The waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and peppermint tea, the kind of place where time seemed to slow down on purpose. Three elderly gentlemen sat in a row, coats folded neatly over their knees, canes resting like loyal companions beside them. Dr. Halpern glanced at his clipboard and smiled warmly. Today wasn’t a frightening exam—just a simple memory assessment to make sure their minds were aging as gently as their bodies.
The first man, Mr. Arthur, straightened proudly, eager to prove he was still sharp. Dr. Halpern asked an easy question: “Arthur, what is three times three?” Arthur’s brow furrowed, lips moving as if the numbers were hiding in the air. After a long pause, he announced confidently, “Two hundred and seventy-four!” The doctor raised an eyebrow but nodded kindly, making a note. Arthur looked pleased, as if he had solved something impressive.
Next came Mr. Bernard. He leaned forward, gave the doctor a playful wink, and waited for his turn. When asked the same question, Bernard answered cheerfully, “Tuesday!” The word floated in the room like a balloon—completely wrong, yet somehow joyful. The doctor tried to keep a straight face while Bernard chuckled softly at his own answer. Finally, it was Mr. Clarence’s turn. He had been watching quietly, eyes twinkling.
When the doctor repeated the question, Clarence paused only a moment before replying, “Nine.” Dr. Halpern looked up, surprised. “That’s correct,” he said. Clarence grinned and leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “I figured it out,” he whispered, “because I subtracted Tuesday from two hundred and seventy-four.” The room burst into laughter—Arthur laughed, Bernard laughed, and even the doctor wiped away a tear. On the chart, Dr. Halpern wrote his final note: “Memory uncertain. Spirits excellent.”
