The Sad Fate of Wilbur Soddings

[6 word request: Joey Bosa Tricked Into Body Swap]

Every thunk of the old grandfather clock behind Wilbur made his spine tingle. “I’m sorry,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “Dr. Southern, is there any way you could either silence that clock or move it where I can see it?”

Dr. Southern slowly unrolled a peppermint. “If the clock were in your eyeline, you’d only be focused on how much time is left. Think of the ticking as a focusing point. Let it guide you like a mantra.”

Wilbur took a deep breath and went to his happy place: beach; margaritias; Daisy Romaneski, his favorite barista at the coffee shop near his house, giving him a backrub. Still, every loud TICK seemed to knock his heart off its rhythm. He decided to continue anyway: “So aside from all the dreams and everything, last week--you won’t fucking believe this, doc--I signed the wrong name when I was signing something.”

Dr. Southern popped the peppermint in his mouth. Wilbur heard it clack against his teeth. He slurped loudly on it. Why was it so silent in this damned office? Every sound was like auditory torture.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what name I signed?” Wilbur said after a few seconds passed.

“I’m more interested in when you signed it. What were you signing?” Dr. Southern said. He grabbed his stylus and his tablet and prepared to jot a note.

“I was signing dad’s paperwork at his new home. I handed the guy back the contract and walked away. I was out the door when he called me to come back and fix it.” Wilbur stared at his right hand, which had begun twitching against his will. They said things like that would happen after his back surgery but it had been three months. He was tired of walking with a cane, popping pain pills just to get through the day and dealing with random twitches and spasms. It felt like his body wasn’t his own.

“So,” said Dr. Southern, gently setting his tablet on the table and and leaning forward, “I’m going to say something and you’re going to say your usual thing--’Typical therapist response, doc!’--so I want to circumvent that line of thinking before it happens. Remember, I’m the professional here, okay? And I don’t take what you say lightly, nor do I take your situation lightly. So when I offer you my perspective, you can dismiss it or you can respect it. Either way is fine with me, but let’s think for what will lead to better progress for you, shall we?”

Wilbur stared at Dr. Southern for a moment, looking at his chiseled jaw, his bright blue eyes, his salt-and-pepper hair that only made him look sexier. He filled out his shirt and tie like an amateur bodybuilder. It was hard to listen to anything this pretty boy had to say. He looked barely 30 but spoke with the solemn tone of a man in his seventies.

“Fine,” Wilbur said, gently holding his wiggling right hand down with his left. “What do you have, doc?”

*

Wilbur shot straight up in his seat, gasping for breath. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. He shivered. Was he sick?

The TV was on, and he had knocked his beer over. The darkened spot on the carpet had already started to stink. With a sigh he gazed around the couch for his cane. He must have kicked it away as he slept. He stretched his leg to reach it and dragged it back toward him.

His legs were upsetting to look at. Why is that? He wondered. They were the same legs he saw every day, threaded with blue varicose veins and bulbous knees that knocked against each other when he walked. He had a tattoo of a phoenix on his calf that was starting to deflate as his skin sagged. Why did it feel so wrong to look at his body?

He had the dream again: in cleats, tearing across a football field, moving at runaway train speed that felt so natural. Wilbur rubbed his eyes and did as his therapist told him: “I never made the football team,” he said to himself. “I got cut my sophomore year. Coach said I was too slow, too weak.”

Wilbur wobbled to his feet as more images from the dream came into focus: hurtling full tilt at a 300 poiund mountain of a man, knowing he was going to level him with brute force. That confidence felt natural--feeling capable in a strong body. Wilbur reached down and jiggled his gut, examined his thin flabby arms. What the hell were these dreams all about?

Leaning on his cane, he headed toward the kitchen to grab paper towels. Doc would freak if he knew he was drinking on these pain pills, but at the end of the day, still crippled by back surgery, unable to work, how was he supposed to feel alive?

Halfway back, he got another headache. He grabbed his cane with both hands and huddled down until it was over. More flashes, unfamiliar images--a brother? A father who loved them? No, these people were figments, like doc said. He was trying to invent a more comfortable reality for himself. His brother’s name was… Nick? No, he didn’t have a brother. And his father had never said a kind thing to him in his life. Now his father was rotting away in the retirement home Wilbur had put him in with the settlement he got from the accident. Dad would get taken care of there, he knew, in a way he couldn’t himself.

But that wasn’t his dad… was it?

