Dr phil phil was behind his desk when Meyer entered the office. Meyer looked around and shut the door behind him. He smiled and raised his forearm, greeting Dr Phil with a modest wave. Dr Phil sucked in his lips, nodding in return, his eyes straining, gazing at Meyer, “Well, look who it is–the always wonderful Meyer,” Dr Phil said, stretching his words, in his patently thick, Texas twang accent. Meyer nodded, although he had not heard one word. “Yeah, boy, you can’t hear a word I’m saying to you,” Dr Phil said, smiling to himself, relishing the factuality of his statement. Meyer reacted to this with nothing. He stared firmly at Dr Phil’s face. All Meyer knew was that Dr Phil was being being Dr Phil.

 

Which, Dr Phil was, “Fucking mute,” Dr Phil said, twitching his nose. Meyer, however, had read his lips — it was because Dr Phil had said mute — Meyer could read this word from a mile away. He was standing across from Dr Phil’s desk. Meyer stepped up to it and put his hands down, arching himself over the mahogany surface. He was staring directly into Dr Phil’s eyes. “You don’t deserve her,” Dr Phil said, scornfully. Meyer looked to his left — Meyer noticed, with his peripheral, Dr Phil’s Daytime Television Award. Meyer lifted his hands from off the desk and straightened himself back upright. He stepped over to his left, and swiped Dr Phil’s award from off the desk — this, while turning himself away, repositioning his direction at towards the door. This was done in a swift, fluid series of short motions. Dr Phil’s jaw had dropped, “You fucking piece of shit, put that back” he said, pelting his words at Meyer’s back.

 

Which, coincidently, Meyer then did. Meyer turned around, but had kept his gaze pointing downward. He returned the award to Dr Phil’s desk — placing it down intentionally carelessly — displaying his lack of concern for its importance to Dr Phil, Meyer released his grip on the award, as its bottom edge made contact with the desk — the award would have physically wobbled were it not so stout. Dr Phil, surging from his chair, threw his hands forward like a linebacker seizing a fumbled football. Dr Phil grabbed the award with both hands and hugged it in close to his body. Meyer was still looking at the ground. He had not raised his eyes. Dr phil had become enraged, “You fucking mute,” he said, “You see this right here, Meyer,” he then added, pointing his left hand at his Daytime Television Award, which had remained still hugged close to his body, “This represents everything that you will never have,” he said, “Never,” he added, enunciating with dramatic emphasis. Meyer was still looking at the ground. Dr Phil’s nose was twitching uncontrollably — he was notably upset, and now thinking about his own words — the statement he had just said to Meyer. Dr Phil’s mind could not but help leap its focussing on from Meyer, to Oprah. “Fucking bastard,” he said, in a defeated tone.

 

Meyer was looking at the ground. He then pulled a pack of gum out from his pocket, took out a piece, placed it in his mouth, and began to chew. Though he was still looking at the ground, he had changed the angle of his gaze somewhat upwards and toward his right. Dr Phil turned at this direction, sharply, to see what it was that Meyer was staring at. It was a trashcan. That is what Meyer was staring at. “The fuck is the matter with you,” Dr Phil said, commenting, and was not asking Meyer a question. Meyer, of course, had not heard this, or anything else, for that matter. Meyer was still staring at the trash can. Dr Phil rolled his eyes. Meyer spit his gum into his hand and, gently, began rubbing this hand with his other, rubbing palm-to-palm, rolling the chewed gum, forming it into a small wad, that was of the size and shape and likeness of a marble. Meyer then placed this marble onto the polished surfaced of Dr Phil’s mahogany desk. Dr Phil barked, “Throw that in the fucking trash,” he demanded.

 

Meyer, by then, had returned his gazes back to the ground, but was still not looking at Dr Phil. He’d approached Dr Phil’s desk and, relying on his peripheral vision, he zeroed in on the proximity of his little gum marble — and, with astonishingly good precision at that, though which for Meyer was normal, as that Meyer has always possessed this certain quality. As soon as Meyer had zoomed in on the gum marble, he squished it flat with his thumb, forming a tiny green pancake on the mahogany desktop. Dr Phil’s internal volcano of anger had then erupted, “You’re fucking gross — you disgusting piece of shit,” he said. Meyer was smiling, and still not looking at Dr Phil. Dr Phil continued, “You don’t deserve Oprah — I deserve Oprah,” he proclaimed, at the top of his lungs. Then, as Dr Phil’s gazes were locked into the direction of the very target of his own hatred and anger, all was over–

 

Meyer looked up at Dr Phil and gave him a smirk. Dr Phil winced. He was wincing in pain, “NO,” he said, in horror, “Stop it,” he begged falling back into his chair. Meyer held his smirk — he didn’t let it break. The smirk had pierced straight into Dr Phil’s soul. This was Meyer’s secret weapon — his smirk — simple yet extraordinarily effective — his own very method for defeating Dr Phil — the very method on which Meyer had depended for every single battle.

 

Then, suddenly, the door sprang open. It was Oprah.

She sees Dr Phil, sprawled out in his chair, foaming at the mouth. She sees Meyer, standing across from him, smirking him into submission. She looks back at Dr Phil. Then back at Meyer. Then back at Dr Phil. Then Meyer. Then again. And again. Oprah screams.

Oprah speaks,