The More You Ignore Me by Travis Nichols

pitiable selves through a dialogue that may in fact reveal more to you than my explanations and comments alone ever could.
    Such is even this lowly art!
    Now, you see, I only have to imagine my hands in conversation again, and the scene arrives.
    If I could still comment on the blog, no doubt I would simply post a transcript there, but since I am BANNED , this will be a scene solely for you, my dears!
    Note: I need not clutter the vision with excess verbal styling, but rather let it flow directly from my mind’s eye to some (as yet unfound) luminous screen.
    Of course it’s not only this Charli situation that lends itself to such writing! No, ever since this imbrogliostarted, I’ve felt as if a fiery belch were constantly about to uncork from deep in my gut. Sadly, no full fiery belch ever quite manages to spring forth, and so at night, after I wake up coughing from the stomach acid burbling up into the back of my throat, I stay awake for hours, doing “yoga,” breathing exercises, and obscure gargle remedies in my room, but nothing keeps the surge at bay for long.
    Sometimes, true, a belch of some kind does indeed uncork, but then another one reveals itself to be right where the last one had been.
    Glorious nature knows how to punish!
    Here’s a belch now—under my wishbone, in the soft solar plexus, expanding.
    Oof!
    Of course, I have been to my doctor, who prescribed the generic version of a drug featured in commercials with gray-haired men running to the bathroom in the middle of candlelit dinners with dazzling blondes.
    You’ve seen it— Ask your doctor about Briostac .
    I did ask my doctor, and I took the medicine, but it only made the fiery belches feel as if they had a ring of ice around them.
    Naturally, I told the doctor, and the result was of such interest that I’ve rendered the scene for you here as, shall we say, an appetizer?
    Yes, let’s say that.
    INT . DOCTOR ’ S OFFICE . DAY .
    [ THE DOCTOR stands with a clipboard, nodding, while I sit on the table, clothes off, a gown hanging loosely from my frame, one hand rolling forward in courtly fashion.]
    ME
    . . . the fiery belches feel, you see, as if they had a ring of ice around them.
    DOCTOR
    (nonchalant)
    Oh yeah. That’s a side effect.
    ME
    Of the Briostac?
    DOCTOR
    Yep. Or whatever it is you’re taking. Generic, right?
    [The DOCTOR gestures over at my “Saturday” clothes in a pile by the chair, under the table of insipid magazines.]
    DOCTOR
    Hey, why don’t you prop your elbows up on the table, and I’ll see if you’ve got any black gunk in your butt. Heh.
    [Despite the inappropriate strangeness of the DOCTOR ’ S laughter, I do as I’m told.]
    DOCTOR
    Such a strange feeling.
    ME
    There are worse things.
    DOCTOR
    (affronted)
    No, I mean for me. Putting a finger up there. Not cool.
    [The DOCTOR shudders and unsheathes his hand. He tosses the glove expertly into the biohazard bin. He furiously scrubs both hands in the sink. I turn over.]
    DOCTOR
    (frowning)
    Your kitty’s clean. Keep taking the medicine and we’ll send you to a specialist in a month if it doesn’t clear up.
    ME
    But the medicine makes it worse!
    [The DOCTOR nudges me on the shoulder with his left hand and nods down to his right hand, which is out for me to shake. I shake it.]
    DOCTOR
    (sliding out the door)
    All right. You have a good one!
    [I stand in the cold room with my pants off. (Humiliation!) A nurse eventually comes in to shoo me out to the payment desk where the receptionist baffles me with paperwork.]
    [ FADE TO BLACK ]
    So you see!
    My talent for revelation extends to many genres! Of course, I’ve been told my work is a bit challenging, that it would take a true auteur to fully realize it, but I shall not pander or dumb it down.
    Lest you worry about my “condition,” you should know I have it under control. I keep a digestion diary, recording everything I eat, how my stomach