Doctors

"Prom Dress"

"I don't think I can go back to the 'Y' for awhile."

"Why's that?"

"I hate doctors, you know."

Sometimes I love the way conversations seem to make no sense, all connectivity gone so that it seems a random bunch of words.  But sometimes, it just frustrates me.

"Sure," I said.

"They aren't right all the time.  Sometimes they are right, but not all the time.  Like my shoulder.  The doctor told me I'd never lift again.  Told me it was over, that I was done.  I told him to do that little metaphorical thing they do and 'clean it up,' but he said that he wouldn't know where to begin, that he'd probably only make it worse.  That part I'm sure he was right about now.  But the other part was horse shit."

"I see," I said, not seeing at all, but I wasn't in the mood for unwinding his twisting tale.

"At the 'Y,' there are a lot of doctors who work out.  You can tell them right off.  They come in like they are at the hospital and everyone is working for them, you know what I mean?  You remember the kids at school who ended up becoming doctors?  Remember what they were like in high school?"

"No.  Nobody from my school became a doctor.  Hardly anybody went to college.  One guy became a plant manager for the Hormel company.  And there was another guy who is head foreman for a big agricultural corporation.  One fellow really made out selling insurance.  No, wait, two, two fellows did that."

He just looked at me like I had two heads, like he wasn't the moron.

"I forgot.  Well, the guys who became doctors were the mousy fellows who studied since the first grade and did all the right things.  They were always background noise, in the clubs but not the cool guys.  They had mothers and fathers who were mousy, too.  And then they went to college and maybe joined the nerdy fraternity and they got drunk like twice, and they started dating a girl who thought they were nice and who stayed with them all the way through med school, all the long hours as an intern, and when they finally got finished and began to practice, they owed half a million dollars in student loans."

"Jesus, that sounds great."

"Yea, but they pay it off in five years and then they begin to get rich.  That's when they have to decide if they are going to leave their first wife for a nurse or not because suddenly they are the smartest guy in the room and people are paying attention to them and taking them seriously and they start to believe.  It's always a young, pretty nurse who wants to do things his wife doesn't want to do."

"What about the doctors who are women?"

"Different deal altogether."

"Oh."

"So when they come into the 'Y,' they think they are hot shit.  They are always looking down at their cell phones, checking messages and texting, and all the money boys who aren't doctors come up and say hello and ask them how they are doing and how's the kids, you know, and they always give that slow, neighborly smile and speak cautiously like they are talking to a child."

"Close," I said, getting into the spirit of the conversation.

"When I first started working out at the 'Y,' the doctors were always sort of hanging out on the equipment, talking politely and checking their phones and making it difficult to work out, so I'd walk up and ask if I could work in.  They always seemed miffed and looked at me like I was a worker who just walked into the house with shit on the bottom of his shoes.  Once, one said, 'I'm using this,' and I said, 'no you're not, you're standing there leaning on it.  Get out of the way and I'll show you how to use it.'  I wanted to pop the fucker right there."

"I don't think you should go to the 'Y' to work out," I said.  "They don't act like that there.  You're just a bit too aggressive."

"Well, I was walking in from the parking lot yesterday and this guy--I know he was a doctor the way he was all neat and tidy--was walking toward me looking down at his phone, not looking where he was going like he owned the world and everyone needed to watch out, so I didn't veer and put my shoulder down just before we collided and put a little extra into it turning as if to look over my opposite shoulder.  It jarred him pretty good and his phone went flying.  When it hit the ground, it just fell into pieces.  The guy went nuts and started yelling at me, again, like I am an employee, and I really got mad.  At that point, my heart was pumping pretty good.  'Shut up, you prissy little fuck,' I said to him and suddenly he comes charging at me like he's ready to fight, his hands clenched and his YMCA muscles all bunched up, and without thinking about it, I just punched him in the side of the jaw.  He didn't even try to block it.  I just saw his eyes change shape and the big doubt fall over his face before he crumpled. I think he went out for about two seconds, and then he started moving real slow.  I just walked to my car and got in and drove off.  I don't think I can go back for awhile."

"Yea, you said that.  That was yesterday?"  Now I was paying attention.  It had turned into a real story.

"About three-thirty."

"You think he called the cops?"

He looked troubled for a second, then he laughed.

"Hell no, his phone was broken."

I dated a neurosurgeon for a bit.  I could tell a different story.  But maybe another time.  I'd gotten a kick out of his.  It was pretty good.  He had enough trouble for now, and maybe a little more coming his way.  I'd let it alone.  Who knew what he was in for tomorrow.