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Dr. Death: An Introduction

Harold Jaffe

And now, please put your virtual hands together for Dr. Death.

[Applause]

     Dr. Death, welcome. Sit right down there next to Charo.

[Charo makes to hug the doctor, who pulls back violently]

     I don't like anyone's hands on me.

     She's not anyone Doc; she's Charo. The original coochie-coochie girl. She sang and jiggled with Cugat. She had extensive reconstructive surgery. She's your bona fide TV and Internet talk-show bimbo.

     Never mind.

[The doctor sits on the the absinthe green leather sofa and crosses his thin legs]

     They call you Dr. Death but your real name is Jack Kevorkian?

     Correct.

     No one has ever called you Jack the Ripper, I suppose.

[Whistles, laughter]

     Just yourself.

     I see that you're dressed as you always dress: old ratty cardigan, Salvation Army trousers, black, scuffed workshoes. The makeshift clothes and that stark grey crewcut are sort of your signature, right, Doc?

[Kevorkian does not respond]

     How many folks have you euthanized?

     Euthanized is inaccurate. I have provided assistance for suicides. You want the number? One hundred thirty-two.

[Applause, loud whistling]

     Whoa! If you were a serial killer you'd hold the world record.

     The world these very sick people inhabited had already killed them. Their hearts beat but they were, for all practical purposes, dead.

[The host is glancing through the publicity material]

     And you're not just a medical doctor. You taught yourself how to play the . . . harpsichord, you are a gifted painter, you speak a bunch of languages---

     Just hobbies. I am a pathologist.

[Scattered applause]

     About your paintings, they were described as "strikingly well-executed, stark, surreal, and demented or hilarious, depending on your point of view." Is that an accurate description?

     Couldn't say. I painted some canvases to raise money for my cause.

     Where are they now?

     The originals were stolen. I don't want to discuss it. I no longer paint.

     Well, you're obviously skilled with your hands. You constructed your own death machine, right?

     I didn't have much choice, did I?

     How did you build it?

     You mean where did I find the materials? The hardware store, garage sales, flea markets. I used an old lawn mower motor.

     Sort of like Dr. Frankenstein, right?

     Not right. Frankenstein is fiction. I'm talking about harsh reality.

[Loud boos, then laughter, scattered applause]

     You even named it--this death machine. What's it called, Doc?

     Thanatron.

     That's Latin--

     Greek. It means death machine.

     Makes sense. It says here that you've been fascinated with death since you were a kid, performing amateur autopsies on anything dead you could lay your hands on--

     Is that what it says?

     Right here. I guess you didn't write it yourself, huh?

     Nope.

     Though you were fascinated with dissection and death, one of your boyhood friends, Rick Dakesian, a fellow Armenian, says that your first love was baseball. That true?

     Well, that's what it says on the printout.

     Rick Dakesian says that not only could you recite any major league player's batting average, but you knew the pitchers' earned run averages. You even knew knew their heights and weights and when they were born. Rick said that you actually wanted to be a baseball announcer, but that your parents disapproved. That's amazing.

     Why?

     Because baseball is fun, and fun ain't exactly the first thing that comes to mind when the name Dr. Death is mentioned. You still follow baseball?

     No. Between my work and answering moronic questions from Internet hosts, I have no time for games.

[Boos, scattered hisses, laughter]

     Your work is of course death in many of its guises, and it is clear that you've attained a comfort level in what you're doing. You're familiar with the bumper sticker: "Death Sucks," right?

     What's the question?

     The big D. Death. You don't seem to be scared shitless of it like the rest of us earthlings.

     Billions have died on this depleted planet of ours, okay? The dead must wonder, in their vegetable way, what the fuss is about. After all, how excruciating can nothingness be?

[pause]

     You're asking me, Doc?

     You have something to add?

[Charo chimes in]

     Death. I no frightened of eet.

[Doctor Death addresses Charo from the opposite end of the long leather sofa]

     So you expect to end up in heaven?

     Me? Jes. I go up there.

[The host]

     What about you, Doctor Death? Will you end up in heaven? Or will those 132 assisted suicides stand in your way?

     What stands in my way are pious fools and cowardly bureaucrats.

     You've murdered--that is, assisted--132 would-be suicides and not been prosecuted. What else do you want?

     I want to transfuse blood from a freshly dead cadaver to a human in need. With his permission, I want to put the condemned criminal in a deep, drugged sleep, conduct experiments on his body; then, when the experiments are completed, I want to execute the prisoner humanely, by injection.

[Catcalls, loud yodeling]

     I want to videotape the eyes of a person passing from life to death. I want to remove the stomach, pancreas, and kidneys from a full term infant born with severe spina bifida, paraplegia, and hydrocephalus.

     Why? Why do you want to do those things?

     Think for a minute. Because you're an Internet host in a shiny suit with surgically repaired features and a hair weave shouldn't prevent you from thinking.

     Thanks a lot, Doc. Okay, you're removing organs from live people--

     Condemned people. Hopeless cases. The irreparably doomed.

     Got it. You're experimenting on hopeless cases for the sake of science.

     Correct. That great abstraction Science.

[Mocking hoots and whistles, scattered applause]

     You've made more than your share of enemies among fellow scientists. Is that a fair statement, Dr. Death?

     You say "scientists" as if it's a privileged category. Scientists, like lawyers and corporate managers, and Internet hosts, tend to be cowards. Afraid to deviate from the culture that rewards their cowardice. When challenged, they justify their cowardice with lies and character assassination.

