A Troubling Hare

by Paul Teodo

I have a lot of problems. Let me restate that. A lot of problems have me. Having a problem is an illusion. It implies I have control over that problem. I don’t. The problem has control over me. When the problem has me it makes sense to get some help, indicating that this problem must receive more help than I alone can muster up. If a medical problem has me I go to a guy who went to school and has a license to cut me open without getting into too much trouble. If a mental problem has me I go see a shrink, or at least a good friend with a ton of patience for my whining or who can look stuff up on the internet and help me feel better. If my car starts jacking me around I go to a mechanic and spend a lotta dough, especially if I have an Italian or German model.

Let me tell you about a few problems that have me. 

BPH. Benign Prostate Hyperplasia. It’s got me big time. Some days I piss 20 times. I know, I’m closing in on seventy and it’s normal for stuff to be going on down there. But damn, it’s a nuisance.

What is BPH? It’s got to do with a guy’s prostate gland. The prostate gland plays a major role in male reproduction and ejaculation. A normal prostate is about the size of a walnut, mine’s about the size of a fucking cantaloupe. 

An enlarged prostate blocks the flow of pee from the bladder to the urethra and when that happens a man becomes obsessed with locating places to piss because he always has to piss. And the problem with pissing a lot is you begin to lose your inhibition about to where to go. Bushes, trees, dark alleys, well lit alleys, Starbucks, libraries, building lobbies, bottles strategically stashed in automobiles, lamp posts, anyplace a dog lets loose, all are fair game. 

So what do you do if this problem has you? Talk to the guy who went to school and do what he says. And he’ll say No COFFEE, and a few other things. I love coffee. But since I quit I’m down to pissing about 10 times a day, and only once or twice at night.

Well done, Doc.

I got more. 

Technofuckingphobia Yes, that’s a real word, except for the F-part, and more importantly it’s a very serious condition, especially in the 21st century, and it’s got me bad, real bad. Ask me to copy and paste, download an app, stream, or how much RAM I have, and my bowels turn to foam, my knees wobble, and my teeth chatter like a naked man perched upon an iceberg. 

And having a cell phone has made it worse. I’ve become dependent on the damn thing; emails, texts, photos, weather, music, directions, how many steps I take going from one stupid place to the next, all have become obsessions. I read a study a few months ago that said the average American, while awake, checks his cell phone every 72 seconds (less frequently when not awake). So most of you have already checked your phone since starting this little piece, or worse yet, are reading it on the damn thing now.

C’mon! 

Was I leading a miserable existence before I spent nearly a grand on a hand held computer that scares the shit outa me? I think not. And my techie friends tell me it needs to be encapsulated in a protective cover,(the difficulty of installation akin to stuffing an offensive lineman into a gymnast’s leotard), in case I drop it, or more likely throw it against a fucking wall when I can’t figure out how to use it, with a special ring tone for special people, which I have no idea how to set, with alerts for everything I’m supposed to do that I would prefer not to. And now I receive texts from people standing right next to me, which for the life of me, despite my protestations, I can’t ignore. 

And to highlight my total lack of control, if I misplace this electronic demon, I panic like a junkie jonesing for his next fix.

And then there’s the Tinnitus. Remember I’m almost seventy. What? 70…Tinnitus. What? Catch my drift?

I am condemned to a constant ringing in my right ear that varies in decibels depending on where I’m at and who I’m with. Put me in a reverberating room with a few people talking all at once (meaning anyone who has a speck of DNA that identifies them as having a trace of Italian or Jewish ancestry dog-paddling around in their cells) and I feel like I’m struggling to awaken from the depths of a coma. I’m foggy, befuddled, helpless, and morose. I lean forward with a twisted look of confusion splattered across my face feeling like I’m in a therapy group facilitated by Nurse Ratchett with Jack Nicholson at my side.

A few years ago I read that bananas helped tinnitus, so I began to consume 4, 5, 6 a day. The only change was the massive wads of hair that began to sprout from my back and the uncontrollable desire to scamper up a tree and swing from its branches.

OK I overplayed it with the tree.

And now, pray tell, I have been stricken with Leporiphobia. This malady is exhibited by a deathly and uncontrollable fear of rabbits. I shudder and become dizzy when I think of or encounter the tiniest of bunnies or a full grown big eared Jack. This condition is a rarity in the medical journals.

However, a point of note; in a 2012 survey the Journal of American Psychology polled 100 professional athletes concerning their fears or phobias. Hands down Andy Roddick, player on the men’s Pro Tennis Tour and winner of over 30M$ took the grand prize for weirdness. Leporiphobia has him! He admitshe is terrified of rabbits. All he has to do is think of one and he panics. Seeing just a tiny bunny brings him to his knees. He’s actually withdrawn from matches where he was heading for the winner’s circle and then regressed into “rabittual” thinking (OK I made that word up but it’s a great fucking word.)