He felt nauseous and looked around desperately for a place to get off his feet. The sofa was too far; he let himself sink to the floor where he rolled around as more visions flashed in his head. College… fuck, he never went to college… star athlete in high school? Whose memories were these? He spent high school drinking and shoplifting.

No, he thought. He looked around his house in a panic. This wasn’t his house! He couldn’t even remember his own name… He fumbled around for his phone. He had to call Dr. Southern. His name was… Wilbur?

“My name’s Joey,” he said aloud in a voice that seemed unfamiliar. Fuck, he thought. The headaches were gone; he felt a mental clarity he hadn’t had in months! He took a look at his cane and tossed it at the wall, disappointed in its low arc and the little force with which it hit the wall. “Shit,” he said. “I’m weak as fuck…”

The body he looked down at made him want to throw up again. He patted himself, shocked to feel soft, saggy fleshing, joints that screamed with every movement, and limbs that were nearly devoid of muscle. It took everything out of him to crawl across the carpet to his cane. He lay there, out of breath, before hauling himself up on unsteady legs.

“Fuck,” he said, glancing around at the shithole he lived in. Who the fuck’s house was this? How did he even get here?

I live here. I grew up here. I inherited it when dad went senile.

But that wasn’t true. His dad was from New Hampshire--he played in the NFL for chrissakes! He wasn’t some shriveled old wretch in an old folks’ home. And this wasn’t Joey’s house--he lived in LA. He knew that. He could see his house clearly in his mind; he knew his address.

On the coffee table, next to the empty beer bottle and his open bottle of pain pills, was a folded sheet of pink paper. Dr. Southern gave that to him today. He told him to read it every time the delusions started.

Joey unfolded it carefully.

YOU ARE WILBUR SODDINGS. No matter where your mind escapes to, this is your reality.

He stopped for a moment. The name “Wilbur” was a stranger’s name. He grabbed his phone. Was this a delusion? Dr. Southern told him to call him if the dreams started up again.

He leaned forward and stared at his reflection in the glass coffee table. His scraggly beard, his greying hair, the slightly lazy left eye… He touched it to make sure it was real; that was undeniable. His face was the one in the reflection. But it wasn’t his face…

His gut went cold when he remembered where he saw it before: that fucker in the hospital. He went to see that fan of his who got in a nasty car accident. The guy who got t-boned by the drunk driver! He listened to the guy’s sad story as a reporter from ESPN snapped photos of the heartfelt meeting.

It was a PR move--but somewhere between then and now, he had woken up in this guy’s bed. What was his name? “Wilbur,” he said as he read the note. It didn’t even sound like his name.

“I’m not delusional,” he said aloud in the stranger’s voice, but now he was wondering. How could he remember his NFL career if he was sitting there, pudgy and in pain in a house that stunk of beer? Dr. Southern said it was his brain trying to escape. He said that the human brain was a fantastic organ, that it coped with trauma in a number of ways.

“I’m Joey Bosa,” he reassured himself again, although it sounded ridiculous. How fucking crazy had all this made him? Could he really be this fucked up in the head? He looked back at his reflection, then at his phone. Dr. Southern said to call.

“If this is a delusion,” he said as he gingerly lifted his phone, “then how could I know Joey Bosa’s cell phone number?” It took him three tries to remember the passcode to open his phone, but he tapped in the number without a second thought.

He sat there, frozen as the phone rang. If it was a wrong number or some random person, he would know he was nuts.

His heart dropped as a man answered the phone: “What’s up? Who’s this?”

“Is… is this Joey?” he asked, unsure if he wanted to be right or wrong. He was terrified of both results.

“Yeah, who the fuck is this?” said the voice. That was his voice! He covered his mouth to hide a sob as he looked down at his haggard face in the glass.

“I’m you!” he finally said.

*

He woke up to the throbbing in his back. He needed pills. He couldn’t be falling asleep on the couch anymore, the doctor said.

Fuck! No! He was Joey Bosa! This wasn’t his body. He needed a cane to get around, he knew, but he didn’t need pain pills. He could tough it out.

The clock said it was past noon. He couldn’t believe he’d slept so fucking late. He burped up stale beer and reviled at the smell. He needed food. His phone rang. It took him a few rings to cane his way to it. It was Dr. Southern.

“Hello?” he said as he answered, unsure why he didn’t just let it go to voicemail.

“How are you feeling today?” the doctor asked.

Joey leaned against his cane and felt the beginnings of a hangover setting in.

“I’m… just waking up,” he said.

“Are you drinking?” the doctor said, angry. “Both your surgeon and I said you can’t be drinking on pain medication! With everything else going on, the last thing you need is--”

“I’m not Wilbur,” he said definitively. Fuck the doctor if he didn’t believe him; he had to say it out loud.

