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"These is worrysome times, boy. Worrysome times."
The voice of Ole Doc Potter lazily sliced through the thick haze of a Southern Georgia afternoon. 'Twas the kind of afternoon one would try to forget come wintertime, because it represented all that was bad about the oft-revered summer months. Indeed, this was not an afternoon for pickin' berries, or for sittin' in the shade sippin' a long cold glass of Ma's lemonade. 'Twas not an afternoon for childhood schemes.. or for ladies of any kind. The women of the county had long retired to their sitting rooms, their cool bedchambers and their large, lavishly painted fans.
'Twas instead, a day for tryin' to think of other things. Things that begot conversation; but not very stimulating conversation. No talk of the war. No talk of the summer of '42 and Miss Nellie Sinders who always had a smile and could put any man on his knees. No talk of anything cool or refreshing, either. Pinin' for a chill wind was shameful. No man did it. No man thought, either, to evade the heat by dressing sensibly. Things like that weren't done in those days.
Creakin' back and forth, back and forth, Ole Doc Potter momentarily considered going in to the house, off the dilapidated white-flecked porch he hadn't got 'round to repaintin'. His rockin' chair moved in a careless rhythm, a soft accompaniment to the steady whittling of the boy seated on the floor next to him.
"Worrysome times, indeed." Ole Doc Potter repeated. Wasn't like he was in any hurry to elaborate. He'd likely say it 2 or 3 more times yet.
"Sure are, sir." The boy agreed, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
Ole Doc Potter frowned down at the boy, with his spectacles, cover-alls and tattered shoes. Sittin' on the floor like a child, whitting what looked like a bear out of a stick.
Still, ain't no use in complainin'. No one minded the boy's immaturity, and many of the ladies even found it endearing. Besides, the boy was one of the few in the town who could read, write and use a printin' press.
Why, when the heat wasn't seepin' into everyone's brains and slowly roastin' 'em to a crisp, Ole Doc Potter was awful proud of the boy he'd adopted. Now he seemed like a nuisance, hangin' on everybody an' whistlin' like a damn fool, but he very often deserved the nickname "Real Aw-fun Dog-goned Accurate'n Right", or Radar for short. Ole Doc never thought it made too much sense, but that was the South for you.
"Worrysome times." He repeated once more.
Creak, creak, went his chair.
"Why do you say that, sir?" Radar asked. Never called Ole Doc "Pa".
Creak, creak.
"What'n the name of Utcher Skillcat do ya mean, son? What do ya see that ain't troublesome? Yankees an' Rebs s'pposed t'be all friendsome now. S'pposed t' sit 'round the porch with the Yankees, sharin' our brandy an' women."
"Ah, sir."
"Don't git me wrong, boy. This war took many of our fine young boys. I seen more blood'n I ever seen afore. I'm pleased as punch it's o'er. But I'm an old man, set in my ways. This wa'nt no war of 1812, and things is changin' fer the worse. Time'll come a man can't even spit t'bacco without hearin' some fancy doctor from New Inglun preachin' bout black lungs."
"Gosh, sir. That's awful pretty. You ought to consider writing for the newspaper."
"Peddlin' Penguins, boy." Ole Doc spat.
Creak, creak.
"Up the road." Radar said suddenly.
Ole Doc turned his head and frowned. "I don't see nothin, boy."
"Carriage."
The older man sighed. That boy always did have a way of tellin' when comp'ny was comin. "Now who in hell would be comin' to call on a day like this?"
"Possible it's a new doctor comin' to work for..."
"What'd you say, boy?!" Ole Doc exclaimed, whippin' around to gape at the boy. Despite the fact that Radar had said "possible", Ole Doc was well aware of the fact that he only ever said "possible" out of modesty. Whoever he said was comin' was comin'. Never failed.
"A new doctor comin'."
"I didn't order no doctor!! We already got the largest concentration of medicine men in the entire country right here in Stellian, Georgia! What'n tarnation we need one more fer?!"
"Well, sir... I thought you wanted someone to replace... Oh my sir.. are you telling me that that comment about needing another doctor was..."
"Sarcasm!! It was sarcasm, boy!! Good lord, tell me you ain't serious!"
"But sir.. with Army Man Burns locked in the closet.."
"Shhh, quiet down boy!! Army Man Burns is in the HOSPITAL, boy. THE HOSPITAL."
"Sorry, sir. With Army Man Burns in the Hospital, we are short one doctor. And after all... wasn't it your goal to make Ole Doc Potter's Medicine Shack, 4077 Blake Boulevard the best care... uh.. anywhere?"
"Boy, stop speakin' in limericks!! This is serious! Now if you're truthful about that doctor a-comin', we're gonna need to get our rears in gear an' put on a good appearance!"
"Yes, sir!" Radar exclaimed, jumping to his feet and sweeping the wood shavings off the porch. A moment later, he disappeared into the house and reappeared with a large, painted piece of wood that read "Medicine And Sure-fire Help (M*A*S*H) 4077". He happily ran into the yard and held it up as the carriage came put-putting into view.