     Okay. I'd like to quote something you wrote: "We squander priceless opportunities to study ourselves and our living brains, as well as new ways to make us wiser, healthier and happier. We snuff out lives of criminals eager to make amends by donating their organs and helping science unlock some of nature's deepest secrets." Those are your words?

     Yes. I also said that if there are willing condemned criminals, there must be willing non-criminals who have opted for euthanasia. I would perform the same experiments on those suicidal humans.

     Are you talking only about physical disabilities, or do you include folks that are suicidal because of their mental condition?

     If their suffering is primarily emotional and they have been unable to receive adequate care, then, yes, I would assist them. And, with their permission, I would experiment on them.

     But isn't that immoral, Doctor?

     What's immoral, and almost intolerably banal, is your moronic interrogation.

[Whistles, loud applause, one elaborate yodel]

     The one word that's always used when talking about right to death campaigns is compassion. Would you describe yourself as a compassionate person, Dr. Death?

     I'll leave those descriptions to others.

     As long as they are not moronic, right?

     Obviously.

     Well, here is one of those others. And he is not moronic, even by your rigorous standards. A Nobel laureate in biophysics. He had this to say: "Whether Kevorkian's obsessions benefit humankind matters less to him than the rush--the almost orgasmic rush--he seems to get from handling and fantasizing about handling cadavers." Comment?

     I already commented on sanitized scientists whose cowardice is rewarded. This so-called Nobel laureate is a prime example of that.

     You are a very angry man, Doc. Don't you think that Dr Death here is an angry man, Charo?

     Jes. But I like heem. He help people that don have no theen.

[Whistling, laughter, one raucous Bronx cheer]

     You've got a fan, Doc.

     I'm not an entertainer.

     You're not? What about Slimmeriks and Demi-Diet? To the Internet audience: In 1975 Doctor Death authored a humorous diet book by that name. To Kevorkian: Wouldn't you call that entertainment?

     Have you read the book?

     Can't say that I have.

     Read it. You might profit from it and extend your life. The gist of it, without the limericks, is don't smoke, avoid milk products, exercise moderately, eat as often as you need to, but only half the amount. Leave half of every plate uneaten.

     That's it?

     Basically. Without the humorous part--the limericks.

     Can you recite one of those limericks for our virtual audience?

     "A life of profane deglutition / Can end in a grave condition / How you consumed / Cannot be entombed / Thanks to the brave mortician."

[Puzzled laughter, mocking whistles, two ear-splitting Bronx cheers]

     You hear that, Charo? Did you like Dr. Death's humorous limerick?

     Jes. I do. Bery much.

     Charo seems to be on your wavelength, Doc. Can't say that I am.

     You may be soon if you keep eating, boozing, wearing that strong cologne, and obsessing about sex.

[Hoots, applause]

     Give me a break! What do you have against sex?

     Sex is sex. Obsessing about it or anything else will compromise your health. I wouldn't want you to die before your time.

     But if I happened to drop dead you would harvest my organs?

     Only with your permission.

[Loud, shrill, extended catcall]

     Speaking of sex: You've never married. How come? Never found Ms Right? Or is there an issue--

     My work.

     Your work is death. You're married to death, is that it, Doc?

     So are we all. You're an even bigger fool than I gave you credit for if you can't see that.

[pause]

     Okay. Let's say euthanasia is finally permitted and becomes the law of the land. Would that satisfy you?

     No. Such a death, no matter how serene, serves no constructive purpose beyond the bleak aim of extinguishing life.

     You want to be able to conduct experiments on the corpses . . .

     As I've been saying, I would conduct experiments on the cadavers and especially on the would-be cadavers, while he or she was still alive, but asleep of course, drugged beyond pain.

[Applause, two Bronx cheers, scattered yodeling]

     Shoot. Looks like we've run out of time. Sorry about that, Doc. We have about thirty seconds. If you had a single word to say to our planet-wide virtual audience what would it be?

[Kevorkian does not respond]

     Have you gone on Letterman yet?

     Who?

     David Letterman.

     Glasses, gap-toothed, with the arrogant manner?

     Er. That's him.

     He's next. I think tomorrow. Need to check my calendar.

[pause]

     Awesome. Well, that's a wrap. Doctor Death, it's been a . . . learning experience. You're a very, very in-er-esting human. From now on, whenever I see that bumper sticker Death Sucks, I'll think of you in your funky cardigan and scuffed workshoes and be reminded that death, the big D, doesn't suck. It's us, the living-breathing folks, that, so to speak, suck death--and profit immeasurably from its grave restrictions.

     Thanks a bunch, Doc. You're far from the dud I heard you were. You're a little weird of course, and sort of foul tempered, but you're actually a pretty cool guy. You've done it your way, and we all can appreciate that. And you all out there in virtual land, from Pluto to Pensacola, from Uranus to Hyannis, from Tel Aviv to Texarkana, please give a little love to Doctor Death.

[Whistles, hoots, yodels, catcalls, loud applause, Bronx cheers, two or three shrieks of pain. Charo blows the doctor a kiss, which he does not acknowledge. He rises from the sofa, doesn't wave to the virtual audience, looks to the right, then left, which is where he heads, moving a little stiff-legged in his crewcut, plain shoes, ratty cardigan and Salvation Army trousers, offstage]

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