Predator Press
[LOBO]
A handful of psychotherapists have indicated some concern over my moodiness lately.
Indeed, I’ve been in an orbit around ‘ah screw it’ for maybe three weeks now.
“Try to do something charitable,” says one. “There’s nothing more satisfying than being in service to others.”
So’s my mom has got a doctor appointment today, right? I figure here’s my chance: taking the old bat to her appointment might be a big step in breaking the sulk, and thusly keep my psychotherapists too busy to dawdle on dumb ideas.
But as this morning rolled around it dawned on me I didn’t know what kind of appointment it was. Hey if it’s an eye doctor or something, fine. But what if it’s, like, a –ahem-
feminine doctor? That would be a waiting room experience even the Creepy Meter couldn’t quantify.
”Oh relax,” she laughs over my cellphone speaker.
”It’s just my in-network orthopedic surgeon.”
Calling her on my way to pick her up is dumb on a lot of levels. First of all, I’m committed at this point. There’s no “oops I overslept” option anymore: you’re stuck with faking an aneurysm or swerving into the other lane of traffic.
But second is my admitted inability to drive and talk on the cell in the first place. The driving side is fine, but the conversation suffers: you’re almost more apt to get a tuna casserole recipe out of me than anything useful.
I glance balefully at the phone, which is wedged cleverly in my emergency brake handle.
“Your in-network or torpedic surgeon?” I repeat. “What the hell is a ‘torpedic surgeon’?”
“It’s a bone doctor,” she explains.
“Once you get down to bones, isn’t it a little late?”
”Oh no. They have wonderful new technologies.”
“Sure,” I says. “They can scan you in a second and suck out what’s wrong with a glowing crazy straw made of lasers. But I’ll bet you a dollar nobody has figured out how to keep us out of the waiting room for anything less than an hour.”
“Doctor Quan has a very interesting collection of ceremonial masks on display.”
Ceremonial masks?
“Mom, what kind of doctor is this again?”
“In network.”
“Don’t we have American doctors anymore?” I complain. “You remember. An
American doctor stumbles in off of the golf course drinking a glass of bourbon, puts his cigarette out on the floor, and punches you in the stomach. If you get up, you’re
fine.” I grab my coffee out of the caddy. “You mean to say there wasn’t a single ‘Doctor Cooter’ in the whole damn phone book?”
”That would be a funny name for a gynecologist,” she points out.
-I blacked out actually hearing my mother utter the ‘G’ word by swinging into my exit lane. I’m pretty adept with my ‘mom’ filters: I don’t think I’ve heard a full sentence she’s said since I was six years old. “Doctor Cooter could do it
all,” I says. “The receptionist says ‘next,’ and one by one the patients go in -never to be seen again.
”That sounds kinda creepy.”
“No. Because he
cures them. Doctor Cooter doesn’t make you drive thirty miles to a specialist for X-rays before you see him next month. Doctor Cooter doesn’t
need lousy X-rays. Doctor Cooter has
instinct.”
”And an aptitude for body blows,” she adds.
“Exactly. And it’s not just one hour in the waiting room for Doctor Cooter. No. He calls everyone in at eight o’clock sharp so we could all watch each other slowly thin out. Six minutes later the lights are dimming in synch with an oscillating sound that suspiciously resembles a chainsaw. Reaaaahhhnggginginging
AWWWW!”
”That’s awful.”
“-and glowing blue sparks shoot out from the crack under the door!” I kill the car engine in her driveway. “Hey I’m here.”
”I don’t think I want to go anymore,” says mom.
”Can I just tell them you overslept?”
“By all means.”
Predator Press
