Six Fourteen
by Suh Young Choi
Six is a special number. He can’t really explain why. It’s not like there are six wonders of the ancient world or six planets in the solar system or six commandments or six angry men or six anything, really. Six geese a-laying, perhaps, but he shudders at the idea of birds. He likes the idea that sextet is six letters, the only group name with the same number of letters as the number it describes. He mentioned this once in middle school and was called a pervert until he moved schools.
He forces things into sixes sometimes, just so the world makes a little more sense. Dates always come in a two-digit day, month, and year. Six numbers altogether. He can’t use a twenty-four-hour clock. He has to see whether the time is a.m. or p.m. Four numbers plus two letters equals six figures. Every one of his favorite words has six letters. Origin. Studio. Pencil. Six is a sensible amount of letters for a sensible word to have.
In fact, six is a sensible amount of anything for any sensible person to have. Six appointments, six patients, six invoices to six insurance companies over six working days—of course, it doesn’t always add up. The nature of the universe is to fall just shy of a perfect number. It’s why he can’t stand it when people talk about things like “politics” and “world” and “human” and “peace.” They’re not bad words, per se, but they’re imbalanced. Imperfect.
“Health,” on the other hand—“health” is a balanced word. It’s a word that makes sense. So is “doctor,” so much so that he can forgive words like “nurse” and “medic” for coming up short and “surgeon” and “patient” for going too far. He’s good at what he does. His coworkers say he’s efficient, intelligent, levelheaded. He nods along.
Six is a good number, but he keeps that to himself. He knows better than to talk about sextets.
He’s aware of his condition, this obsession he has with the number six. Of course he’s aware, he’s a doctor. He’s aware of the letters and what they stand for. He’s aware that there are others like him but not like him, each suffering and not suffering in their own ways. Most of them count (like he does). Lots of them have routines (like he’s had in the past but not now). Some of them have small voices that tell them they’re awful people (but he doesn’t). He’s had lots of time to think about himself from a personal and a medical standpoint, and he’s pretty sure he can live with his sixes.
After all, there’s an odd satisfaction in knowing that there are six ways the letters in OCD can be arranged and that one of these is DOC.
The world wakes up one morning and seems to realize the importance of six. He sees it everywhere now, on television, in his emails, on the sides of six-wheeled buses—six feet apart or six feet below, that’s what they’re saying now. Part of him is pleased. Took them long enough. The rest of him hasn’t slept properly in a month. What’s taking them so long?
He’s no longer working six days with regular patients. They’ve got him working seven days in the emergency unit. He doesn’t have time to learn all his new coworkers’ names. He doesn’t have time to talk to his patients. Most of the time, they can’t talk back anyway.
He’d raised his eyebrows when the first case was reported in his country. He’d been watching the news when the sixth case was announced. He’d been stuck in a video call when the cases passed sixty. He was working a night shift when they hit six hundred. By the time they got to six thousand, he was too tired to care about what was going on in the news anymore. Well, he tells himself he’s too tired. His brain forces him to watch anyway, to pay attention.
Anything could happen.
He pulls a mask over his nose and mouth one morning to go in for work. He looks in the mirror, and it’s not straight. He takes it off and puts it back on, even though he knows—he knows—he’s not supposed to do that. It’s still not straight. Off it goes, and on it comes again. And it’s still not straight. Off, on. Off, on. He counts and counts. He passes six, passes twelve.
Fourteen.
Fourteen is a special number, but he can’t explain why.
It’s a Thursday afternoon when the emergency unit announces they’re out of personal protective equipment. (Fifth day of the week, eight letters.) His heart stops. He can feel every drop of moisture on his breath, collected on the fragile cloth of his mask. He blinks thrice as some of the other doctors give ideas and suggestions for what they can try in the meantime. It’s a state-funded hospital, so the state will have to cough up the gear somehow.
He blinks thrice. Licks his lips. He’s not supposed to do that he’s not supposed to do that he’s not supposed to do that he’s not supposed to do that he’s not supposed to do that he’s not supposed to do that—
Two nurses run to the office supplies store a few blocks down during lunch. He doesn’t eat. He can’t. His mask is wearing out, he thinks, but there’s not a new one to replace it. He excuses himself and goes to one of the single-unit bathrooms, where he knows—he knows—he shouldn’t be, but here he is.
In front of the mirror, he lifts the plastic shield up over his face just enough to reach his mask. He takes it off. He puts it back on. He takes it off. He puts it back on. He forces himself to stop there.
And what kind of medical professional would you be if you can’t even follow the same directions regular people have to follow? a little voice whispers in the back of his mind, and he replies to himself, “Anything could happen.”
The nurses come back with five crates of sheet protectors and two boxes of garbage bags. It’ll have to do.
