The Deliltification of Roy G. Biv
The Choirboy and the Sawbones
Roy G. Biv walked into the office of Mas K. Noonka, an Ear, Nose, & Throat specialist.
After the usual long wait to be seen, Roy was finally ushered into the exam room. “What is your complaint, Mr. Biv?” the good doctor inquired.
“Oh, I don’t really have any complaints; I mean, the magazines in the waiting room are a little outdated, and some of them have pages miss—”
“No,” the doctor interrupted, “I mean: Why are you here — What’s bothering you?”
“I have a lilt in my voice, and it won’t come out.”
“What? You have something stuck in your throat?”
“You could say that.”
“What is it?”
“I told you — a lilt!”
“A lilt?!? What’s that — a kilt from Louisiana?”
“Come on, sawbones, how could that be? How could a Louisiana kilt get stuck in my throat? A lilt is a certain manner of singing or speaking.”
“I see,” Doctor Noonka said, still not truly understanding. “I must quickly confer with a colleague — I’ll be right back.”
The doctor left the room, but then remembered something, and swiftly returned, opening the door and poking his head back in to say, “And don’t call me ‘sawbones.’ This is not the wild west, and I have no saws among my surgical instruments.”
Roy just stared blankly at the doctor, and resignedly nodded, in acknowledgment that he had heard the peremptory command; it was a belated gesture — the physician had already closed the door again to ‘confer with a colleague’ (which was, in actuality, a dictionary).
“Let’s see here,” the doctor said to himself, under his breath, “‘Lilt: A characteristic rising and falling of the voice when speaking; a pleasant gentle accent.’
“I was wondering why he was talking that way,” the doctor mused, continuing with his soliloquy. “But how could such a speech pattern get ‘stuck in his throat’? I’ll have to get to the bottom of this.”
The doctor grabbed a notepad (he was rather olde-fashioned, and hadn’t adopted the use of modern technology yet), nudged his glasses down his nose a fraction of an inch to look more professorial or doctorial, and re-entered the examination room where Mr. Biv was waiting, hopeful of a cure for his debilitating malady.
“Mr. Biv, it seems to me that you are suffering from a case of embedded liltiness.”
“I could have told you that,” Roy countered. “In fact, I did.”
“So you did; in so many words, anyway. What I’m confused about, though, is: How did it get there? How did the lilt get stuck in your throat?”
“It’s like this, sawbones: I’m a member of a singing group — The Vienna, Virginia Good Old Boys Choir, to be specific. A couple of weeks ago, we sang a new tune — new to me, anyway —, and I fastidiously followed the musical direction given to sing it ‘with a lilt in my voice.’ I must say, I did a wonderful job of it. The chorale master lavishly praised my rendition of the piece, and my fellow bellowers and crooners were proud or jealous of me (depending on their personality and attitude toward me). It was all very satisfying and gratifying, I must say.”
“So what you’re intimating to me, Mr. Biv, is that since your lilting was such a hit, you just kept it up, and now it’s so ingrained in you that — perhaps for deeply embedded psychological reasons — you just can’t seem to rid yourself of it. And don’t call me ‘sawbones’.”
“No, I didn’t say that at all. I didn’t really care for the sound myself. I mean, who wants to go around sounding like Tiny Tim singing Tiptoe Through the Tulips?”
“Singular; very singular, indeed,” the doctor mused. “So this is an involuntary lilt inculcation. What, exactly, do you want me to do about it?”
“Get rid of it. Remove it. Take it out — surgically, if necessary, but with as much anesthesia as possible. I’m not a huge fan of pain.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m not sure I can remove it. Let me take a look.”
The doctor examined Roy’s throat and perceived nothing unusual or amiss. “I don’t see a thing; your throat appears perfectly normal. There are no indications of trauma; nothing abnormal or remarkable in any way.”
“Look here, sawbones, you’re the expert; you’ve got to help me!”
Doctor Noonka drummed his fingers on his notepad, and stared up at the acoustic tiles. “I told you not to call me sawbones,” he said, wagging his finger in Roy’s face. “Now, I have an idea. Can you open your mouth as wide as you can and sing ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’ for me?”
“No, but I can sing ‘Dixie’.”
“Okay, then, let’s hear it.”
As Roy sang, wide-mouthed, Dr. Noonka came near and peered down his patient’s throat. He heard the lilting rendition of Dixie, discerned that Mr. Biv had consumed peanut butter toast for breakfast, and noticed a tiny protuberation in the patient’s throat, oscillating as Roy warbled the moving melody.
“I see something! When you croon, it pulsates, and it’s a sickly grayish-green color.”
“I don’t care what color it is — just get it out!”
After signing the necessary waivers, and paying his co-pay in advance, Mr. Biv was generously sedated (the anesthetic is billed per milliliter), and the operation was performed.
A couple of hours later, after the heavy sedative had worn off and Mr. Biv had awakened from his drug-induced stupor, he gradually remembered where he was, why he was there, and what had just occurred.
“Hey, sawbones!” he yelled. “Come here!”
Dr. Noonka soon arrived, with an unmistakable look of anxiety plastered across his visage. “I told you multiple times not to call me ‘sawbones,’ Mr. Biv. Now, what is it? How do you feel?”
“I feel like a million bucks, Grindskeleton. I no longer have a lilt in my voice.”
“That’s great! However, I need proof that you have truly been cured. Sing ‘Eve of Destruction’ for me, please.”
Mr. Biv hadn’t even heard the song in decades, but he gave it a go. It was a resounding success — rather than sounding like a male Karen Carpenter, a happy-go-lucky Reggae singer, or a who-knows-what-gender Tiny Tim, the song was sung by Mr. Biv in a guttural growl reminiscent of Tom Waits or Willie Nelson with a bad cold and a hangover.
“Grindskeleton, you saved me! You cured me of the lilts! I will give you a positive review on Yelp!”
“I’m not so sure you sound better than before, but if you’re happy, I’m happy, Mr. Biv. And my name isn’t Grindskeleton — it’s Mas K. Noonka.”
“Whatever, GS.”
And so the deliltification of Mr. Biv was accomplished, with a modicum of fanfare and little in the way of recognition from either the medical or the musical community.