Allow me to digress. 

I met Lydia in a coffee shop; my kind of coffee shop. No internet. People were talking. I was not sure if they were Jewish or Italian. I couldn’t hear. She leaned closer. I still couldn’t hear. We stepped outside. A truck rumbled by. I couldn’t hear. Finally, she stood on her toes, cupped her hands, and hollered.

“I’m Lydia.” I could hear…fairly well. We talked about the theatre and I asked her to a play. We went. We sat in the front. I could hear. It was great.

We went to dinner, a very quiet place. I gazed across the table into her gray-blue eyes. That was greater.

Afterwards she came to my place. It was very quiet. That was the greatest!

After a few of those datey kinds of experiences we wanted to do normal stuff; stuff we were interested in day to day._

She asked, “What do you like to do that is somewhat normal?”

“Bike,” I responded, enjoying her directness.

“I don’t own a bike.” she replied.

“I’ll buy you one,” I said thinking I was gallant.

She said, pursing her lips, her hands perched on very shapely hips, “I can buy my own.”

She did. I liked that.

“Do you want to go for a ride?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “But it’s so hot.”

“We won’t go far,” I said once again, trying to be gallant.

“We’ll go as far as I want,” she said.

“OK,” I said knowing that attempting to be gallant was no longer a good idea.

So I put air in my tires and waited to see if she wanted any.

“Could you put some in mine?”

“I’d love to,” I said.

“Thank you.”

Off we went down a dusty path of crunchy gray limestone; thick bushes bordering each side of the trail.

We came to a clearing in a small town. The bank sign read 97 degrees-1pm. The sun broiled my back, sweat puddled in my navel, and my hands slid from the rubber grips of my silver Trek.

“It’s so hot.” Her voice rose over the noisy limestone. “Are you hot?”

“What?” I couldn’t hear her.

“Hot!” she screamed.

I was near death, my head ready to explode. “I’m fine,” yelling over my shoulder.

“Wait!” I heard her voice. It must have been very loud.

I jammed the brakes, my bike twisting sideways.

We skidded to a dusty stop. She was huffing and puffing.

“Are you OK?” Salty sweat stung my eyes.

“This is your idea of fun? How can you stand it? This is normal?”

“What?” This time I pretended I couldn’t hear.

“Hot!”She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. 

“I try to stay cool: water, and stuff.”

“What stuff?” Her indignant voice rose.

I had to pee.

“Sometimes I take off my shirt.”

“Go ahead. But I can’t take off mine.”

I had to pee more.

“Go ahead,” she repeated.

I removed my shirt.

“Let’s go,” she said. “It’s too hot to stand here and talk.”

We started once again, crunching along the shimmering trail.

And that’s when it happened.

Two dark blurs darted from the brush directly in front of my bike; the one in front larger than the one who trailed. The larger one turned and glared with his devil-red eyes, into mine. And without any notice, he leapt off the ground, a full four feet, and went for my throat. My legs froze. I gasped and choked on my own spit. He was on me screeching a high pitched hideous rodent like noise; fangs gnawing at my flesh, his bristly fur scraping my chin. I yanked my right hand away from the brake and threw him off, his pin-like nails scratching my sun burnt skin. His body thumped to the ground. I jammed on my brakes. My wheel turned cock-eyed and my torso flew over the handlebars. 

I landed next to him; so close I could see his whiskers and his pinkish nose twitching with a sense of evil. 

He wriggled his nose again, paused, and scampered into the brush.

“It was a rabbit!”I think Lydia screamed. While I was aware of that, tinnitus is accentuated in a panic situation, and I needed to pee even more.

“I can’t believe it!”

I could. I lay on the limestone gazing up at her.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“You wanted normal.”

She stepped off her new bike, whose tires I had just put air into, trying not to be gallant.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

I wasn’t. I could be extra gallant and say fine. “I’m…” I paused, “hurt. Severely.”Trying to gain some sympathy.

“Oh my God,” she said.

Shards of gravel were imbedded in my tender skin. Bloody chunks of flesh dangled from elbows and knees. My left shoulder was locked tight, conspicuously off-kilter to its twin; pounding with a sledgehammer heartbeat.

“What can I do?” she asked tears welling in her eyes.

I lay there, my fears, problems, and pain running away with me.

My cell phone was shattered. How would I text myself a reminder to buy a new one?

I needed to pee.

But there was Lydia standing over me, offering to help. We met in a coffee shop, my kinda shop. No internet.

My ear ringing like the 3 o’clock dismissal school bell at St. Frances.

“How can I help?” she repeated. 

I thought I saw the rabbit peek out from the brush. Leporiphobia had stricken me. 

“Kill the fucking rabbit.”

She smiled a deep warm smile. She made me feel better.

She touched my cheek. “I will.”

I believed her.