My My Little Prince

by Rod Lacy Rod Lacy

  As he walked to the area where the conference was, he noticed a “Brugal Rum Welcome Center” sign. A cute young lady wearing impossibly tight jeans was pouring Brugal Extra Viejo in small iced glasses. Her ass was like a caricature ass out of a Super-heroes comic book. He let out an appreciative whistle and she heard it and turned towards him smiling. Her Brugal T-shirt was tied in knot under her impressive chest and her bare belly was smooth, taut, and the color of espresso foam.

  She appreciated him appreciating her and smiled hugely, looking him straight in his eyes. He couldn’t help notice they were shockingly green. This really surprised him, and for a moment all he could do was stare. He thought they looked stunning against her smooth burnished skin as he heard her ask if he was with the group. After he slowly nodded his head, she responded and said. “Well then, Bienvenidos doctor, care to have a drink of Brugal?”

  “Well yes, and also a Presidente Light, please.”

  “Sorry sir, but I only have Brugal. As you can see we represent Brugal. They are serving Presidentes in the bar though.”

  “Oh yes.” Pierre said and continued, “How stupid of me! Yes, I would love a Cuba Libre with Brugal. Is it really the best rum in all the Islands?”

  As she was pouring the Cuba Libre she smiled at his question. Her strong white teeth glowed like another crescent moon. She really was dazzling. “Brugal sure knows how to pick ‘em,” he thought.

  He leaned over and very quietly asked, “Excuse me miss, can you tell me please; where is the conference registration?” He gave her his best smile, “and how long will you be here tonight?”

  As she handed him his drink she smiled coyly and says, “Sure, go down this walkway and turn right, it’s in the Queen Palm room. I get off at twelve.”

  He smiled as he was thinking, “God damn! How easy! She would be a killer!”

  “Thanks, I’ll be back,” he said as he took the drink. With a smile he gently massaged her hand. She wasn’t even a little startled or taken aback. She smiled and allowed him to hold her hand for a few seconds as they both stared into each other’s eyes. She felt a warm sensation go through her body which surprised her. She swallowed in an attempt to catch her breath while she caught her composure.

  Pierre let go of her hand and said, “I will be here looking for you after I register.”

  She smiled and said, “I will be here.”

  “Perfect, then maybe if God is willing we will meet again.”

  “Now that is one hot Gringo!” she was thinking, “And a Doctor too! He is perfect. Why can’t I ever meet a gentleman like him?”

  Pierre turned toward her as he began walking away and gave her a big smile and a wink

  A couple seconds later Pierre was walking toward the registration desk when a man walked up and introduced himself. “Excuse me,” he said. “I seem to be turned around. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the lecture hall?”

  Pierre said, “Well, I just got here myself and I don’t know where the lecture hall is, but the registration desk is right down this walkway and to the right, I think. I am going that direction myself, care to join me?”

  The other doctor smiled and thanked him. He said a little too loudly, “I would consider it an honor to walk with you. Where are you from my good man?”

  Pierre looked at the doctor and said, “Many places, but most lately from across the street at the Casa Del Mar Neptunia.” The doctor smiled and laughed slightly.

  “Of course you are,” he said jovially. He’d obviously visited the Brugal tent beforehand.

  As they walked up to the registration desk the young lady there looked up and smiled. Pierre said, “Will you please be so kind as to register my friend … ”

  He turned to his new friend with a question in his eyes. “Oh, I am Dr. Garcia.” Garcia said and held out his hand.

  They shook hands and the girl looked down at the preregistered guest list and said, “Yes, yes, here it is ... Dr. Garcia, from Orlando, Florida. Sure, we are expecting you. Welcome sir.”

  Pierre said, “Oh, you are from Florida? Our gorgeous Sunshine State, huh?”

  Garcia looked at Pierre and said, “Yes sir, I am. And you? I mean other than from the hotel across the street?”

  Pierre felt a little nervous and confused, but just for a split second. He stumbled with his words and said, “Ah, well, I’m from Santo Domingo.” Dr. Garcia looked at Pierre curiously.

  Pierre recovered, “I had to think where I’m from because I am from New York, Port-au-Prince, Santo Domingo and a few other locations; depending on the chapter of my life. But, lately it is Santo Domingo.”

  “Oh, I see,” Dr. Garcia said. “I’ve had the same problem at different times in my life too.” Garcia looked at Pierre and asked, “First time at this conference? I don’t think I have ever seen you here before.”

  “Yes,” Pierre answered and continued, “It's beautiful here, I would live here if I could.”

  Garcia interrupted, “No I mean at this conference. How did you hear of the conference?”

  “I, uh, heard about it from a colleague,” he said as he adjusted his collar

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, how else would I have heard of it?” “Man, I am not on my A-game tonight! Get it together Smi ... fuck! Pierre!”

  “Gay life ...” Garcia said with a crooked smile. “It is a gay conference. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” Pierre said. He looked about him at the other guests wondering how he had missed those signs. “Well that explains a lot!”

