation. Those who were not quirky were completely out of their minds. Unbalanced individuals, impossible to adjust, and Dagdon preferred to avoid them.
The people for whom there was still hope, in essence the quirkies, would pay him a fee to clear up their cluttered dysfunctional lives. According to Dagdon, nobody else had any inkling what they were doing. It amazed him the world could keep turning with all of the insanity and murky muddled mess it was in. Not that the quirkies could ever become as logical as Dagdon, but they could become slightly less befuddled and that would simply have to do.
“I don’t feel right,” a disembodied voice moaned through the wire. “I was feverish, and I think my heart stopped working for a while. Then it restarted, I guess, but I haven’t been myself. Yesterday I lost some of my fingers and toes. Today an ear fell off. Can you help me, or do you think I need a doctor?”
“No, you made the proper choice,” replied Dagdon. “Most doctors are quacks. And the rest should have treatment themselves. You wouldn’t hire a plumber if your life were going down the drain, would you?”
“I don’t suppose so.” The caller’s breathing was labored. “Are you sure you can cure me?”
“I doubt very much I can cure what ails you, but I will indeed present you with a viable alternative. Once we analyze, theorize, and deduce the root of your problem.”
“I have no clue what you mean,” the poor fellow coughed. “Are you speaking in riddles?”
“Nonsense. If you will provide an address, I can be there directly or indirectly, depending on whether you give me your address or the address of where you don’t reside.”
The man couldn’t remember his street and related where he didn’t live in a roundabout fashion. Dagdon contemplated as he narrowed down the client’s location that it was futile to try making sense out of a bizarre reality. It was a foolhardy task, yet somebody had to do it. Or, to be more precise, not do it.
The fact that he was attempting to do what couldn’t be done almost created a bit of a paradox, and contradictions drove him mad. Not the kind of mad that required a strait-jacket, obviously, for he believed he was the only truly sane person in existence. The kind that signified being red in the face with smoke pouring out of your ears. He hated that too because it was quite cartoonish and cartoons defied logic, which was ridiculously irritating. It was also the source of immense frustration. Cartoons were just squiggles and dots. They held no value. They were a distraction, like toys and books and puppet shows. Worthless! Cartoons should be banned. It was a pet peeve of his. But he didn’t make the rules, he abided by them, and so every Saturday morning he religiously watched the colorful comic antics of absurd artificial characters.
Thinking all this put his head in a tizzy as he trudged laconically toward the spot he had identified. A thin man in a tight gray suit lugging a briefcase, he was talking to himself in riddles and answering them below his breath, a lifelong habit. With his mind fleetingly dazed, he felt at a loss for a response to one of the puzzles and his steps faltered. He blinked at the ground, stupefied as to his destination. “Curious,” he mumbled. “I’m drawing a blank. So that’s what it’s like.” He would generally advise people to drink poison when this occurred. What was the use of being empty-headed? There was enough of that going around. But it quickly passed before he could uncork a bottle from his case. “Very well.” He resumed the journey and arrived on a doorstep.
The person needing assistance was extremely large. Wide and tall. Dagdon calculated by virtue of a measuring-tape that the fellow’s breadth with arms spread was equal to his height. “Everything appears to be in order,” he concluded.
“That’s it? What about my skin?” the one-eared guy, who introduced himself as Rugbert Van Gogh, demanded.
“Is there a problem with it?” Dagdon was surprised. He hadn’t really noticed that everyone did not possess a marbled complexion, dark circles beneath their eyes, and missing digits. He squinted at his client, features knitted in consternation, then a quizzical expression.
“It’s different colors!” the man exhorted. His shirt was likewise stained by garish shades of blood, as if he had been engaged in barbarous activities.
“Oh. Well. Let me examine it.” Dagdon opened his briefcase and rummaged, whistling softly. The inspector extracted a large magnifying-glass befitting the specimen. “Please say ahhh. Hmmm.” He peered into the man’s mouth, his eye exaggerated from the fellow’s perspective. “Your gums don’t look good. Is your tongue always black with white polka-dots?” he inquired.
The guy gurgled something unintelligible.
“Perhaps you should zip your yap to speak,” suggested Dagdon, polishing spittle off the magnifying lens with his necktie.
Rugbert sealed a pair of bloated purple lips. That made the man’s cryptic phrasing even tougher to discern.
“No, you should definitely open your mouth, but not as much.”
The blotchy ample client shook his noggin. There was a swishing sound. “I’m not sure what I said. My mind is mush.” And indeed, gray matter leaked from his earholes, as if his braincells had dissolved.
“My. This is a serious dilemma.” The prim Primer scrutinized the contents of his valise. Sifting loudly, clinking, clanging, he peered at the variegated guy through a web of strings, a tennis racket framing his countenance.
He exchanged the item for a goldfish bowl and ogled the client, his mug distorted by curved crystal.
Like a magician, the numerologist expanded a brass spyglass into a lengthy telescope to survey Rugbert up close.
He regarded the multi-hued man behind a big wooden mask.
Back into the briefcase. “Ah.”
In Dagdon Klinker’s world, pie wasn’t something you ate. It might be a number. Or a chart, a visual aid. He fished a coconut cream pie from the case, then withdrew a knife. Orbs bulged; dramatic eyebrows wiggled. The blade sliced a wedge. “Let us infer that this is your condition.”
He judiciously angled the other fellow’s hand. Sliding the segment of pie onto the knifeblade, he elevated the slab of cream and pudding onto Rugbert’s palm. “And here is your future.” Dagdon folded the other fellow’s fingers into a fist. What fingers there were. The pinkie snapped. Pie squished, oozing.
The math expert nodded. “As I suspected.” He clasped his test-subject’s forearm in sympathy. “I’m afraid I have difficult news.”
Rugbert’s chin trembled. His face puckered, on the brink of tears.
“My initial assessment was mistaken. You appear to be dead.” A blunt verdict.
“Are you sure?”
“There is no doubt.”
Quiet. The interior of a burial chamber. The bottom of a deep well. The pause between an inward gasp and an awkward exhalation.
The deceased somberly remarked, “Then I’m afraid I have some tragic news for you.”
Dagdon bowed his head, wearing a patronizing smirk. “No, no, you don’t understand. I’ve pronounced you dead,” he explained to the brainless idiot.
“Exactly. I’m dead. To be standing before you as I a
m, I must either be a vampire, a ghost, a mummy, some kind of ghoul, or a zombie. Did I skip anything?”
“Um, well . . . this is highly irregular!” protested the flustered Primer. “Just a minute!” He delved inside the case, muttering, tossing things out, digging for a solution to his crisis. It suddenly seemed that he was the one with a problem!
The huge bother shrugged and waited, tapping a bare foot, forfeiting another toe or two.
In Dagdon Klinker’s world, not every problem could be resolved. Some were too big. Sighing, he conceded that this was one such predicament. The gaunt fastidious Fixer grabbed a portable red telephone receiver connected by a springy red spiral cord to the briefcase. “Yes, hello, men in white jackets? I’d like to report that a collection is necessary. I have a major quandary, a fellow who has lost his mind among other things. It seems to have seeped out. He’s a candidate for a rubber room. Possibly a rubber tomb. Those are my recommendations. The address?”
He had neglected to pay attention on the way to the prodigious dummy’s house, too busy daydreaming, pondering riddles. What an imbecile! He smacked his forehead. (He was referring to Rugbert.)
“Uh, I shall have to tell you where he doesn’t live.” Cheeks burning as red as the phone, the technician recited a series of rambling instructions, aware that support would not be punctual. It would probably take