11/30/95 This story was based on the following quote from Saul Bellow's Seize the Day: "Well, I'm a radical in the profession. I have to do good wherever I can." -- Dr. Tamkin, p. 66 GAS-MAN By David Berkowitz "Mrs. Moskowitz, I detect a gas leak." Mrs. Moskowitz slowly rose from the comfortable burgundy cushioned chair. Her head bowed low, her shoulders shrugged, she hobbled out of the office. Damn, she thought. She couldn't fool Dr. Gendler. Dr. Gendler held his breath as he sat back in his chair, half smiling from his victory, half gagging from the fumes. When his patient left, he quickly opened the window behind him and breathed in the polluted air. The carbon monoxide mixed with the fading scent of the morning's dew served to relieve the nasal torture caused by the aroma which wafted outward from Mrs. Moskowitz's pants. "Dyspepsia my ass," laughed Gendler. "At least I don't have to be on the bus on her way home. She'll be reeking havoc!" He cracked himself up. It was a slow day for Gendler. He had a few consultations, mostly in-and-out office visits by hypochondriacs and the like. Then there was the routine endoscopy at 2:00 p.m., the polyps detected and removed followed by the usual jokes about Uranus. He made his rounds, examined a few stool samples, told the joke about the "Stool pigeons" another half a dozen times, then was on his way home by dusk. "Gendler," he said to himself, "you're one damn good gastroenterologist!" While driving his `89 Saab home that night with the windows rolled down, he no longer smelled the exhaust fumes sailing in the brisk, wintery air. All he smelled was gas. This wasn't the gas he sometimes detected lingering around his stove as he cooked his pesto pasta, nor was it the odor which hovered over Exxon, Texaco and Mobil. This was the monstrous smell that he breathed in several hours daily at the hospital, the smell that earlier that morning escaped from Moskowitz's pants, the smell he dreaded more than all others combined. "God must have ripped one this time!" thought the doctor. He tried laughing to mask his fear, but to no avail. "I'm scared shitless!" he joked, although he laughed with anxiety. Gendler was near his Larchmont Manor home, but he felt he could drive no longer. He pulled over on Larchmont Avenue and exited his car, his keys still in the ignition and his lights left on. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he felt the cool wind blowing, not by him, but at him. "I feel so helpless," said he aloud to an elderly tree. "So much flatulence and I can't do a thing about it. No, get a hold of yourself Gendler. Remember who you are, Gendler. You're Gendler the Gas-Man!" He said it again, only slightly louder. "You are GENDLER the GAS-MAN!" Then once more, "You are, no, I AM GENDLER THE GAS-MAN!" A policeman driving down Larchmont Avenue toward the precinct saw the empty Saab with the M.D. plates and heard a man screaming nearby. He slammed on his brakes, did a U-turn and pulled over next to the Saab, unnoticed by the doctor. "So, are you Gendler the Gas-Man?" asked the cop. "I AM GENDLER THE GAS-MAN! Have you heard of me?" "Not until your little outburst this evening." The cop pulled out a little flashlight and shined it in the Gas-Man's eyes. "They check out okay to me. You on anything, Doc?" "Take a whiff," replied Gendler. The officer breathed in heavily. "Nothing's unusual. What's the point?" "I can't escape it. The flatulence is among us. I am Gendler the Gas-Man, officer. I shall rid the world of all forms of this horrible gas." "May the force be with you. Drive carefully. And try to keep it down before the locals start complaining." "That's it officer! The force! Keep it down! By God, you are an angel sent to me on this Evening of the Gas!" exclaimed Gendler. "I know my duty, officer. No pun intended." "Yeah, whatever. G'night." The policeman got back in his car, tuned to the Grease Man Show on 92.3 F.M., did another U-turn and went on his way. Gendler was not as quick to go home. He hugged the elderly tree, looked upward and pronounced, "Dear Lord, my God, God of my forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, You have sent Your angel of the Lord to speaketh to me and thus have made this spot holy. May this spot of land now be known as the Hebraic `Sof HaGaz,' or `End of the Gas,' for on this spot, You showed me how to end all gas forever. Bless You God." For three days, Gendler went without food and drink as he worked feverishly in his basement laboratory. On the third evening he finished his work, swallowed a pill and drove to Taco Bell. That evening, Pedro, Table-Cleaner-In-Chief, watched Gendler consume an assortment of nearly thirty beef burritos, tacos and the all new "Quesadilla Supremos." As he licked the last drops of picant‚ sauce from the paper taco wrapper, Gendler felt the gas preparing to burst through his intestinal pipeline. He dashed to the bathroom and seven seconds later, from Gendler's pants burst a trumpeting noise that would have knocked down Jericho and all neighboring cities. Gendler sniffed the air, then sniffed once more. He sniffed until he was sure his nose was bleeding from the rapid air intake, but smelled nothing besides the urine from the urinals beside him. "I AM GENDLER THE GAS-MAN!" he shouted as he dashed out of the bathroom. He took out his wallet from his navy GAP windbreaker, removed a twenty and handed the bill to Pedro. "Now you can go to college, my boy!" Gas-Man stood up on his table and shouted, "I'd like to make an announcement. On this blessed evening, your ears and the Lord's bore witness to the testing of the most startling gastrointestinal development since Pepto Bismol. Yes, that trumpeting noise was my flatulence, but not a smell was detected. I'd like to buy each and every one of you a burrito!" He bought a round of burritos and then another, although nobody understood why. The restauranteurs were simple people and enjoyed their burritos, feeling harmony with their inner selves as they dined on the free, fatty food. As Gendler left the restaurant, he pondered his nearly flawless invention. The officer was right; Gendler needed to keep the gas down and then create a force to expel it. The pill that he swallowed before the meal chemically reacted with the hydrochloric acid in the stomach and passed through the system, where the chemical waited in the depths of the colon. As he ate his Mexican meal, the gases from the beans, beef and other ingredients slowly reacted with the chemical in the large intestine. When enough gas had accumulated, the chemical released the gas with tremendous air pressure, forcing the gas outward in a painless, yet highly audible explosion. The odor was stopped by the Gas Pants that he invented. Embedded in this comfortable, cotton undergarment was a complex gas filtration system. Although Gendler had not yet finished the testing, he believed that the filter could easily withstand a year's worth of the most horrendous flatulence. Two months later, Gendler the Gas-Man was honored at his hospital's celebration of the newly patented and FDA approved Gas Pills n' Pants. The sales of his invention set records in the medical market and the money rolled in by the barrel, but Gendler never truly found happiness. He missed the days when he sat back in his chair and smiled to his fretting patient, outwitting the cleverest of the lot. Gendler was now the Gas-God, the one renown the world over for bringing about the end of odorous flatulence. Gendler the Gas-Man was dead.