  Garcia said, “Good, because I wondered if maybe you had just seen the action and wandered in.”

  “No, I am here because I came to hear a specific speaker.”

  “Oh?” he said, his interest piqued. “And who is that.”

  At that moment Pierre saw a title on the schedule; ‘How to Testify’. Pierre continued, “He writes about testimony under oath.”

  “Oh, you must mean Dr. Andrews.”

  “Yes, I couldn’t think of his name for a second there. Yes, Dr. Andrews.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Garcia gave a small smile and said, “I knew a Dr. Pierre years ago that also was from the United States and now works here. He was from New York, but I have not seen him in years. Shoot! It has been so long I probably wouldn’t recognize him if I did see him. He was a nice person though; volunteered in this country too if I remember correctly. But I really don’t remember all that much about him. Ever meet another Dr. Pierre in Santo Domingo?”

  “No, can’t say I have.” Pierre said and in order to change the subject he quickly asked Garcia, “Where do you live? I know you live in Florida but I forgot what city?”

  He stopped and held out his hand and said, “I work in the Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane; in Orlando, Florida. I'm the director there. And how about you?”

  “Oh me, I'm … presently … from the Colonial Zone of Santo Domingo, and as you know, from New York before that. I worked in a clinic there, but now I'm semi-retired. I'm thinking of maybe going to Bermuda.”

  “Really? That’s interesting … and so young!” Dr. Garcia remarked as he cocked his head, inviting further information with the gesture.

  Pierre smiled and said, “Yes, I like the Islands so much, and I have an offer to work in a clinic there; as a director and a research department head.”

  Garcia nodded and, warming to the subject now, he answered, “I can tell you it is hard to find good doctors that want to work, especially in research. I’m sure they are lucky to get you.”

  Pierre smiled and said, “Yes, I suppose. I know the salaries are lower, but I am retired or almost anyway, so the money is not really an issue. I love research.”

  Garcia was curious. He said, “Even with the liberal laws they have in Florida it’s hard to find a good research professor. Most of them want to work in California where the psychiatric ‘climate’ is better.”

  Pierre’s ears perked up and he asked, “What do you mean
liberal laws?”

  Garcia looked at him and before Garcia could answer, Pierre said, “Hey, before you answer that, how about we go to the bar and talk about it over a drink?”

  Garcia brightened at this, “perfect, there are no lectures tonight, only registration and if you like Rum that is free.”

  “So what are we waiting for? Christmas?” Pierre laughed.

  They turned back towards the garden and Garcia asked Pierre, “Have you had the free Cuba Libres?”

  “I had one a few minutes ago and they’re pretty good.”

  However, Pierre wanted to avoid the beautiful girl at the Brugal Bar so when they walked down the hallway and he saw a small bar he steered Garcia inside. When they entered they found a small table toward the back. The bar was a softly lit Tiki Bar. Overhead fans were doing their job and the music was livelier than before. As they were sitting, Pierre asked loudly over the pulse of the Bachata music, “Ok, now what do you mean liberal laws?”

  Garcia said, “Well in Florida, many times a doctor can get in through what is called the Fifth Pathway. It is not really any specific path, but accumulations of different ways a doctor can get a dispensary license without doing a residency or without passing the USMLE - or even both sometimes.” Pierre’s eyes widened at this. They both order Presidente Beers when the white shirted waiter stopped by.

  Pierre looked at Garcia questioningly, “Fifth Pathway ... ? I’m sure I never heard of it.”

  Garcia waved his hand as if shooing a pesky fly. “HA! The licensing boards sure don’t boast of it because it shoots a hole in the theory that all MD’s have these incredibly high IQ’s and that their education is ‘second to none’. Actually, the real truth is that there are thousands of licensed MD’s out there that have substandard educations and have never even taken any licensure exams.”

  Garcia continued, “For example, if a prison needs a doctor, the state can hire almost anyone and after three years, that person will get a state license with no tests. They count their work time as their residency. It’s the same at my facility.” They paused once again as their waiter sets two more icy cold Presidentes on fresh napkins. “Wow those look cold,” he said admiringly as he ran a fingernail down the icy layer of hoarfrost clinging to the dripping bottle.

  They clinked their bottles and each took a drink. “We are lucky to get an orderly let alone a doctor. And we would never be able to get one with any qualifications. So if we need a doctor, we have to hire a non-licensed foreign graduate that has never worked anywhere, has no experience and that could never pass any boards.”

  Pierre interrupted and asked, “And then; after only three years they would qualify for a license and then they can open their own private office?” Pierre could barely contain his incredulity at this.

  “Yup,” Garcia said. “But on the other hand it is often very difficult for a non-licensed doctor to find a position because many foreign doctors are always applying. But you know how it is,” he leaned in and said, “it’s who you know and not what you know.”

  Pierre asked again, “So do you ever hire foreign doctors?” He picked up his napkin and wiped the table nonchalantly where his beer had left a wet ring. Garcia had one hundred percent of his attention.