“Oh goodness,” Dr. Southern sighed. “Wilbur, I can be there in about thirty minutes. Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything, understood?”

Wilbur shook his head, despite the fact that the doctor couldn’t see it. “You’re not my fucking doctor. I don’t care if you believe me. I called Joey Bosa last night. I knew the number. If this is a delusion, how do you explain that?”

“But I thought you WERE Joey Bosa? How could you call him if you’re him?”

Joey tried to shake off the fog in his brain. He didn’t have an answer; all he knew was he wasn’t crazy.

“Does Joey Bosa drink himself into a stupor while taking pain medication?”

“In college I did,” Joey said, confidently. “You bet your ass I did. And a few years ago after my finger surgery--just one time, but I got real fucked up on champagne and pills. Spent a whole day puking.” It felt good to give voice to these crystal clear memories. “Check the damned facts! How could I know that I had finger surgery? I mean, I went to Ohio State. I was drafted in the first fucking round to the Chargers! Look it up, doc!” The hand holding the cane shook and he felt his center of gravity shift. As he flailed, trying to stay standing, he jerked the cane off the ground and shoved it down into the center of his coffee table. He grabbed his chest as he gasped for air, shocked by the sound of the glass shattering. He dropped the phone.

“Wilbur?” said the voice on the other end. “Wilbur, stay put. I’m on my way.”

Joey grabbed the back of his couch to steady himself, then looked down at the shattered table. That was Dad’s table. He was going to be pissed--if he even recognized his own son when he went to visit.

“Fuck!” he said, wincing as he cut his thumb fishing his cane from the glass. “I’m not fucking Wilbur! I’m Joey fucking Bosa!”

The doorbell rang. It couldn’t be the doctor--no way could he have gotten there so quickly. He considered just waiting until the person left, but if they heard the glass shattering... Joey finally hobbled to the door, sucking blood from his thumb. He couldn’t see who it was, the bright daylight leaving the large-framed man in silhouette as Joey’s eyes strained to adjust. But he recognized the man’s cologne immediately.

It was his cologne. And as his eyes adjusted, he saw his own face. It was Joey Bosa--HIS body--on his doorstep here in Indiana!

“Most people don’t come to visit their stalkers,” the massive athlete said, crossing his arms. “But I know you’ve been through a lot so I figured I’d cut you some slack.”

Joey’s jaw fell open. He couldn’t believe how HUGE this guy was--how small and feeble he felt in comparison. “I… I…” He couldn’t put two words together that weren’t drenched in confusion and fear.

“Are you okay?” the big man asked. “Fuck, you’re bleeding!” He glanced into the living room at the shattered glass. “Jesus, what’s going on in here?”

“I’m fine,” Joey said, his voice a feeble whimper. “I’m fucking fine…”

The big athlete reached his hands under Joey’s armpits and lifted him effortlessly. The cane clattered against the floor. “No, you’re not fine,” the big man said, carrying Joey like he was nothing. “Fuck, do we need to get you to a hospital?”

*

Dr. Southern glared as soon as he saw the NFL player in Wilbur Soddings’ living room.

“I’m his therapist,” he said as the big man looked around at the room in disgust and pity. “My name’s Wayne Southern, and honestly… I don’t know how to apologize for all of this. He’s… fixated on you. Ever since you met.”

“I’m right fucking here,” Joey said, staring at the ground miserably. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room!”

“He’s been through a lot,” the doctor continued to explain.

“Honestly, it’s weird, all of it,” the big man said, “but it’s fine. Honestly, the things he said on the phone last night really broke my heart. I had some free time and there was an easy flight, so I figured… since I sort of caused this situation, I’d swing out here and take care of it.”

“You didn’t cause this,” the doctor said. “Wilbur’s going through a lot right now. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been, I dunno… the Rock, or someone. Who knows.” Doctor Southern walked over to the couch where the broken man clutched his cane pitifully. “Now you see, HE’S Joey Bosa. You understand that, right Wilbur? You can’t be Joey Bosa if that’s him, correct?”

He cradled his cane for a moment before saying the theory he’d had on his mind since the big man had stopped by. “No,” he said. “He’s Wilbur. He switched us somehow…”

The massive athlete walked across the floor, every heavy footfall making the broken shards of the coffee table tinkle and crunch. He knelt by the couch and put a big hand on the crippled man’s shoulder.