He blinks thrice and thinks about combinations. OCD. ODC. COD. CDO. DCO. DOC.
Six feet apart six feet apart six feet apart six feet apart six feet apart six feet apart.
He needs groceries. Everyone does. The stores have started marking their aisles. Walk this way in this aisle. Walk that way in this one. Only three cans of disinfectant per customer. Only two bottles of hand sanitizer. The store cannot make refunds for the following items. Everyone’s making rules now. He tells himself he’s not bothered when no two stores can follow the same protocols.
He passes one family whose cart is stacked with toilet paper and orange juice and frozen pizzas. The woman behind them has seven bottles of wine and a bar of chocolate in a basket. The duality of man.
Everyone’s wearing masks. Everyone’s keeping their distance. Everyone’s afraid.
Good, he thinks. Keep being afraid.
He can’t look the cashiers in the eye. What if something goes wrong?
He loads his groceries in his car, wipes everything down. Twice. Thrice. Checks his headlights. Checks his taillights. Checks his wipers. Checks his turn signals. The car parked across from him honks, and he remembers to check his own horn. He gives the person across from him a thumbs-up. They give him a different finger in response.
It makes the news, their new garbage bag and sheet protector getup. Someone puts up a sign in front of the hospital declaring, THANK YOU HEALTHCARE WORKERS!
It’s a nice gesture, but the lack of vocative comma unnerves him every time he walks past it. Five letters, three, ten, seven. Twenty-five letters. Just one over twenty-four, which is four times six. He looks at the ground and makes sure to step on every other crack in the sidewalk instead. He can’t remember if he used the same foot every time, though, but he doesn’t have time to go back and correct himself.
He thinks about hexagons as he works, attaching people to ventilators and trying to get them to breathe. He shuts his eyes when he dons his garbage bag. No two of them are cut the same way, and he tries not to think about it. Snowflakes, he tells himself. No two snowflakes are same, either. And snow crystals come in sixes. Hexagons. Hexagons.
Machines, machines everywhere. Machines breathing for people. Machines counting heartbeats and pulses. Machines scanning temperatures and depositing sanitizer and dispensing paper towels. Machines, machines. Electricity. Everything has to be plugged in somewhere, and it would be so easy just to—
He shouldn’t he shouldn’t he shouldn’t he shouldn’t he shouldn’t he shouldn’t.
He pushes himself. Takes extra shifts when he sees his colleagues tiring.
“But you need to rest, too,” says his friend, who’s just been transferred to emergency. “You’re going to burn out.”
He shakes his head and soldiers on. A virus is easy compared to this. He faces the virus like any middle-aged doctor does. When he looks into his own mind, he’s eight years old and making his bed six times every morning before he can go to school.
Your mask, says the little voice. Now blink. One two three four five six feet six feet six feet six feet six feet. Your mask. It would be so easy just to—
He’s a doctor. He’s a doctor. He’s a doctor. He’s a doctor. He’s a doctor. He’s a doctor.
People are angry. It’s all over the news (the news that he doesn’t want to see but has to see because anything could happen). There’s more than one virus in the world, it seems, but he only knows how to fight the one that rages in the blood. He can’t do anything about people’s minds. He can’t do much about his own, anyway. It takes enough of his energy to quiet the urges and fixations, to convince himself that he’s not disrupting any cosmic order by doing his job.
He’s seen many of his fellow doctors and nurses across the country weep and wail and break down in crowded hallways, beneath their sheet protectors. No one who used to wear makeup bothers with it anymore.
There’s one man out there who speaks for people like him, for the people suffering and overworked and tired and ready to go back to their normal jobs. There’s one man out there bridging the gap between the public and the government and every hospital in America when he goes on television and reports what he knows. There’s one man out there who tells people time and again to wash their hands, to limit their gatherings, to wear masks and for God’s sake, to stay six feet apart. This one man is a doctor, too, so he knows what it’s like.
The only problem is, no one in charge is listening to this one man.
(It’s not just him, everyone’s saying it, everyone’s pleading it, everyone’s begging it—)
And when the people in charge choose not to listen, the people down below believe in their right to ignorance.
People are angry.
And here he is, unable to replace his mask fourteen times like he needs to.
How many patients has he lost because he couldn’t put on a mask right?
OCD. ODC. COD. CDO. DCO. DOC.
The state tosses two hundred masks their way. There are seventy-two of them working at the hospital’s virus ward. He follows the news he hates. Governors play roulette on television. Spin the wheel, win the chips. Win the chips, place a bid. Raise the bid, draw two cards. Walk the wrong way, and you have to start all over again.
The rules keep changing.
OCD. ODC. COD. CDO. DCO. DOC.
