Dr. Fankenmug entered the waiting room and approached his patient’s wife.
“Mrs. Adams, your husband is fine.”
“What a relief! So everything went well?”
“What I meant was: he survived the surgery. However . . .”
“However what? What’s wrong?”
“Rudy is now suffering from Nonsolumdicere Citationibusitus Syndrome.”
“What’s that? Is it fatal? Is it catching?”
“It’s the inability to speak anything of his own originality. Everything he says from now on will be a quote from a book, movie, TV show, song—”
“But is it fatal?”
“Not to him. It may drive you to distraction, though.”
“How did it happen? How could he have acquired this Non-solar Citation Bursitus Syndrome?”
“Get it right! It’s Nonsolumdicere Citationibusitus Syndrome. I’m afraid to have to report that during surgery, Rudy’s hippocampus was nicked by a scalpel, and—”
“So you’re saying it was your fault!”
“No, this is a no-fault hospital. It’s nobody’s fault.”
“Is there any possible cure?”
“Rest and relaxation may help, but I’m afraid there’s little hope for complete remission.”
As Jean was trying to process this devastating news, her husband was delivered to her, being pushed in a wheelchair by an orderly arrayed in rumpled baby blue scrubs. Mr. Adams’ color was good, but he seemed a little discombobulated.
“How do you feel, Rudy?” Jean solicitously inquired of her husband.
“I feel good; I knew that I would.”
“Rudy—dear—Doctor Frankenmug advises that we take a vacation. How does that sound to you!”
“Come on, Let’s Go!”
“Where would you like to go?”
“It Don’t Matter to Me.”
“How about Paris?”
“When good Americans die, they go to Paris.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Jean mumbled; she had wanted to see Paris.
“Never Been to Spain,” Rudy remarked, looking wistfully out the window. “They say Spain is pretty, though I've never been.”
“Holy Toledo! You want to go to Spain?”
“You may have the world if I may have Italy.”
“Oh, that would be fine! Where in Italy would you like to go? Venice? Florence? Naples? Pompeii? Herculaneum?”
“Rome is the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of yearning.”
“Rome it is,” Jean acquiesced, surprised that Rudy, a Presbyterian, wanted to get that close to the Vatican. “I hope you’re not planning on defacing the antiquities with graffiti, Rudy,” she worried.
“When in Rome—which wasn’t built in a day, you know—do wop bop a loo bop a lop bom boom Tutti Frutti!”
“Oh, Rudy!”
“What’s Going On?”
“I’m just concerned about you, Rudy.”
“Don’t Worry, Baby.”
“But I do worry, Rudy. You’ve never wanted to go to Rome before, and now you’re quoting the Beach Boys!”
“The Boys are Back in Town! The Kids are Alright!”
“Now you’re mixing your mega bands. Let’s get back on track. We need to get you home and pack for our trip.”
“On the Road Again.”
“Actually, we’ll be in the air again.”
“I’m Leavin’ On a Jet Plane.”
“Yes, I know. You didn’t expect us to swim to Italy, did you?”
“Big ol’ Jet Airliner.”
“That’s right, honey. How do you think we should get to the airport—have Danny give us a ride?”
“Don’t sleep in the Subway.”
“I don’t even want to take the subway, let alone sleep in it,” Jean muttered. “If you don’t want to bother Danny, let’s take a taxi.”
“Big Yellow Taxi.”
“That’s fine, dear. We’ll take a taxi to the airport, leave on a big ol’ jet airliner, and land in Rome.”
“So Long, Farewell.”
“Are you saying you want to go by yourself?”
“Alone Again (Naturally).”
“Have it your way,” Jean said, hurt and disappointed.
“I Want it That Way.”
Rudy didn’t really mean that. He didn’t know what he was saying. He was just involuntarily vocalizing the first phrase that came to his mind in response to what Jean was saying. Without understanding what was happening, in what seemed to him like no time, Rudy was on a flight to Rome, and saw Jean on the tarmac, tearfully waving goodbye.
“Been dazed and confused for so long, it’s not true,” he whispered, staring blankly out the little circular window.
It was nobody’s fault. That was the official story, anyway.