  “Oh yes, every few years we do. You know, as their three year license time is up and they realize they can go on their own we inevitably have to try to find another one. The problem for us is that we have to train them. We start over each time, re-teach them. Then, by the time their three years is up they finally know the system and then they leave. The poor patients really never get the care they deserve. It would be great if we could get someone like you; someone that wants to help heal the sick and would stay! We really need someone that is already knowledgeable in the areas of psychiatry.”

  Pierre leaned over, his elbow on the table and got a little in Garcia’s space. He supported his chin with his hand and said, “That is very very interesting Doctor, I had no idea!” He shook his head in wonder.

  Garcia looked back at Pierre, a little surprised at the intimacy. “Well, anyway, we really should get another cold beer. ‘Bien fria!’ as they say down here! They taste mighty good tonight.” He nudged Pierre, “must be the great company!”

  “Yes, you are right,” Pierre laughed, “about the beer and the company!”

  Pierre said to himself with a big grin, “Well it looks like I'm going gay for a while. Haven’t played that game in a long time. But, that is why I get what I want, ‘cause I will do what it takes. Looks like I'm moving to Orlando too. Yeah, that would be perfect. I do love those patients, and it gets me closer to my loose ends again. I couldn’t have planned it better! Orlando here I come.”

  33

  The Jungle Drums of deepest Africa have nothing on the Coconut Telegraph of the Dominican Republic. News travels fast … especially good news.

  Frank had been back in the states for almost two months when one of the seeds he had sewn on his last visit to the DR came to fruition. He received a call and when he saw the area code on his caller ID his heart skipped a beat. It seems his bribes had paid off.

  It was the bartender he’d had a conversation with on the stairway at the Hotel Mystic. She had news for him. Her cousin’s boyfriend’s uncle’s something-or-other was a cab driver and he had picked up a man who matched Campbell’s description several times. He had driven him to the Instituto de Dr. Reynaldo Pierre de Psicología. She was positive of the identification.

  Frank was on the next flight out. “This sneaky fuck has a lot of balls.”

  As he entered the Santo Domingo Hospital for the Criminally Ill Frank thought, “He’s smart, but I’m smarter! Soon I will deliver his fucking gonads on a silver platter to David and he can have the pleasure of throwing darts at them; … and leave mine the fuck alone!”

  Frank continued talking to himself as he walked toward where he thought the administrative offices were. At the end of the hall an old was man sweeping the floor. His broom had all the bristles bent in all the wrong directions. He swept from one side to the other and back again, moving the dirt from right to left; left to right without really accomplishing anything. “God, how old is that fucker,” Frank thought. “He looks like a cartoon of a person.”

  It was impossible to say what age he was. “How many years do you have old man?” He thought of the way Hispanics thought about age and had to agree it was better. It’s not how old you are; it’s how many years you have.

  Either way, this guy had some anos! His weathered features were old and wizened, but there was an unmistakable strength in his ropy arms. He gave Frank a toothless smile. The way his bald head on his skinny neck poked out of his over-sized shirt reminded Frank of a turtle.

  “Hi,” Frank said as he slowed and walked up to the man. The old man nodded his head and smiled back. He kept sweeping without missing a stroke. “Where can I find the waiting room?” Frank asked him.

  The old man just smiled and kept sweeping. Frank asked again, “where can I find the waiting room?” Turtle head smiled again and pointed to the bathrooms. Frank looked at him curiously when it dawned on him he must be a patient there.

  He smiled again and then looked up and said in broken English, “I don't speak much English, but if you want the bathrooms, they are there. But be careful not to put soap on your hands before you check to see if there is water or you will have to wipe the soap off on your pants and then you will not be allowed to eat. You know the water never works here. You have to remember that if you want to eat.”

  Frank laughed, surprised at this wealth of information. “Ok, I will be sure I remember that,”

  The man repeated, “don’t put the soap on your hands until you check to see if the water works, but the water never works so why would you put soap on your hands?” He bent his head to his sweeping again, mumbling to himself and shaking his head at some sort of inner turmoil.

  “Thank you, sir,” Frank told him. He patted him lightly on the shoulder as he walked by him
on down the hall.

  Frank heard footsteps ahead and a security guard rounded a corner. Frank stopped dead, his mouth popped open and his hands went up reflexively. The burly guy was carrying a fully automatic rifle in the shooting position and he gruffly asked Frank what he was looking for. “Easy buddy; tranquillo! I’m just looking for the receptionist.”

  The guard looked at Frank’s hands, and then down at his weapon. He nodded acquiesce, but said, “senor, this is no place to be running around alone; please follow me.”

  Frank shook his head and raised his hands again placatingly. “Yes, yes, I understand, I must have come in the wrong way. Please, can you lead the way?” He fell in step with the guard.

  A couple minutes later, Frank was talking to a receptionist. “Hi, I´m looking for a good friend of mine.” He pulled out the picture of ‘Pierre’ again and showed it to the receptionist.