by Don Delilo
The New Yorker, August 4, 2017
This is a somewhat existential story about a New York businessman with a persistent and very annoying itch. As a piece of fiction, it works. Its insights into patients and dermatologists are amusing and instructive. If this URL does not work, it should be relatively easy to find a copy of this New Yorker.
Excerpts:
He was in the examining room describing his situation to the dermatologist as he lay flat on his back wearing a knee-length garment, open-fronted, over his boxer shorts. She was checking his ankles, shins, and thighs. She spoke absently about the pathology of the skin.
The dermatologist recited the names of soap and shampoo brands, described conditions that might arise from symptoms such as his, and he tried to memorize all this, which was difficult to manage in his state of partial undress. Do we need to be fully dressed, he thought, for our memory to function properly?
The new doctor’s name, online, in tribute, was the Itch Meister. He was short and broad with the look of a man who lives with one central obsession. The Itch Meister instilled confidence with a few short sentences, although he didn’t seem to address the patient’s remarks directly and unequivocally.
When the visit was ending, the patient put on his pants, shirt, and shoes, and the doctor wrote a couple of prescriptions.
“When you pick up the medications, you will be reading the instructions printed on the inserts but you will not follow them. They are stupid and misleading. Do not use the medications two, three, four times a day. You are hearing me say this. Once a day.”
They had a corner table in a nearly empty café. His plan was to avoid details and simply say that the itch was a livable condition but not likely to be alleviated anytime soon.