being unwatched, to things?pools and tennis courtscoming in ones. We passed the garage, where the butler was waxing Berry's Volvo, trying to match the shine on Nate's white El Dorado. In the indoor pool, tile?echoing, secluded, we stripped, embraced, dived down into the perfectly right water. We played. Delight delight. Splash splash not the best splash splash but the most splash splash not the splash best but the splash fuckin' most.
At dusk, after dinner, continuing with drinks, we chatted about the Letter of Zock. Nate had sent his letter about me to the Leggo, and had gotten a cordial reply. Not one to be satisfied with anything short of 'the most,' Nate had called up the Leggo and the Fish 'to find out why those guys didn't think youboth of you?were as great as I thought you were, 'cause I'm a helluva judge of talent or I wouldn't be where I am today.' After some discussion with the Leggo and the Fish and a few other Slurpers, Nate had cleared it right up. Not only that, but to make sure that this clear area would remain clear, Nate had decided on something more permanent: there would be named, in my honor, in the Wing of Zock, a Room of Basch. Not only that, but in addition to the ***MVI*** and the Crow, there would be, annually, the Basch Award, a free trip for two to Palm Springs for the tern 'who best exemplified the qualities of Roy G. Basch, M.D.' the principal one being 'how to leave the patient alone.' On hearing of the Room of Basch and the Basch Award, both the Leggo and the Fish had been filled with emotion, too choked up to speak. My Redeemer, Zock, liveth. My name would live on in the House of God.
Cigars were lit. The night was so still, the match games stood upright. Chuck and Nate related their life stories. Chuck told the story of the postcards, the latest: WANT TO BE AN OFFICER IN THE NATIONAL INSTITUTE OF HEALTH? IF SO, FILL OUT AND: RETURN THIS CARD. Nate loved it. Nate told the story of 'out of the valley of the Depression rode the five hundred bucks to manufacture not the best but the most nuts and bolts,' and ended with tears in his, eyes. Chuck loved it. The long June evening ushered in a serenade of crickets, and the dusk lingered in the air like a dozing kitten's purr. Berry leaned her head on my shoulder. Nate and Trixie loved her. They suggested she be a weight?control therapist for their fatties. Nate suggested, about me and Berry, that, as he been told by Trixie's father years ago: 'If you milk the cow, you gotta buy it,' that we should get married. Chuck chimed in, warning me, 'Like they say back home, man, if'n you plant it, you gotta watch it grow.' Arm?around me and Berry and Chuck, Nate kissed us good night, tears in his eyes, wishing we would accept his offer to start us in a private practice. At peace, at the level of love, I watched the silver liquid moonlight flow over the orange stucco roof of the House of Zock, reminding me of the stuccoed farmhouses of France.
26
In the House of God, whosoever had sighted the humps' had been repulsed. These pneumatic, stupendous, astounding humps had stirred up even more speculation: than a Zock. Given her rate of respiration?six breaths per minute?the oxygen theory was much favored, and many thought that the slightly green gomere had turned into a plant. And so, the last week of the ternship LP Leon, his Fellowship secure, relented, and I lays on the top bunk going over her chart, the full story of Olive O., formulating how best to spring them of our Chief. I wanted to see if he'd show any human, emotion upon sighting the horrible humps.
After the eye?opening lunch, the Leggo had in fact made some concessions and it looked like all but two or three terns would stay. The Runt and I were definitely leaving; Chuck hadn't yet said. The others were staying. In years to come they would spread out across America into academic centers and Fellowships, real red?hots in internal medicine, for they had been trained at the Best Medical School's best House, the House of God. Although a few might kill themselves or get addicted or go crazy, by and large they'd repress and conform and perpetuate the Leggo and the House and all the best medical stuff. Eat My Dust had been praised by the Leggo that he could start off the second year as ward resident, with 'a free rein' on his terns. And so, saying already that the ternship been 'not so bad,' Eddie was preparing to indoctrinate his new charges: 'I want them on their knees from day one.' A year later it would be back to California for his Fellowship in Oncology. Hyper Hooper was staying as well. He'd sent us a postcard from Atlantic City, signed with a picture of a black crow. Upon returning to the House, he'd shown he hadn't lost his touch; walking into a room containing a LOL in NAD who'd been getting better, Hooper had said, 'Hi, dearie,' she'd gasped, clutched her chest, and five minutes later was dead. The post showed a massive pulmonary embolus. Hooper had been promised by the Leggo that he could start off the second year in a Path elective, doing his own personal autopsies on his own personal patients. And so, saying that the ternship had been 'not so bad,' Hooper was also dreaming California Fellowship, in 'Thanatology: ' The Runt was going west for a 'classic Eastern' psychiatric training program on the 'mountain campus' of the U. of Wyoming, run by a guru named Grogyam with a Ph.D. from the U. of Kansas. The Runt was so emphatic about his entry into psych being diametrically opposed to the psychoanalytic viewpoint of his parents' 'classic Western'?that it seemed pretty clear that this 'Eastern' jag was a penultimate step that the Runt had to take in order to rebel against it and come on back to mom and pop and Freud to roost. Thunder Thighs had told the Runt that she would not miss him. The Runt imagined this was OK with him. Little did he know how lonely Wyoming could be.
