Loves his job.

In the morning, he has consultations. In the afternoons, has a beer, performs a surgery. Patients lay on their side, numb with localized anesthetic. The Guilt Organist always offers a sip of his beer, but they don’t wanna impose. Shrugs, more for me then. Slices into their skin, right above the kidney. He puts both hands into the patient’s cavity and bangs out a funky number on their guilt organ—out of tune but a noisemaker all the same—then he lifts the fleshy, stringed instrument up outta them. When he sews them back shut, they leave without a thank you or scheduling a follow up, but the Guilt Organist knows it ain’t their fault. Instead, he lets himself feel good. 

Ain’t today a helluva thing? Another beer? I’ll raise a glass to that.

At home, he feels good too. He drinks a coffee, he watches tv, he totals the weight of today’s guilt organs removed. The sum is immeasurable.

And then, at night, he lays down and feels bad. He calls his ex-wife. She answers every time. He says, I’m sorry, I really am. She says, we’re sleeping.

He calls his son, who is away at college. It is loud, but the boy says that he is studying. I’m sorry, I wish I was better to you. The boy says, no, I’m sorry.