I’m often asked, "Where do you get story ideas?" Quite simply (and as I believe most writers would answer), it’s a rare day when I DO NOT encounter something that triggers a story idea. Here’s an example.
A few years ago a routine medical exam revealed I had a hyperthyroid and needed to see a specialist. I did so, and the following treatments were all simple and painless. The only inconvenience was the 45-minute drive to visit the specialist. On this day, thanks to a monsoon, the trip took over an hour.
The Clinic Caper
I reached the sign-in counter at the specialty clinic with only a minute to spare before my scheduled appointment. After signing in I meandered across the waiting room intent on finding a magazine to browse during the usual, hour-long delay before seeing the doctor. (Airlines and doctors are still struggling with the concept of On Time.) A voice called out before I reached the magazine rack.
"Ah, Mr. Burdick?"
I paused and cut a glance over my shoulder. A skeletal woman draped in white and sporting a topknot of purplish hair was clutching the clipboard with my sign-in information. Her stooped posture, squint, and austere expression reflected pain—like having just been whacked by a ceiling fan paddle—but I soon realized her anguish was not in the physical sense; it was only to my presence. Darlene Moore was beautifully engraved on her nametag, but had she been a character in one of my stories, I surely would have named her Miss Sallow Cadaver.
Ambling back her way, I said, "Yes."
Her nostrils flared as she tapped the clipboard. "You failed to indicate whether you've been here before."
"Your form doesn't ask the question."
"Well? Have you?"
I cocked a thumb at the foyer where condensation veiled the windows and rain pelted the entry doors. "Actually, no. I was just walkin' in the rain and decided to bring you a ray of sunshine. You know, I was a bright boy. Dad called me son."
Her glazed look indicated I was on the freeway but she'd taken the truck route.
She dismissed me with a hiss like air escaping a punctured tire and channeled her wrath to a keyboard. After a few moments of bony-fingered exercise, she paused and her forehead narrowed a full inch as she scowled at the computer monitor. Then, with a mechanical nod I read as gloating, she peered at me over her pince-nez glasses and said, "You have been here before!"
I sidled closer, giving a sideways glance to her monitor, and whispered, "No one is safe."
She turned the monitor to block my view and said, "Take a seat."
I took a seat. Midway through my second Field & Stream someone called my name. Would Clyde Holloway land that huge brown trout on four-pound-test line? I had to know. With the magazine rolled and tucked into my hip pocket, I followed this new face through a warren of halls until we reached an alcove containing an upright scale.
This drill was familiar, so I stepped onto the scales and reached for the sliding weight on the lower bar.
"Don't touch that!"
"The hickey's in the wrong notch."
"I'll make that determination."
She slid the upper weight to the far end. The balance bar remained pegged. She then moved the lower weight.
"Yep," I said, "you have to know your hickey notches."
"You weigh one-ninety-eight."
I stepped from the scales.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard a statement, not a question."
She repeated her statement, making it sound like introduction of the bloody knife at a murder trial.
Okay, I got it. I was supposed to feel guilty. "It's the Wooly worms," I said.
The blank stare said this one was also on the truck route. "When you see them this time of year," I added, "it means a hard winter coming. I'm storing up."
Maybe anticipating someone a little lighter in the loafers, she slid the hickey back one notch and said, "This way."
She led me to a small cubicle and closed the door. "Take a seat," she said, as she reached for the blood-pressure cuff.
I offered no help with the hickey-dos during the check, but when she announced my blood pressure as one-twenty over eighty, I said, "Yep, I'm Mr. Optimal."
"You know about optimal? Are you a medical professional?"
"No, but I have an extensive library. Only missing one issue of Captain Marvel."
Thumbing through my inch-thick file, she said, "What are you here for today?"
Previous visits to this facility had been pleasant—if any medical appointment can be pleasant—but today's visit was not going well, and I'd yet to see the doctor. Gesturing to the file, I said, "There must be a clue in there somewhere."
There was: a blood test analysis indicating my thyroid level was still hyper. After saying, "The doctor will be with you in a minute," she slipped out the door and I was alone with my magazine.
Clyde landed the brown trout, a twenty-two inch beauty. I then went along on an elk hunt in Montana and was busy reading about a miracle gel that would reverse hair loss, cure acne, and boost libido when the doctor entered the room.
With only a cursory glance my way, she paged through my file and said, "Your thyroid is still hyper. Have another blood test in three weeks."
Before she cleared the door, I said, "Doc, you look a little down. Anything wrong?"
She paused and gazed at the rain still beating vengeance against the exam-room window. "Maybe it's the rotten weather," she said, "but everyone seems strange today."
