Flesh And Blood

don’t do caring.”

“What are they punishing you for, Lauren?”

“They say it’s my attitude,” she said, “but you know what I think? I think they’re jealous.”

“Of what?”

“My happiness.”

“You’re happy and they’re not.”

“They’re making themselves out to be all… in control. Especially him.” She lowered her voice to a hostile baritone parody: “‘Lauren, you’re screwing up your life. This therapy crap is goddamn expensive. I want you to go in there and spill your guts.’”

Last week she’d talked about spitting out secrets. The emetic approach to insight.

“So,” I said, “your parents aren’t happy, they’re taking it out on you, and I’m the weapon.”

“They’re stuck where they are and I’m cool, free, enjoying my life, and that bugs them. Soon as I get my own money, I’m out of there, bye-bye, Lyle and Jane.”

“Do you have a plan to get money?”

She shrugged. “I’ll figure something out – I’m not talking right now. I’m not impractical, I know even McDonald’s won’t hire me without their permission. But someday.”

“Did you try to work at McDonald’s?”

Nod. “I wanted my own money. But they said no. ‘No outside work until your grades come up.’ Which they won’t, so forget that.”

“Why won’t your grades come up?” I said.

“’Cause I don’t want them to.”

“So it’s a few more years of this.”

Her eyes shifted. “I’ll figure something out – Listen, forget sex. I don’t want to talk to you about it. Or anything else. No offense, but I just don’t want to spill my guts.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, great.” She shot to her feet. “See you next week.”

Ten minutes to go. I said, “No way you can stick it out?”

“Are you going to tell them I split early?”

“No, but-”

“Thanks,” she said. “No, I really can’t stick it out, this is hurting my head – Tell you what, next week I’ll come on time and stay the whole time, okay? Promise.”

“It’s only ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes too long.”

“Give it a chance, Lauren. We don’t have to talk about your problems.”

“What, then?”

“Tell me about your interests.”

“I’m interested in the beach,” she said. “Okay? I’m interested in freedom – which is exactly what I need right now. Next week I’ll be good – I mean it.”

Next week. Conning me or did she really intend to return?

“I’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Sure,” I said. “Take care.”

Big smile. Hair flip. “You’re a doll.” Swinging the purse like a slingshot, she hurried out. I caught up with her in the waiting room, just as she whipped out her lighter.

Jamming the cigarette in her mouth, she shoved at the door. I watched her trot down the hall, a girl in a hurry, haloed by a cloud of smoke.

I thought about her a few times – the image of self-destructive escape. Then that faded too.

Six years later I was invited to a bachelor party the weekend before Halloween.

A forty-five-year-old radiation oncologist at Western Pediatrics was getting married to an O.R. nurse, and a consortium of hospital physicians and administrators had rented the presidential suite of the Beverly Monarch Hotel for the send-off.

Steaks, ribs, buffalo wings, assorted fried and grilled stuff on the buffet. Iced tubs of beer, serve-yourself bar, Cuban cigars, gooey desserts. My contact with the honoree – a mumbling loner lacking in social skills – had been a few stiff, unproductive discussions about patient care, and I wondered why I’d been included in the festivities. Perhaps every face helped.

There was no shortage of faces when I arrived late. The suite was vast, a string of mood-lit, black-carpeted rooms packed with sweaty men. Penthouse level – no doubt a great view – but the drapes were drawn and the air felt heavy. Suit jackets and neckties were heaped on a sofa near the door under a hand-lettered sign that said, GET CASUAL! I made my way through testosterone guffaws, random backslapping, blue cigar fog, the strained glee of boozy toasts.

A crowd swarmed the food. I finally got close enough to redeem a skewer of teriyaki beef and a Grolsch. Belched cheers and scattered applause from the next room drew me to a larger throng. I drifted over, found scores of eyes trained forward on the hundred-inch projection TV the hotel provided for presidents.

Skin flicks flashing larger than life. Bodies squishing and squirming and slapping in time to an asthmatic sax score. The men around me gaped and pretended to be casual. I wandered away, got more food, stood to the side, chewing and wondering what the hell I was doing there, why I just didn’t wipe my mouth and leave.

A pathologist I knew sauntered by with a whiskey in his hand.

“Hey,” he said, eyeing the screen. “Aren’t you the guy who’s supposed to explain why we do this?”

“You’ve obviously mistaken me for an anthropologist.”

He chuckled. “More like paleontologist. I’ll bet cavemen painted dirty pictures. How about we videotape this and show it at Grand Rounds?”

“Better yet,” I said, “at the next gala fund-raiser.”

“Right. Ten-inch cocks and wet pussies – better have oxygen ready for Mrs. Prince and all the other biddies.”

A roar from the wide-screen crowd made both our heads swivel. Then a sharp peal – flatware on glass, shouts for quiet, and the vocal buzz faded out, isolating the thump-thump of the porn soundtrack. Moans continued to thunder in stereo. A woman’s voice urged, “Fuck it – fuck me,” and nervous laughter rose from the audience. Then a tight, abrasive silence.

A thickset, ruddy man holding a nearly full beer mug – a financial officer named Beckwith – stepped into the space between the two front rooms. His eyeglasses had slid down his meaty nose, and when he righted them beer splashed and foamed on the carpet.

“Go, Jim!” someone shouted.

“Get a neuro workup, Jim!”

“That’s why pencil pushers can’t be surgeons!”

Beckwith staggered a bit and grinned. “Here, here, gentlemen – and I do use the term loosely – Look at what we’ve wrought – is this a goddamn blast or what!”

Cheers, hoots, nudges, bottoms up.

“You’re sure blasted, Jim!”

Beckwith rubbed his eyes and his nose, gave a one-armed salute, splashed more beer. “Since all of us are such serious, no-nonsense citizens – since we’d never dream of abandoning God and spouses and country and moral obligation except for the direst emergency” – raucous laughter – “thank God we’ve got ourselves one hell of an emergency, brethren! Namely the impending sentencing – uh, matrimony of our esteemed – steamed- up – buddy, the eternal, infernal, nocturnal Dr. Phil Harnsberger, wielder of the radioactive cancer-killer beam, better known to all of us as El Terminador, aka He Who Lurks Behind the Lead Door! Come on out, Phil – where are you, boy?”