"Do I pass? Will I live?"
Kellner didn't like juvenile humor. He turned me over to another group who, so help me, brought out a box of children's blocks to put together, timing me with a stopwatch. They used the same stopwatch to time how long it took me to come up with answers to some of the silliest questions I ever heard outside of a nursery. Now I know why they label well the patients in an insane asylum. The man with the watch galloped off and came back with Kellner and they all stood around muttering. The sheet and I were sticking to the chair.
"Kellner. Doctor Kellner!" They didn't like me to break up the kaffeeklatch. "Can I go now? Are you all through?"
"All through?" The airedale changed to a cackling Rhode Island Red. "Joseph, you are just beginning."
"My name isn't Joseph, Dr. Kellner. It's Miller. Peter Ambrose Miller."
"Excuse me, Peter," and he cackled again. "Nevertheless, you're going to be here quite awhile."
Peter, hey? No more, Mr. Miller. Pete to my wife, Peter to my mother, and Peter to every school teacher I ever had.
They conferred awhile longer and the party broke up. Kellner and a gawkish Great Dane led me sheet and all to what I thought would be the operating room. It looked like one. I found a chair all by myself this time, and watched them hook up an electric fan. They were hipped on fans, I thought.
Kellner trotted over. "Stop that fan." Not, please stop that fan. Just, stop that fan.