“Look, buddy, I know you may think I have the perfect life, the perfect body, but trust me, it’s not easy being me either. I bet if you walked a day in my shoes, you’d be desperate to get back to this whole life you have here.” He looked around the apartment. “How about I hire a cleaning service for this old place? We’ll get you a brand new coffee table and everything. Least I can do for my biggest fan.”

Joey clutched his cane and swung it feebly at the big athlete, who easily dodged the attack. “Don’t fucking patronize me! You fucking switched us somehow and I’m going to get my life back! I fucking swear it!”

“Thank you for stopping by,” Doctor Southern said as he walked the gigantic athlete to the door. “You’ve been more than generous and so understanding. Don’t worry about Wilbur. He’s been through a lot and he can fight this, I assure you.”

At the door, the massive man turned around and smiled. “Sorry to tell you you’re not me,” he said. “From where I stand, you look like Wilbur Soddings, and it looks like you’re going to have to live the rest of your life as him, like it or not.”

Doctor Southern returned and fetched a broom and dustpan from the kitchen. “So I called your doctor on the way over,” he said as swept the glass into a small shimmering pile. “We’re going to get you on some meds to treat these delusions, and if you’re willing, I’d like to try some hypno-therapy.”

Joey shook his head. He was 25 years old--his birthday was July 11th, he knew it!--and he was tired of people acting like he was a crippled 50 year old man. “Get the fuck out.”

“Honestly, Wilbur, all of this is because of your guilt about institutionalizing your father. We can talk this out, truly. There’s a happy future ahead of you, I assure you.”

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” Joey hurled the cane. It struck the floor six feet away from the doctor, but the point was made.

“Please be safe,” Doctor Southern said from the door before he left. “I’ll give you today, but tomorrow let’s get a game plan together to get you well.”

Joey gtrabbed a beer bottle from the floor and hurled it at the door as it closed. It richocheted off, striking the framed painting of his grandfather that hung near the coatrack. It swung back and forth before crashing to the ground.

“What the fuck?” Joey said as he saw the discolored square of wall behind where the painting hung. He crawled to his cane, then used the wall to brace himself as he hobbled along.

The wallpaper was torn neatly, like it had been cut, in three straight lines like three sides of a square. He grabbed the flap of wallpaper and folded it up to find a dusty crevice. He heard mice squealing as light filtered in, but there was a wooden box inside.

As he pulled the filthy box from the cobweb-strewn crevice, he felt a flash of memory. Did he know about this secret hiding place? Joey Bosa didn’t know shit about this old house, but did Wilbur Soddings? His head ached as he tried to recall, like the memory was buried underneath pain. He felt his nose bleed as he tried to think his way through it.

He opened the box to find a folden scrap of yellowed parchment and an amulet. He didn’t recognize the language scrawled across the paper or the back of the amulet, but something told him he’d seen these things before.

*

Something about the big Italian nurse taking care of Ezra Soddings made Joey feel uneasy. He noted the name “Dominic” on his nametag; maybe he could file some complaints with management about that fucker. Whether or not Joey was Ezra’s son or not, he still didn’t want the guy to be mistreated. Something about Dominic’s cocky demeanor and the mocking tone he used when addressing the old man made Joey want to punch the guy in the balls.

“When I’m me again,” he thought, “maybe I’ll come back and fold this fucker in half.” At the moment there was nothing he could do: the hairy man towered over him and was packed with muscles.  I bet this fucker has never played a down of football in his life, Joey thought to himself as the nurse wheeled Ezra out of the bathroom.

“Your old man’s all clean now, aren’t ya Mr. Soddings?” Dominic said with a laugh that made Joey uneasy, like Ezra was the butt of Dominic’s joke.

“Thanks, we’d like some privacy,” Joey said, holding the box in his hands close to him.

“Would you now?” Dominic said, chomping on his gum. “Well, I guess I’d better just give it to you. Wouldn’t want to make you mad, now, would I?” He eyed Joey’s much smaller frame with an eyebrow raised. When Joey was 6’5” and 275 pounds, maybe he would stop by again to show this arrogant roided-out freak what a real man’s body could do.

When the door swung shut, Joey looked at the feeble old guy. His chest tightened--though his memories as Wilbur were fading, he still remembered being this guy’s son. Sure, the old man slapped him around a lot when he was growing up, berated him throughout his 20s and wore a permanent frown nearly every day of his life, but Joey still felt a whisper of a familial connection to him. He tried to imagine his own dad like this--it would never happen; his dad was a virile beast, even now--but it made his heart heavy.

