you just wait and see.'
'Suit yourself,' I said. 'In spite of the fact that you couldn't tell how many legs or toes she had, Sev, from this day on she's all yours.'
'I don't know how to say this, Dr. Basch, but, well, thanks, thanks a lot. I'll need a prescription for Compazine.'
And who were we, anyway, to imagine we knew what these gomers felt, to be so hot on saving them. Wasn't it ridiculous for us to imagine that they felt as we did? As ridiculous as it would be for us to try to imagine what a child felt? We were putting in these gomers our fear of death, but who knew if they feared death? Perhaps they welcomed death like a dear long?lost cousin, grown old but still known, coming to visit, relieving the loneliness, the failing of the senses, the fury of the half?blind looking into the mirror and not recognizing who is looking back, a dear friend, a dear reliever, a healer who would be with them for an eternity, the same eternity as the long ago, before birth. Wouldn't that be death, for them?
'You know, Roy, I wanna be so rich!' said Chuck. 'That's it! Maybe in July I'll start one of them equal opportunity foundations to find out why we're such good guys and nobody else is, huh?'
'Do you really hate medicine?' I asked.
'Well, man, put it this way: I know I hated this.'
A sloth from Transportation poked his nose in, delivering the mail. I picked up a throwaway journal called
'What did?'
'The postcards. Here, look,' he said, and handed me a postcard: WANT TO HAVE A LUCRATIVE PRACTICE ON NOB HILL, SAN FRANCISCO? IF SO, FILL OUT AND RETURN THIS CARD.
I left the House of God and drove to the suburbs. I stopped in front of a large turreted Victorian house, opened the door, and suddenly realized why the Fat Man had never let me see his house before: I was in a crowded waiting room; the first floor was his office; the Fat Man had a booming private practice in general medicine! The receptionist greeted me, said that Fats was a little behind schedule, and led me past a lab and an examining room to what seemed to be a workshop. There I sat, waiting. I couldn't help noticing the signs of many abandoned projects, and in one corner was a pile of lenses and stainless?steel tubing, and hand?lettered slogans: OWN YOUR OWN ASSHOLE; GAY ASSHOLES, GRAY ASSHOLES, ASSHOLES OF FOREIGN WARS; and finally, the conundrumical: SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE ASSHOLES.
'How goes the Anal Mirror?' I asked as he came in.
'Ah, yes,' said Fats dreamily, 'Dr. Jung's. An idea whose time might just have come, eh, Basch? If only I had the time.'
'What's keeping you so busy?'
'Diarrhea.'
'I'm sorry to hear that.'
'Not mine, the Vets'. Haven't you heard?'
'No,' I said, thinking this would be a way to introduce what I'd planned to say. 'No, we've been out of touch. That's why I insisted on-'
'Yeah, over a month. So much has happened! Back then, I was on the ropes, not knowing if I'd get my Fellowship Letter from the Leggo.'
'Yeah,' I said, trying to stick with my feelings, 'I want to tell-'
'Wait'll you hear what's been going on, Basch. Oh, Christ, wait'll you hear about this!' Settling in, he began telling me how?like one of those weighted clowns that you punch down and watch bob back up, he'd rebounded with a smile, but then he noticed the anxious look on my face and stopped. 'You've come to say you're sorry? Is that it?'
How had he known? Looking into those familiar dark eyes, I felt choked up. Ashamed, I blushed. face twisted toward sadness.
'I know, I know,' said Fats quietly. 'There'll time to talk about it. But hey?a guy like me can't wait on telling an old?friend?new?protege about latest fortoona, can he? Basch, stop sniveling and tune in to this: right now, at this very moment, that diarrhea I inadvertently unleashed is going through God only knows how many hundreds of thousands of U.S. Vet's colons, ripping off the mucosal linings, anf sluicing the villae out through the anus. The worst! Remember that colonel who cornered you in the Unit, snooping around about me?'
'Yeah,' I said, hearing again the Colonel me all kinds of questions about Fats and Jane Doe's diarrhea, and whether the Fat Man's extract had cured it. In the midst of our conversation the Colonel had gotten a painful look in his eyes and asked for the Men's Room. 'Yeah, I remember the Colonel?the one with diarrhea himself?'
'Exactly. It's all over: NATO, SEATO, they say even Tito's caught the goddamn stuff. See, it's a virus. To date, there's only one cure. And the one inventor of the one cure is Fats.'
'You invented a cure?'
'I invented the disease, so I had to: the extract. A cure not only for the diarrhea but also for the Fat Man's GI career.' Musing, he picked up a lens and, toying with it, asked playfully, 'Will I, like Lincoln. be the one to bind up our nation's bowels? I ask you, Basch, as a citizen, is it not time to put this Watergate of diarrhea behind us and go on with the great task of world peace?'
'How is it a cure for your career?'
'Oh. Well, the Leggo is a military man, right? And what military man wouldn't jump when a higher?up military man says 'Jump'? Why no one, Basch, no one wouldn't jump at all. You should have seen it! Beautiful! Last week, the Leggo and I walk down the corridor together, and there's an arm around my shoulder. There's also an arm around his shoulder, Basch, because in between us is a six?foot?three two?sixty?pound gorilla of a Four Star General of the U.S. Army. Made me feel like I'm in a parade in a Banana Republic: the Colonels had won.'
'And so he wrote you a good Fellowship Letter after all?'
'Not exactly. Delighted as he was by the promise to the House of a big GI Research grant, the Leggo has some pride. He told me to write my own letter. He signed it. My Fellowship is assured.'
'Not Hollywood?'
'Yes, Hollywood. The bowel run of the stars!'
I was overwhelmed. Never before had I encountered such sustained application of genius. I felt small. 'Fats, it's mind?boggling. And you've had this private practice going all year?'
'Sure. Ever since I got my license last July. What's the sense of being a licensed doc if you don't use it. 'to relieve pain and suffering'? This GP work is terrific?these are my neighbors, my people. JFK said it: 'Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country's bowels''
'So it all worked out just as you planned?'
'My life story, Basch: everything always works out:
'Fats, you might think it's stupid, but I did come here to say I'm sorry for fighting with you. And . . . and to say thanks.'
'It's OK, Basch, you don't have to say?'
'Shut up, you fatso, and listen!' I said, smiling, watching him curl down into his roly?polyness smile sheepishly. 'You got me through it?'
'Berry got you through it. Marvelous woman: I wish I had?'
'SHUT UP, FATS!' I shouted, hurling a piece an Anal Mirror at him. 'Gradually, over the year, I threw away all the others, until you were the one left. When I threw you away last month, I just fell apart.'
'No, Roy,' said Fats seriously, 'things fell apart when Eddie cracked and Potts jumped. None of stayed on our feet after that.'
'True. But you showed me that a guy can stay in medicine and still be himself, that besides the Leggo and Putzel, there's another way.' I paused, gathered myself up, and said, 'Fats, you're fantastic. Thanks. Thanks for everything.' I fell silent and watch steady eyes show their happiness. We sat together for a while in silence. Then I sighed and said, 'The only problem is that your way is not for me. I can't do GI medicine. I doubt if I can stay in medicine at all. It's not for me.'
'You mean you can't think of an organ you can see yourself dealing with every day for the rest of your life?' Fats asked sarcastically. 'Kidney? Spleen? Rectum? Tooth?'
My father the dentist. Unimaginable. Even my grandfather, an immigrant, hadn't stuck himself into anything
