Metamorphosis
One morning, when Richard Spencer awoke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a white man.
The back of his hands were white. White, as in cloud-white, paper-white, snow-white, cotton-white, milk-white, bone-white. White white. So were the palms of his hands. So were his arms, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, his shins and his feet.
“What has happened to me?” he thought. It was no dream. He bolted out of bed and ran to a mirror. In it he saw that his face was white and his hair was white. So were his eyebrows, his irises, his lips and his tongue.
He pulled out his waistband, and looked down, and yes, even little Richard was as white as a sheet of paper.
He called for an ambulance. It took ten minutes to arrive, which seemed like forever. The driver took one look at him and ordered him into the wagon. The ambulance hurtled to the hospital, sirens screaming, blowing past stop signs and red lights. It screeched to a halt at the entrance to the Emergency Room.
The nurse in attendance took one look at Richard Spencer and waved him in, past all the other patients. While filling out the form she said, “Whoo-ee! Ain’t ever seen a white man before!”
The nurses led him to a bed and attached sensors to him. They took a blood sample, a urine sample, and a stool sample. All three were white.
As nurses and interns crowded around Richard Spencer, three of the doctors walked over to a corner to quietly confer.
Rex Morgan, MD, said, “I have never seen a case like this.”
Dr. Kildare said, “Nor have I.”
Dr. House said, “Idiopathic symptomology. Diagnosis?”
Rex Morgan said, “He’s... white?”
Dr. House said, “Cause?”
Dr. Kildare said, “Unknown.”
Dr. House said, “Treatment?”
Rex Morgan said, “Unknown.”
Dr. House said, “Prognosis?”
Dr. Kildare and Rex Morgan looked at each other. Rex Morgan shrugged. Dr. Kildare slowly shook his head.
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