“Look, Mr. Soddings…” It felt strange to say that, the word “dad” pulsing in his chest, but this man was not his father. “I have to ask you something.” Joey pulled the small box from his backpack. “Do you recognize this? I think it used to be your father’s.” He opened it to reveal the medallion, tracing his fingers along the strange words carved into it.

Ezra looked into the box, then leaned forward and spit into his own lap. Joey reached up and wiped a tendril of drool from Ezra’s bottom lip.

“I think your son--Wilbur…” Joey shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to present these facts to the shriveled man who stared off into the distance. “...me, I used this to… do something. But I was wondering if you knew more about how it worked.”

“You are not my son,” Ezra croaked, looking away.

Joey sighed. Fuck it, he thought. “You’re right. I’m not. Your son switched my body with his. And now he’s living my life and I want to set things back the way it’s supposed to be.” Trying to recall what the medallion was still gave him a horrible migraine, but the flashes were starting to get longer and more coherent. He could just barely remember, like he had dreamt it, plotting to transfer his soul into the NFL player’s body. He had worn the amulet when he was in the hospital, when Joey had gone to visit him. He had something drawn on the hand that shook Joey’s…

“You don’t remember this at all?” Joey said. “It’s okay if you can’t. The more I try, the more it’s coming back to me. I might be able to do it on my own…”

The door flung open. Doctor Southern walked in, hands on his hips. “Please tell me you’re not confusing your father with more of your delusions,” he said. “Ezra’s doctor is a good friend of mine. He called you as soon as you showed up. I know this is the last place you ever wanted to be, so I’m assuming your mental state is just as agitated as it’s been before.”

Joey shook his head. “Look, buddy, you’re not my fucking doctor and you’re not my boss either. Why don’t you take a hike and--”

Doc Southern held up a small pen-light. It blinked rapidly, but as he waved it back and forth, the light seemed to drag, forming lines. He bounced it up and down and the light formed peaks and valleys. Joey couldn’t help but focus on the designs the doctor was drawing. He felt his grip on the box loosening.

“Hand the box to me, Wilbur,” he said.

“I’m… not…” But he still raised the box in the doctor’s direction. Doc Southern snatched it from his hands.

“Now, let’s take care of this right away. Wilbur, have a seat, and focus only on my light, okay?”

Joey nodded slowly, his will to fight dying as the light started to form spirals and fractals. The doctor was speaking in some sort of other language, now. Joey felt woozy, like he was slowly sliding down a hole. The doctor handed a pen to Ezra, who started to draw something on his hand.

“Feel good, Wilbur?” the doctor asked. “Nice and relaxed.”

“I’m… not....” He never finished his sentence. He felt Ezra’s cold hand grab his arm and he felt himself falling into blackness.

*

Joey smelled like piss and baby powder. He looked down at an ugly blue robe, at a gob of spit across the front of it. He looked at his gnarled hands, deep blue veins standing out on the nearly translucent skin. He looked up and saw a heavyset man with a cane in his hand sitting on his bed--no, not his bed! The old man’s bed.

“What… did you…” Just speaking took all the energy Joey had. He stared at Doc Southern, who grinned at him and clapped and hand on Wilbur’s shoulder--my son, Joey thought… No, not my son! Doc Southern produced a small mirror and held it in front of Joey’s face. He moaned at the toothless visage that glared back at him.

Doc Southern turned to Wilbur and helped him to his feet. “So, we’ll leave him in his body for as long as it lasts. Probably won’t be much longer; his doctor owes me some favors. It wasn’t the safest move to leave the medallion hidden where he could find it, especially since his old memories were coming back, but it all worked out in the end. How did the transfer go? Feeling okay?”

The man who looked like Wilbur regarded himself and grinned. “It’s not what I would have wanted,” he said in Joey’s voice--no, not Joey’s voice! Just the voice he’d heard from his own throat the past few months, “But it’ll do for now. A nice temporary measure at least.”

“Don’t worry,” Doc Southern said, “we’ll get you into the body of that beefy nurse of yours soon enough, the same way we got me into this hot little body. Let’s see if we can’t get Wilbur institutionalized first, and we’ll leave your boy Dominic crippled in a padded room. Think you’re up to faking some psyhotic episodes?”

“Wilbur” looked down at Joey and shrugged. “Sorry, buddy. No way was I going to rot in that body much longer.” He turned away. “Feels amazing to have my wits back about me though.”

Joey could barely think through the fog in his head. All of this was wrong, but as the door slammed shut, he found himself alone in his room. He felt so lost… he couldn’t even remember his own name.