Clarence the Ex-Nephrologist

Nephrology is "the branch of medical science that deals with the kidney," as according to dictionary.com.

Clarence is a former kidney doctor man. How utterly splendid! Not really. Because as wonderful and heroic and well-paying as nephrology is, it really isn't all that wonderful or heroic. Or at least for Clarence. (Well-paying, however, it was without debate...or at least for Clarence.)

Becoming more and more immersed in mild depression, Clarence waded through his world half-unconciously.

And then one day somebody died. When asked, the hospital's CEO would reply, 'No comment.' When asked, Clarence's assistant would get very angry and throw large objects. When asked, anyone who knew would invariably not answer the question. And who could really ask such a dour person, such as Clarence?

Whatever the cause, the death of this person, one of Clarence's many patients, seemed to most to be the ultimate cause of his retirement from the medical profession.

Clarence was young--almost too young, it seemed, to be such a highly prestigious doctor. He had had a large, high-class apartment that he traded for a run-down cheap little place with two rooms both approximately the size of a large paper airplane once his two-weeks after notice were over. He had previously owned a grand piano, for which he made an account on ebay exclusively. Clarence used to get his hair trimmed on Fridays, his shoes polished on Sundays, and his back massaged every Thursday afternoon. Now he let his hair grow, rarely even wore shoes, and certainly didn't pay lots of money for a back massage.

Tired and worn-out, Clarence searched for work, to no avail. It was a small city and Clarence was a rather famous person, and rumor of the death spread out far, a new-found stigma to haunt him.

But then one day, as he returned home from another day's epic, unyielding quest, there was a message on his cheap answering machine about a job offer. The potential employer in question claimed to be Clarence's cousin a-lot-removed, and had heard he was in search of a job from an old senile aunt of the "cousin's", and maybe Clarence'd met her? Her name was Agatha, as many great-aunts are, and she made pickled yams. Returning to the subject, the cousin asked if perhaps Clarence would swing by Wednesday? He didn't give an address, but said Clarence would be sure to find it if he looked really hard.

There was a click signifying the hanging up of a phone and the end of the message.

The next day Clarence went on another quest, the same old journey, the same tiresome superficial how-d'you-do. His search for employment. After failing miserably four times in as many hours, Clarence began to hesitantly pick at the strange job offer from the night before.

"Clarence?" asked a voice. The owner of the voice was no one Clarence knew, but then again most people had heard of him in this part of the state.

"Yes," he replied.

"Wonderful!" cried the stranger. "You may begin work in two hours!"