Sciuto - Sofia

I woke up one morning with a stinking pain in my neck, and when I touched the area, I felt a bunch of lumps. This seemed odd, but I figured Id probably slept funny. So I changed into my running gear, and went for my early morning seven-mile run through the lovely, tree-lined streets of Studio City, hoping to work out the kinks. When I returned home, the pain had backed off a little, and I didnt think about it until five hours later. I was sitting at my desk, in my book-lined study, writing the opening scene to a new screenplay, when I suddenly felt like Id been hit in the neck with a poison dart. When I felt the area again, the lumps felt bigger and the pain was more intense. Naturally, I did the first thing any sensible person would do: I went to my refrigerator and grabbed an ice-cold Budweiser. That first liquid anesthetic was followed by several more until I forgot all about the pain. Beer, beautiful beer, had been a surefire remedy ever since I was a teenager, and it performed its usual magic.

I stopped writing for the day. It was a golden rule of mine never to write with a buzz, despite any urge I might feel to finish a scene or work out an idea. If the idea was that good it would wait until the next day when I sat down at my desk sober. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, downed a few more beers, and went out to sit by the pool. It was a beautiful, sunny southern California day, and after a few minutes of lounging, I fell asleep. I woke up hours later, as the sun was descending through the trees on my property. The twilight hour was and is my favorite part of day, and to celebrate I walked into the kitchen and grabbed some more liquid reinforcement. Armed with three more ice-cold Budweisers, I sat back down in the chair by the pool and marveled at the relaxed beauty all around me. When the pain suddenly returned, I added a few shots of Jack Daniels Old No. 7 to the mix, and after a while everything went back to normal.

The lights around my pool popped on, signaling the end of a lovely evening. I walked back into the house, hit the remote control that turned on a looping playlist of Beatles hits, and walked into the kitchen singing along to Penny Lane. I made myself two more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, had a few more beers, lay down on my living room couch and fell asleep to something from A Hard Days Night. I woke up at around two in the morning with the pain back in full force and the lyrics to Help! in my ears. I sleepily registered the irony as I clicked off the music, took two aspirin, and climbed into my bed, where I fell right back out as if Id never woken up.

At six in morning I got up, put on my running gear, and went for my daily seven-mile run. I returned home, ate my usual breakfast of cereal with chocolate milk, took a shower, and sat down at my desk to start working on the screenplay. I could afford to be pretty relaxed about this one. It was a sequel to my last screenplay, and like the last one, it would be directed by my longtime friend and collaborator, Nick Jones. Like six out of seven of our other collaborations, that movie had been a box office smash, and I couldnt think of any reason why this one would be any less popular. Its amazing how much success one can achieve in the movie business just by sticking with whatever formula made you a fortune in the first place. All you need to do is change the locations, re-name the characters, throw in a few adorable cats and a litter of puppies, and add a buxom woman in a bikini. Then youll have a nice backdrop for your swashbuckling male lead to escape certain death, win over the babe, and prove his sweetness with the cats and the puppies. Or something like that.

Just as I was getting my groove on, reworking one-liners that always got a laugh or a tear, the pain came back with such intensity that I grabbed my neck and spat out a stream of obscenities that I wont repeat here. I looked at the clock on my computer, and after thoughtful consideration, I decided that it was too early to go to my usual liquid remedies. So I did the next best thing: I called my doctors office. His lovely receptionist picked up on the first ring. At first she didnt recognize my voice, and she tried to tell me that the next available opening wasnt for another week. After I revealed who I was, she miraculously found an opening, but only if I could get there within two hours. Amazing how doors open when youve had a string of hits. It didnt hurt that the receptionist was an aspiring actress who fit all the qualifications required of the lead actress in the script I was writing. Also helpful was the fact that Id promised to get her an audition with the director when casting started. I thanked her profusely and hopped in my car, stopping on my way to the office to pick her up a box of expensive chocolates.

When I entered the doctors office I was greeted with a wink and smile from the receptionist, Caroline. I handed her the box of chocolates, and she smiled broadly, saying, Oh how very thoughtful. You shouldnt have, in a tone that clearly indicated that she was glad I did. There was no doubt about it: She was hot. But I had a rule never to date or sleep with any girl that could be mistaken for my daughter. This limited my possibilities, but one had to draw the line somewhere, and I was very good at drawing lines so good that at the age of forty-three I hadnt been on a date or slept with a woman for nearly twenty years. No one believes that, but I would swear on a stack of Bibles that its true.

After checking in, I was escorted by a different nurse to the examination room and told to change into one of those god-awful gowns that give the whole world a look at your hairy butt. I did as she said, sat up on the examining table, and allowed her to take my blood pressure and my temperature, and ask a bunch of questions about the medications I was on, and whether I had ever had any thoughts of suicide.

Of course, I have, I said. Im a writer. The thought of killing myself is pretty much a constant refrain. But I have the perfect remedy: beer and more beer.

She tried to smile but it just wasnt in her nature, unlike the receptionist, who kept passing by the open door, smiling and winking at me. Besides, what do thoughts of suicide have to do with the nagging pain in my neck?

Its a new law. As medical professionals we are required to ask such questions.

Is that so, I replied, as she looked up from the iPad she was using to take down my information. She just looked at me and said, The doctor will be in shortly, then closed the door and left me in the room.

After about five minutes, Dr. Joshua Souter entered the room. He had the same distracted and vaguely displeased look he always wore, and I could have sworn that the brown mole next to his nose had doubled in size since my last visit. He looked surprised to see me. Is it already a year since your last physical?

No! Im here for something else, I said, but he was already staring down at his iPad and may or may not have heard me. Dr. Souter had been my primary care physician since I arrived in Los Angeles over twenty years ago, and the years hadnt been kind to him. He seemed to be aging at about twice the normal rate. Over the last couple of years, he also seemed to be slipping a bit, mentally. If I didnt know better, I might think it was the onset of early Alzheimers. I thought about switching doctors, but I was loyal to a fault, so I stayed on as his patient.

He put his stethoscope up against my chest and back and told me to take deep breaths. I did as he said, but I made it clear that I thought he was looking in the wrong place. The pain is not in my chest or around my heart, I said. Its in my neck. I pointed to the spot, but he ignored my comment and leveled me with a suspicious gaze.

I know why youre here, and all I can say is, back off. Until I perform a total and complete examination on my receptionist and have satisfied my libido, you can just stay away. You dont see me hanging around your staff and picking off the good-looking ones.