He goes through the motions. He can’t stop to think about his colleagues getting sick, too. He’s lucky he lives alone. His friend, the one who told him to rest, has a husband and kids at home and hasn’t eaten dinner with them in months. She video-calls them from a different room in the same house.
“Sometimes you can hear them talking through the wall, and the phone picks it up and plays their own voices right back at them,” she says while trying to smile. It’s a good try.
OCD. ODC. COD. CDO. DCO. DOC.
They’re changing the hospital to a virus-only treatment center. Surgeries are being pushed back. There’s no time for checkups anymore. If you’re healthy, we don’t need to know. If you’re in these demographics, try cough medicine for now. It’s like Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. There’s no room.
Mask on, mask off. Fourteen times. Repeat.
Lick lips every third blink. Five-second rule. Repeat.
Step on every other crack on the sidewalk between the parking lot and the hospital entrance. He only gets one try. Repeat.
Start grocery trips from the bread side of the store, even if he parks on the floral side. Repeat.
The rules keep changing. He has to keep up, has to keep playing.
Anything could happen (if he doesn’t).
He tries to get back in touch with a therapist he knows, one who helped him get his disorder under control back when he was eight years old and had to keep making his bed six times every morning. He’s aware that he can spiral sometimes. He’s aware that the presence of the little voice is a bad sign at best. He’s aware that these are unprecedented times. How can he not be aware? He’s a doctor.
The therapist’s number has changed. He searches her name online, digs up any piece of information he can on her.
He can’t remember how it was they got his compulsion under control. Did they talk about it? Did they distract him? Did they create new habits for him to practice? He remembers she did let him borrow some of the books in her office. He remembers each of those because he went and bought his own copies later. It’s how he first became interested in medicine.
He finds her social media. It’s a private profile, so he quickly creates one of his own and tries to reach out to her. He sends her a message, reminding her who he is and why he’s trying to get in touch.
Her son responds. “My mother died of the virus last week.”
“I’m sorry,” he types back. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay.”
It’s not it’s not it’s not it’s not it’s not it’s not.
There’s murder on the news. He hears drums and shouting all over the city. They wake to dying fires and shattered glass on the streets. The hospital goes on lockdown for several nights in a row. Last week, he could have sworn he saw an armored vehicle pass the hospital. Some of his colleagues snap and break and resign. Some of his colleagues can’t afford to do that. Some of his colleagues don’t have anyone else alive to pay the bills.
The schools close and go online. He sees many an internet post from a tired parent complaining about having children in the house all the time. He knows it’s not serious, that it’s all for kicks and laughs. He knows, right?
We lost a twelve-year-old yesterday, the little voice reminds him. You’re blinking.
His check comes in the mail a week later. Twelve hundred dollars, which is twice six hundred. His friend with the husband and kids gets twice that, plus extra for the kids. Many of his coworkers breathe small sighs of relief. He’s nervous, though. “Stimulus” is eight letters. “Check” is five. He doesn’t necessarily believe that thirteen is an unlucky number, but it’s also not a multiple of six. He hears stories on the news (because he has to) about getting the wrong amount, about barely being able to afford rent this month, about not getting the money at all.
The state is silent. Perhaps it doesn’t know who to sympathize with. Perhaps it believes it’s done its job for its still-struggling people. Perhaps it’s in a state of denial, firmly clinging to the hope that if you begin to push a boulder, it will eventually move on its own. It’s like the two hundred masks for seventy-two doctors and nurses and medical staff. It’s a good start, but that can’t be all there is, right? There’s more to come, isn’t there? Or is this another part of the game they’re not allowed to know the rules for?
Push on a boulder facing downhill, and gravity will help. Push on one facing uphill, though, and the moment you pull away, it will fall right back to where it started, if not further down. You’d have to jump out of the way to avoid being crushed.
He washes his hands for thirty seconds because twenty doesn’t feel safe enough. Several times. He’s not particular about how many, not yet. There are some days when he wants to curl in on himself, if only to silence that little voice for even a few minutes. Seconds, even.
He’s a doctor.
He’s a doctor.
He’s a doctor.
And he doesn’t need to say it six times.
(He’s a doctor he’s a doctor he’s a doctor)
Some people are demanding justice.
Others are demanding haircuts.
It’s all going downhill.
He tries seeing a new therapist. Online. Video calls. This one works with doctors often, so he figured it’d be worth giving her a try. Lots of her clients are like him, stressed and exhausted and frustrated that no one’s trying to help them.
He talks with her for half an hour every week. She’s kind and understanding, but somehow he can’t bring himself to talk about the real reason he’s here. He speaks nonsense about the news, pretends to have time for opinions. She discusses current events with him. In some ways, she’s the only way he knows what’s still going on in the world.
