Dr. Mitts’ Balm For Unbearable Sadness

Casey Mendez examines the near-empty glass in front of him. He couldn’t remember if this was his ninth beer on his sixth night coming to this bar this week or the reverse. Catching your wife cheating on you was one thing, but then having her admit it and say that she’d rather throw six years down the drain than stop seeing him was entirely different. It was a gut punch, and the only remedy Casey had found was drowning his insides in hops.

Remnants of foam burbled as Casey downs what is left. Moments later he finds himself fumbling with his keys to his Dodge when a faint sound pierces the veil of his buzz. He looks up and sees on the other side of the gravel parking lot what looks like a horse and carriage. Not moving. Just sitting there. The sound he’d heard initially morphs into a soft tune almost like the music an ice cream man would play to attract the neighborhood kids. Casey couldn’t put his finger on it. Something about it seemed so strange yet familiar.

Casey stuffs his keys into his pocket and stumbles over to the horse and carriage as if drawn in by some magic spell. As he approaches, a tall mustachioed man in a purple top hat, suit coat, and leather breeches spots him.

“Ahhhh, hello there good sir,” the man says, bowing low for dramatic effect, “Welcome to Dr. Mitts Life-Altering Apothecary. Whatever ails you, we have a cure that’ll turn your life around!”

Casey takes stock of the man. His drunk mind couldn’t decide if he was still passed out at the bar or perhaps worse. Even in his altered state, he could always count on his natural skepticism, though.

“Are you like Willy Wonka or something?”

“Oh no! That guy is a fraud. I heard he’s in prison now for multiple human rights violations. I’m the real deal. You can bet on that,” Dr. Mitts says, giving one of these creepy smiles that reveal all of one’s teeth, “Now, tell me, sir. What problem ails you? Why have you come to seek relief from Mr. Mitts today?”

“She cheated on me…” Casey managed, slurring together some of the letters.

“Ahhh, infidelity. Yes, that can be quite a troublesome affair indeed. No pun intended.” Dr. Mitts responds, smirking softly at his intended pun, “Well, my patented balm for unbearable sadness should do. It’s simple. Sign some paperwork, take a shot, and you're done. You will wake up tomorrow feeling refreshed as ever.”

“Okkk—Hold up, this ain’t one of those things where I sign, and then there’s an ironic price that’s way worse than the thing I wanted to happen in the first place, right? What’s it called? Faustan? Faustian?”

“Oh no no no,” Dr. Mitts continues, hand on his heart as if the very thought offended him, “I’m not like that guy either. I’m pretty sure he’s in jail too. No, we pride ourselves on our simple terms.”

Dr. Mitts produces a clipboard and a series of paperwork. Casey dutifully signs over a dozen times, jots his initials in several dozen other places, and then hands it back.

“Perfect!” Dr. Mitts says, treating himself to a little skip as he is unable to contain himself. Casey watches as he rummages through the insides of his horse-drawn carriage. Finally, Dr. Mitts produces a vial full of deep purple-colored liquid.

“Like a shot,” Dr. Mitts says, handing it to Casey. He examines the vial. Inscribed in red lettering are the words, “For the broken to feel whole.” Casey doesn’t think twice, downing the red liquid.

----

Casey looks around, the hot light of the sun streaming in through the side windows of his RV. The TV plays soft and low in the background. As his eyes adjust, he notices he has made it home. The events of last night come rushing back to him. The crazy man. The carriage. The potion.

He smirks, both at the absurdity of the whole thing and the fact that his head is pounding. As he looks around some more, the sound of the TV anchor in the background crystallizes.

“We now have an update on the armed robbery last night in the West Allen area. There was at least one victim, a Lenora Mendez. The identity of the suspect is still unknown as of yet…”

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