My Clinic patients had been sad to hear I was leaving. They'd brought presents, brought family members, wished me good luck. One, who I'd recently told had incurable cancer and who continued to deny that it exists, had asked me, 'Where will you hang up your shingle?' When I'd told her I'd be taking a year off, she'd said, 'That's OK, I'll be your patient when you get back.' No. She'd be dead. It was hard, too hard. I went through my last Clinic taking deep breaths to keep back the tears. Mae, my black Witness, concerned about my puffing, asked, 'Oh Doctuh Bass, you ain't done caught my asthma from me, has you?' When I'd told people I was thinking of going into psychiatry, many were surprised.
. . NOT GOING ON IN YOUR MEDICAL RESIDENCY?! YOU PROMISED THEM! HOW WILL IT LOOK ON YOUR RECORD? RECONSIDER! I AM AMAZED! . . .
My father. For the first time, he'd been nudged out of his conjunctions. But then, calming himself again, he embraced his grammar, he embraced his son, and went on:
. . I can't understand your taking a year off and it is a waste of a potential year's income. I'm amazed at your going into psychiatry and it seems a waste of your talent. I hope I am explaining the point well and probably not. I know that you will always give yourself over to your new field of medicine and I am sure you have all the attributes to make an outstanding practitioner of psychiatry. Your deep interest in people and what makes them tick will be a great basis for your work and I do hope you will be able to make a living at it. The new philosophy for people of all ages is to enjoy each day and do what you plan on doing within the limits of responsibility, work, and commitment, and mom and I will try to do this as we have always tried to, only more so now.
The weather has been wet, and remember, dear son number one: IT NEVER RAINS ON A GOLF COURSE. . .
I finally realized what all these conjunctions meant: hope. What was my hope now? To take a year off, to risk, grow, be with others, even to be with parents' who'd loved me despite my shabby treatment of them, through so many arrogant years. Was the Fat Man my hope any longer? In what he'd taught me, yes, in showing me the one truly great American Medical Invention: the creation of a foolproof system that took sincere energetic guys and with little effort turned them into dull, grandiose docs who could live with the horror of disease and the deceit of 'cure,' who could 'go with' the public's fantasy of the right to perfect health devoid of even the deterioration of age, a whole nation of Hyper Hoopers and other Californians who expected the day to be sunny, the body young, to be surfing along always on the waves of vitality, and who, when the clouds come, the marriage fails, the erection wilts, the brown blotches of age break out like geriatric acne on the backs of the hands, in terror, wipe out.
And so I'd succeeded in keeping Olive O. from being killed by the Privates and Slurpers and BMSs and Blazers and even Housekeepers of the House. In a few days a dew?fresh tern would get the gomere. We had survived. The Leggo arrived for rounds. As I began to present the case to him, I realized that ever since the emergency lunch he'd been out of sight, withdrawn, secretoid. In his rare appearances, he'd seemed down, sad yet bitter, vulnerable and suspicious. For some reason, it troubled me. And yet Olive, a real 'fascinoma,' seemed to perk him up. I made no mention of the humps, and the Chief's questions were mainly to 789 about Olive's diabetes. Why, the Leggo wanted to know, with Olive's blood sugar three times normal on admission, had Sev infused more sugar, raising the level to nine times normal, a new House record? Sev gave a brilliant mathematical exigesis, drawing vector diagrams of enzyme action, which left us confused and subdued. In a rare burst of excitement the Chief said, 'Great case! Come on, boys, let's go see her!'
We fairly ran to the bedside. Chuck and I positioned ourselves at the head of the bed. Getting no oral