Not true, since the television’s always on.
He brings it up only once. “Have you ever worked with anyone who’s obsessive-compulsive?”
“Not personally,” she says. “I don’t know enough about it to help people who are struggling.”
He’s not struggling. He’s a doctor. He’s not struggling.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I was asking for a friend.”
He hopes she understands when he asks to cancel their next appointment.
People aren’t afraid anymore, and that scares him. He’s still working seven days a week, pushing beds and starting ventilators and putting sheets over people’s faces far too quickly. The deaths are catching up to the cases.
“I don’t think it’s that bad,” says a man on the news. He’s grown to hate this man very much. “Didn’t we expect this virus to have a mortality rate of about two percent? That’s low, isn’t it?”
There are over three hundred million people living in America. Two percent of that is over six and a half million.
These are the same people who say six million wasn’t enough—
“Shut up,” he says aloud, breathing the words into his mask. At least he doesn’t have to hide behind a sheet protector anymore. He realizes he’s blinked thrice and licks his lips before five seconds pass. Breathes a sigh of relief that he caught it this time. Wonders how many times he’s failed to catch himself and wonders if it’s anywhere near the hospital’s reported death count.
Violence in the streets. You could be next. Remember when people were harassing doctors for not doing enough?
“Shut up.”
You’re in danger.
“No, I’m not.”
You are—
“A doctor.” That’s his mantra. The little voice begins, You are—“a doctor,” he finishes. He’s a doctor. OCD. DOC. He is what he is, and he is a doctor. He has the license and the badge and the degree to prove it.
Do no harm. That’s what they all say. Do no harm.
But what if people are dying because you can’t make it across the sidewalk in one try?
Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up.
He’s a doctor.
He’s at the grocery store again. Everyone needs to eat, right? He follows the signs on the aisles, makes sure to keep his distance, even when the other person comes too close. There are too many things wrong, too many things out of place, and his chest squeezes with each one.
You’re going to have a heart attack.
“I’m not.”
He squeezes the handles of his basket and walks briskly. He sees one of the workers restocking a shelf of soup cans. He meets the worker’s eyes and nods to show that he respects their personal space and can wait until they’re done. The worker put the cans on quickly, hurriedly. It’s okay. He only needs six, and then he can leave.
They’re poisoning the cans.
“They’re not.”
He stares at the brightly colored price tags, searching for sixes. The worker finishes up and thanks him for his patience and hurries on their way.
A woman comes from the opposite end of the aisle, ignoring the arrow beneath her feet that says she’s going the wrong way. He clears his throat and glances down.
“Oh, I’ll be quick,” she says.
She’s not quick. She’s not wearing gloves, either, and she seems to take some satisfaction in knowing that wherever she goes, he will step back to keep six feet six feet six feet six feet six feet six feet between them. She sniffs and pulls up the bandana over her nose.
She’s going to infect you.
“She won’t.”
She will.
She’s touching nearly every can like she works here, turning them so all the labels are facing out. Then she looks them up and down and does it again. He can’t stand it. He’s a doctor.
“Ma’am, you shouldn’t be touching things if you’re not going to buy them.” He uses his diagnosis voice, as calm and still as he can be. He licks his lips beneath his mask. “It’s not safe.”
“I’m just helping out,” she says cheerfully. “Besides, I’m just super OCD about little things like this. I can’t help myself, you know?”
He stares as her eyes crinkle, and he knows she’s smiling. She’s smiling?
You can’t breathe.
He’s a doctor.
Which door did you come in from?
He’s a doctor.
Nine stripes on her bandana.
He’s a doctor.
Check the lights when you get in the car. And the wipers. And the turn signals. And the horn. And the tire pressure. And the—
He’s a doctor.
Did you wash your hands? Did you wash your hands? Did you wash your hands?
He’s a doctor.
Imagine running her over with that cart.
He’s a doctor. OCD. DOC. And he counts by sixes, which is why when she flicks her hand like they’re friends he flinches backwards. Her brow furrows, like she’s offended. She’s offended? He clutches his basket tighter. He can’t help himself. Anything could happen. He leaves before the little voice has any more ideas.
You ought to give her a piece of your mind. Literally.
But he knows better than to talk about sextets.
Suh Young Choi is an undergraduate student and writer at the University of Washington studying statistics and classics. Her work has been featured at the Heart of America Shakespeare Festival, the Charlotte Mary Yonge Fellowship, and Alternating Current Press. Having spent most of her childhood in Arkansas, she now lives in Seattle. When she’s not writing, she enjoys drawing, wandering through secondhand bookstores, and attempting one-woman recreations of her favorite musicals.
Header image Emptiness by James Reade Venerable