The Tall Tale of Billy Reuben, Who History Will Recollect as Bein' "Yeller"

Wherein the scene inside my liver briefly becomes a spaghetti western.

For the most part, the outcomes of diagnosis and treatment have been interesting and exciting while the procedural aspects (testing, appointments, learning to interpret test results) have been incredibly mundane.  Even the biopsy and subsequent recovery was so clean and without incident that I remember thinking, as I completed the required "laying almost motionless on one side for two hours" period following surgery, that I should have either been on considerably fewer drugs for the procedure so that I could drive myself home and go about my day, or been on considerably more drugs so that I could reasonably enjoy my medically-ordained indolence.  Unfortunately, the dosage guidelines for anaesthetics and narcotics don't include consideration of how 3D your new TV at home is, or how many cartoons your Netflix streaming account gives you access to.

My one point of enjoyment among the procedural minutiae has been the genesis of one Billy Reuben, a real dirtbag and personal thorn in my (upper right) side since he emerged from a misunderstanding early in my treatment.




One of the important markers of liver function is the level of bilirubin present in the blood.  Bilirubin is responsible for the yellow color of urine, bruises, and in cases of unusually elevated levels, people (jaundice).  It is also, importantly to me, one of the three key factors that we've been watching in my tests to determine the progress of my treatment.  Having never heard of it before my doctor went over my initial test results with me on the phone, I heard it as "Billy Reuben", as in "Your Billy Reuben level is very high."

Billy Reuben, that bastard.

My mind went to what was, for me, the first logical place: clearly, some researcher or doctor named William Reuben had created a test to measure some arcane protein produced in the liver.  So revolutionary was this testing method, so singular was his idea in creating it, that the medical community named the test after him.

"The William Reuben Factor!" a huddle of white-coated eldernerds proclaimed.

"No, the Billy Reuben factor," replied Billy, who fancied himself a rebel, "William Reuben was my father."  Then he blew the imaginary smoke off his finger-guns and holstered them in the deep pockets of his duster-length labcoat.  Billy Reuben, in this imaginary proceeding, is kind of a douche.

Once I read up and realized that bilirubin was the name of a specific measurable compound, the character of Billy Reuben, far from disappearing entirely, became liberated from the shackles of the medical profession and began a series of evolutions.

For awhile, Billy Reuben was an underperforming major leaguer from the mid-century with a sweat-stain yellowed uniform who spent most of his time striking out.  He compared himself to Babe Ruth but the similarities, once their comparable girth and their initials were weighed into account, were few.  The great Ham-bino, as he eventually became known, would be remembered most for swallowing a wad of chaw in shock after slugging his first and only major league home run, resulting in him puking a yellow streak from 2nd base to halfway down the third baseline and finally passing out a few feet short of the plate.

This story suited a few of my internal criteria for who Billy Reuben needed to be - sort of gross, heavily associated with a sickening yellow, ultimately kind of a blowhard.  But it made him pathetic to the point of being sympathetic; it was hard to feel satisfaction in the downfall of this particular iteration of the character, which made it just a tiny bit harder to enjoy hearing the report that "Billy Reuben is down again" at the two week intervals when I'd review test results.  How much more hard luck could one old-tymey, quaintly unhygienic baseballer take?

The character moonlighted briefly as prohibition-era gangster Billy Rubino, called "Billy Reuben" for his habit of forcing his victims to eat the sandwich as a last meal on the principle that "It's delicious.  What, you think I'm an asshole?  I bring you this delicious sandwich as a gesture after you do me like you did and you think I'm the asshole, here?  Eat your sandwich.  It's delicious."  Then blammo.

This iteration was abandoned because, as funny as that scene was on first imagining, it is also irredeemably stupid.  That, and it was really hard to imagine someone who could intimidate his foes into eating a sandwich while making them feel bad about their own actions being taken down.  "Your Billy Reuben level is down again", the doctor would say.

"No way," I'd think, "That guy is just biding his time and corning some beef."

Ultimately, Billy Reuben became the villain in the old west-style weekly shootouts taking place in my abdomen.  Not particularly talented or quick on the draw, the result of years of heavy drinking and a near-constant hangover, ol' Billy R has relied on trickery and cowardice to come out on top of his duels thus far.  His swaying makes him a hard target, and Billy's lined the inside of his shirt with a hammered-flat metal milk pail so any opponent would have to hit him square in the head to do fatal harm.  Of course, this carries its own risk - the impact of a well-fired shot on the metal is usually enough to compress his abdomen to the point that he wets himself (he blames the whiskey, most spectators just figure it's a fear reaction).  Billy aims for the gutshot, himself - his victories are always slow ones, his opponents succumbing days or weeks after the event itself to the poisoning accompanying a ruptured stomach or other internal organ.

So, though he hasn't been brought down yet and technically has a winning record, Bill's not exactly held in the better esteem of the rest of the imaginary residents of the pioneer town of Live Or Die, Oregon.

"That Billy Reuben sure is high on himself," You might hear one of them say, "'Specially considerin' everyone around here knows he's yeller."

Most folks expect he'll fall in line soon, though, especially now that the town's gone dry.  And that's about all there is to tell about that.