"What in tarnation you thinkin', boy?" Ole Doc muttered, beginning the long and arduous tribulation of getting out of his chair. "Askin' fer a new doctor."
"They say he's very good, sir. Never once set a surgery tent on fire."
"Now that's just exaggeratin', boy. Everyone sets those con-sarned things afire."
"He's very well educated, sir. Oh boy sir, here comes the carriage."
"Well hold the blasted sign up!!" Ole Doc exclaimed, jumping a bit. It almost seemed that the heat melted away in the excitement of the moment.
Admittedly, the prospect of a new doctor to replace Burns (at least until the crazy coot broke through the closet door) was rather exhilarating. At the very least, it was possible that he might have some knowledge to contribute to the practice.. and as superfluous as he was in the post-war quiet, maybe he'd have some interestin' stories to tell. Or some good whiskey n' soda crackers.
"Mmmmm, boy. Keep the sign up!!"
"Yes sir. Oh boy, sir, it's stopping!"
As Radar stated the obvious, the two of them got a great view of the carriage. Truly a breathtaking spectacle, it was. Not a trace of hog parts had been used in its uppity, pretentious construction. The driver was a sweaty, half-dead man wearing a blatantly Yankee-style top hat and a black tuxedo. The horses were pure white under all the Southern dust, and the disturbingly pristine metal passenger area was topped with a red cover of some sort.
"My gosh, sir. This doctor must be really important to be travelling like this! I wonder if it's the right person! Maybe they didn't send a doctor at all.. What if I wasn't specific enough?!"
"Quiet, boy. I betcha he's got peanuts in that luggage! Who cares if he's a doctor or not, 2 days with us and he'll be a natural."
"You'd risk the life of a patient for peanuts?" Radar inquired somberly, but Ole Doc didn't seem to hear him.
The carriage came to a complete stop, and an air of wonder and anticipation surrounded the entire area. Considering the heat and the mystery of the situation, Ole Doc and Radar assumed the passenger would give then a good minute or so of wondering before he concluded the excitement with his appearance. It only seemed proper to dramatize the situation beyond what it ordinarily deserved.
So, a minute or so went by, and anticipation was thick in the air.
And then, another minute.
And another one.
Someone coughed rather loudly in the distance.
"Gosh, maybe I'm not holding the sign high enough.." Radar said quietly.
"You're holdin' it up plenty high!" Ole Doc snapped. "What in tarnation is goin' on here?! Is someone dead in there?!"
"Oh my, sir. I hope not! A dead doctor won't do us any good!"
"Well, he'd make some good company for Burns, but other than that I have't agree."
Silence.
And suddenly, the driver twitched, looked about him and begin speaking in gibberish.
"We're here, are we sir?! Where is it we were going again!? Oh goodness sir, this isn't Boston!! I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere! Please don't forgive me sir! Oh boy is it hot! Nay! Nay! Whoa, boy!!"
"My god, man, what is the matter with you?!" A highly cultured voice interrupted the rambling. "Have you gone completely mad?!"
Ole Doc and Radar looked at each other in confusion. The voice that came after the driver's was clearly that of the passenger. And he didn't sound any too Southern.
"Golly gee whiz sir! Sure isn't hot, is it? Who is it I'm speaking to? The voice of the dead? Have you cured enough back there, sir? Stick a fork in you, bet you're done, aren't you?" The raving man erupted into hysterical laughter.
"You insolent fool! Get up and open this door!"
Radar slowly lowered the sign, scratching his head. "This is sure weird."
"You need some help there, with whom?!" The driver screamed in the direction of the house.
"OPEN THIS DOOR!!!" The passenger replied, careful emphasis on every furious syllable. From where Radar and Ole Doc were standing, they could see a hand wielding a black cane snap out of the window. The hand randomly flailed about, occasionally making contact with the back of the driver's head.
"SIR! QUICK, GET DOWN! THE CROWS ARE BACK! I'LL GET THE RIFLE!!!" The driver yelled, jumping down off the seat and landing in a heap as one final swing connected with his ear and unexpectedly knocked him unconscious.
Silence. Then, a careful unlatching of the carriage door.
"Oh boy!" Radar cried, raising the sign back up giddily.
Ole Doc frowned suspiciously. For bein' just a doctor, this man sure caused a lot of ruckus. And unless he'd misheard, that was a very yankee-soundin' accent.
"Yankees ain't got no place at the M*A*S*H 4077th." He murmured, eyes narrow.
"What, sir?!" Radar cried, smiling widely.
"Didn't say nothin, boy. Hello there, stranger! We help you with somethin'?"
The passenger carefully stepped out of the carriage, narrowly missing stepping on the driver's head. He frowned and then looked up at the house and the two men standing in its yard.
Again, silence. A heavy silence that filled the entire yard. The man who emerged from the carriage looked pensively at his surroundings, inner ponderings filling his mind.
This had to be the wrong place. It absolutely had to be. Surely this barely-standing structure of splintered wood and its' cro-magnon inhabitants was not the prestigious M*A*S*H 4077th that filled all the Boston medical journals with tales of its incredible feats. Surely this was not the location that he had spent over a year bargaining with his superiors just to get a glimpse of.
It was not possible.