Diagnosis

“It’s a little obsessive, I know,” she said, “But I think it’s a healthy obsession, all things considered.” 

She looked sideways at her fellow psychiatrist. “Music is shown to be good for lowering stress, helping patients to process, increasing creativity...” Her voice became increasingly doubtful as she went on.

The other doctor returned her sideways glance, an eyebrow raised.

“Creativity,” he said. “Hmm.”

The little man on the stool in the corner of the common room didn’t give any indication that he heard them, or anything else. His head was down, and he was totally focused on the task at hand.

He had a straw in his mouth; it was sheathed in another straw, and he moved the outer straw out and back rapidly. Something had been done to the end of the straw that was in his mouth; as he blew, it made a sound like a small, angry clarinet. Moving the outer straw adjusted the tone and pitch.

The sound he produced was eerie, unearthly, but it precisely followed what was being played on the radio, currently a jazz standard being thoroughly thrashed by some mid-century horn virtuoso. The drinking-straw clarinet-trombone accompaniment followed along, note for note.

“We tried giving him an actual clarinet, but he didn’t seem to know what it was. It just sat there while he played his straw,” the woman said. “If you take the straw away, he just sits there, looking sad.”

“Healthy,” said her colleague. “He eats, yes? Sleeps? Defecates?”

The woman shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “He follows the schedule, goes where he’s told when he’s told.”

“And he used to be... what, an accountant?”

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Controller for a big manufacturing company. Just... walked away, one day. His family found him at a farmers market one day, months later, playing a straw, with a tip jar set out in front of him. He didn’t respond to them, didn’t... Just wanted to play.”

“Right.” 

“And, honestly, like I said... It’s not an unhealthy obsession, exactly. We go out of our way to try to get other patients to play music... You know, in the end, there are worse things he could be doing. He’s not being disruptive or spreading feces around, he’s not... you know, bothering anybody. Nobody even complains about the music.” She squared her shoulders, clearly prepared for criticism.

“So your argument is that we should just leave him alone, because he’s not hurting anybody and isn’t violent or combative.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Well.” The psychiatrist put his hands in the pockets of his white coat, sucked his mustache contemplatively. “You know what I think that argument is?”

She looked back at him, steeling herself for his judgement. 

He cocked his eyebrow at her. “Straw man,” he said.

She looked back at him in horror.