woman who stank of disinfectant and infection and bilirubin and ammonia, until the husband had done his punch? drunk catharting and left. For a few minutes I felt as if I were on the edge of some disaster, some abyss that seemed familiar from a nightmare. Then it passed, and again I felt calm.
From noon until I left, I was to work in my Outpatient Clinic downstairs. With some apprehension I left my Unit and entered the hopelessly inefficient world of the rest of the House of God. As I was going into my office, I ran into Chuck going into his. He looked even worse than usual.
'Well, man,' he said, 'bad news. I been found out.'
'Found out! Found out what?'
'Well, you know how I always had the amazin' luck that the old ladies would never seem to show up at my Clinic, no matter what appointments they made?'
'Yeah, it was amazing,' I said.
'Well, the reason they never showed up was that they was daid.'
'Dead?'
'Un?hun, daid. See, I used to go over to the record room and pull charts, use daid names for appointments. Hardly any of 'em showed.'
My own Clinic was ridiculous. I employed a useful anatomical concept for Clinic medicine, called Scruffy's Rhomboid Space, which was formed by unbuttoning the fourth button down on the shirt or blouse, forming a diamond?shaped opening for my stethoscope. With clever wrist action, the stethoscope could be rotated and pushed in such a way that all major organs could be examined without having the patient undress. Using this technique, I waded through my familiar patients with their trivial complaints, my mind filled with the precision and elegance of the techniques of the Unit, like popping a steel needle into a virginal radial artery. My outpatients seemed wary of me, and many of them kept asking me if I was sure I felt all right I told them I was feeling extremely well. One in particular, my basketballing Jehovah's Witness, was insistent: 'Why, Dr. Basch, you nevah for months used that stethelscope on me. We allas used to jes' talk I knows in mah heart that there's sumpin' gone wrong What is it?' I told her there was nothing wrong, and finished ex aminin g her. Shaking her head, she left.
I muttered to myself as I walked through the fresh April afternoon toward the Humbler, all this education just to write prescriptions for padded bras withs pockets? What the hell was I in, anyway, ladies' lingerie?
The gaily colored marathoners began to pass. The first, the leaders, looked fit and eager even after these twenty miles, even facing the terror of the Humbler .The build of the leaders was like that of Pinkus: thin to the waist, solid below. They ran through waves applause. How jealous I was! The blur of color went on and on and after about five hundred had gone by, there came Pinkus, in a determined sure style that might well bring him in under three hours. I shouted 'Go get 'em, Pinkus!' and he looked up, without waving or smiling, and trudged on up the Humbler, with calm, deliberate strides. He looked good. He was doing extremely well, and I watched him go wistfully, the GOTTA HAVE HEART on his rear end disappearing over the crest. My man Pinkus hadn't even broken stride. The Humbler? Ha!
Later that evening, at the high?school gym after playing some hoop, I ran into a Unit nurse, whose name I'd always forgotten and couldn't recall then. Wearing a tight black Danskin, she was working out with weights. I was surprised and delighted with her body and with her interest in her body. Dripping sweat, we chatted. I asked her out for a drink. In the bar we watched Nixon, who, even though Haig thought that Nixon 'didn't sell on TV anymore,' had gone ahead with a prime?time TV address from the Oval Office, something about 'edited transcripts' of the tapes. The packaging was terrific! On a side table to which the camera intermittently panned were shiny black vinyl binders, each embossed with a gold presidential seal. 'I am placing my trust in the basic fairness of the American people.'
Nuzzling the nurse's sweaty neck, I said, 'Damn good idea. It's about time. Get the goddamn thing straightened out, once and. for all.' To me, the lockerroom aroma of this tough nurse was more enticing than perfume. I loved it.
After the drink, before the bedding, she went with me to an all?night sporting?goods store, where I bought myself my first ever fishing rod and reel.
22
Having done extremely well in the Unit, it was difficult for me to say good?bye. I felt sad. I wanted to stay on. How do astronauts say good?bye? As befit a pro, my good?byes were unemotional. Neal Armstrong saying good?bye to Frank Borman. John Ehrlichman saying good?bye to Robert 'Bob' Haldeman. Good?bye to Pinkus, my hero, who had run two hours fifty seven minutes thirty?four seconds and who said, 'Cardiology can be very rewarding in financial and personal terms, and with the implementation of hobbits, a very healthful life. Think about it, Roy, you're a young man with a bright future.'
I left.
Later that afternoon. Berry and I, ROR, were driving out into the countryside to relax. I was reading a letter from my father.
. . Your experience undoubtedly is stimulaling and I am sure that you are totally absorbed. Soon it will be over and you will have to decide about your future life . . .
'You know,' I said to Berry, 'after all these years of disagreement with him, I finally think he's right..'
We sat on the edge of a park, the spring blushing chaotically all around us. The swath of green, lush with a fresh rain, swept across in front of us, from the pond reflecting the mansion on the left, past the hundred?year?old oak under which the WASPs held their weddings, to the old stone wall and in back of it, the symmetric and rooted old houses. A dog came up to play, dropping a twig closer and closer until I threw it and he chased it. After a while I got tired, and he sensed it, and left. My mind, like a missile, kept homing to the Unit.
On the drive back, I felt restless, and Berry noticed and asked, 'What's the matter, Roy? You're done with the hardest part of the year.'
'I know. I miss it. It's hard to relax. Even fishing would be easier than this. Did I tell you I bought a rod and reel? You know, I need your help. With your psychological expertise, maybe you could tell me how I can change.'
'Change what?'
'My personality. I want to go from Type A to Type B.'
Berry didn't comment. We separated, planning to meet again that night. We had tickets to see Marcel Marceau.
I was restless. I missed something. I was not doing well. I didn't want Marcel Marceau, I wanted the Unit. It would be strange if I went back there tonight, my first night off. After I had finished. But wait: Jo had done it. My first day there, she'd spent the night with Mrs. Pedley. I would do it too. Under the guise of concern for the old lady in V Tach, I would go and spend the night on the Unit. It wasn't until the hermetic doors slushed shut behind me, and I heard the ethereal 'A?round the wurrtd in aay?tee dayzz . . .' and I settled into a chair in Pedley's room, that I felt calm again. .
This calm was not to last. Berry appeared, dressed to kill, and said, 'Roy, what the hell are you doing here? We're supposed to see Marcel Marceau. You bought the tickets, remember?'
'Here, feel this,' I said, indicating my gastrocs.
'What about Marcel Marceau?'
'Inoperative.'
'All right, Roy, it's either this or me: take y ow pick.'
I heard myself say, 'It's this:'
'That's what I thought you'd say,' said Berry, 'and I don't buy it, 'cause you're sick!' She made a motion out into the hallway, and in walked the two police men, Gilheeny and Quick. Following them were Chuck and the Runt.
'A good evening to you from the depth's of my nervous stomach,' said the redhead, limping in. 'We have not seen you since you became a red?hot intern in this weird Unit.'
'We have missed you,' said Quick. 'Finton here, with his bolloxed leg, cannot pursue your company as once
