The Bacterium and the Blue Whale - Episode One
A white whale seeks professional help to overcome his blues.
by Martin Smith
There was once an old, old sperm whale whose name was Physeter, yet for some reason unfathomable to him all the sea creatures teased him and called him Moby the Milky Macrocephalic. Sure, he was a white whale. Sure, he could be a bit big-headed at times—indeed, most of the time. But Moby? Where the hell did that come from?
Over the years the teasing and name-calling grew worse. The smart-arsed younger generations even shortened his nickname to Moby Phallic.
‘Hey, Dickhead!’ they’d shout at him, followed by roars of laughter. Then the chanting began. ‘Moby’s a dickhead! Moby’s a dickhead! Moby’s a dickhead!’
‘Where’s the respect for an old bull of the sea?’ Physeter muttered. And in his despondency, his huge head dropped and his fluke slumped.
One day, Physeter, moping about the western North Pacific Ocean, came upon a large, floating sign that read: Dr Spook Opisthoproctidae. General Practitioner and Marine Psychologist. Bulk Billing. No Booking Required. An arrow pointed down to the depths of the ocean.
‘Maybe I should go and get checked out,’ Physeter said. And he took a huge breath and dived deep, deep, all the way to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, where he paused in the pitch darkness.
‘Dr Opisthoproctidae? Are you there?’ Physeter said.
Two orbs of a green luminescence suddenly lit up next to Physeter’s left eye, causing him to almost befoul the pristine ocean waters.
‘Yes,’ a crusty voice said, ‘but no need for formality. Call me Doc. How may I help you?’
‘My name’s Physeter. I saw your sign and thought I’d get a consult.’
‘Happy to oblige. So, what seems to be the problem?’
‘Well, I’ve been out of sorts for quite a while now. To be truthful, Doc, I’m feeling a little blue.’
‘Blue, you say? That’s not good for a whopper of a white whale like you. Tell me, on the palette of blue, how blue would you say you feel?’
‘Umm … well … I’d say … umm … aqua blue.’
‘Mmm … yes, yes. Interesting. And how’s your diet?’
‘Not the best. I find myself binge eating on sugar toads and junk fish most of the time.’
‘What about sex? Any dysfunction down below?’
‘More non-function. Nearly non-existent. I’m not really living up to my common name, I’m afraid. Could be worse, though. Thank God I’m not a humpless humpback whale.’
‘And your sleep?’
‘Fleeting, at best. The problem is that when I am floating vertically in the shallows, trying to have a quick nap, and only half my brain closes down, well, the other half pops, crackles and sizzles, churning away over life’s vicissitudes.’
‘And is there anything in your life that is troubling you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I just feel, like, low all the time. And lonely. No one likes me. All the sea creatures tease me and snigger at me and point behind my back. I’m the laughing stock of the Seven Seas. There also feels like there’s something from my past that’s clinging to me, and no matter what I try or what mindset I adopt, I just can’t seem to rid myself of it. The whole matter has become just one big pain in the arse that’s affecting my mental health.’
‘Well, let’s have a look at you.’
The Doc donned a mask, snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and armed himself with a probe, then disappeared from Physeter’s field of vision, leaving him in the dark.
‘Right,’ the Doc called out, ‘if you could just bend over, grit your teeth and think of the English Channel.’
Physeter obliged and waited in clenched silence as the Doc conducted his examination.
The Doc gave a sudden gasp, then called out, ‘Well, call me Ishmael, you’ve an ahab cyst.’
‘What? An abscess, Doc? Is it bad? Life-threatening?’
‘No, not an abscess. An ahab cyst. You’ve a Captain Ahab on your butt. A behemothic barnacled beauty. Tell me, have you been in contact with any whaling ships recently?’
‘Not recently. Though I vaguely remember a run-in with this obsessive-compulsive and his ship back in the 1850s.’
‘That’ll be it. He sure looks marinated. A couple of centuries in brine and he’s pickled to his bulging eyeballs.’
‘Can you treat it, Doc?’
‘Yes. Give me a sec. I’ll harpoon—I mean lance—him, then patch you up. But you’ll need to take care whilst the wound heals. Heed my advice: whatever you do, avoid V. vulnificus, that nasty flesh-eating bacterium, infecting the wound. It only takes one of them to lead to your demise.’
Again Physeter waited in silence until he felt a tiny prick that released the discomfort he’d hitherto borne.
‘There, done. That should be a load off for you. Now, about your mental health. If you wish to be liked—really liked—then I prescribe you head south. I’ve a colleague down on the Great Australian Bight, a Dr Carcharias, who specialises in likeness and wellbeing. She’ll soon have you the most liked creature in the Seven Seas.’
‘OK, Doc, thanks for the referral. And the treatment.’
‘My pleasure. Good luck and book another consult if things don’t work out. And remember to avoid V. vulnificus.’
‘Will do—’
But the two luminescent orbs suddenly disappeared, leaving Physeter in pitch darkness.
