Flea Flicker

by David Chill

  My old pal had achieved his goal quickly, although being added to his father's burgeoning medical practice in his early thirties had smoothly paved his way. I had long been envious, not of his success, but of his single-minded passion. I was not blessed with his direction or vision; I did not have my path carved out. For many years I was unsettled, searching for what my calling was, dipping my big toe into various jobs, not staying long enough to spin them into a career. When I eventually settled into the profession that was right for me, it was only because survey research combined a dozen elements that I found intriguing. Eli loved to say that as a pollster, I had finally landed into the perfect situation, a career focused on asking questions rather than answering them.

  "If it isn't the political wizard," Eli crowed as the door opened. He stepped inside, dressed in the customary white lab coat and with his staid professional demeanor, stethoscope hanging from his neck. His black hair was now flecked with gray, but Eli's face remained smooth, the confident physician whose worries never seemed to appear on his face. He placed a file folder carefully down on the counter and we shook hands warmly. "Last time I saw you, you were plotting to overthrow the governor of California."

  "And we succeeded," I said, "although our candidate may have been in the right place at the right time. Governor Rex Palmer self-destructed. He didn't need much help."

  "Modest. You helped change the course of California history."

  "For a few people, I suppose."

  "Well," he said lightly, "I can attest my life hasn't changed much."

  I would not imagine it had. Elections rarely impact the lives of the affluent. They may pay a little more or a little less in taxes. They may see a surge in homelessness as they drive to their plush offices, or they might learn of a few more burglaries in their exclusive zip codes. The potholes in their tony neighborhoods might not get filled as quickly. It was always the ones down on the low end of the wealth totem pole whose lives were most affected. For people at the level of Elijah Sterling, politics was mainly theater.

  "I haven’t seen you in awhile. How've you been, Eli?" I asked. "How's the family?"

  "Oh, fine, all is well. Courtney won't be joining Angelina at the Brentwood School, she's headed to Harvard-Westlake this fall. I guess we jumped though all their hoops without tripping up."

  "Doctors get special privilege," I observed. Harvard-Westlake was the premier prep school in Los Angeles, one of the most elite schools in the country. When two parents get together in L.A., the conversation almost inevitably drifts toward schools, who's applying where, and the odds of getting admitted. "I'm sure you're pleased she won't have to besmirch the family name and attend Beverly Hills High School."

  "There's nothing wrong with public schools, Ned," he pointed out diplomatically, holding up a well-manicured palm. "We're products of them."

  "True," I said. "Berkeley's a state school, but it's still pretty exclusive. Tougher to get in now than when we were applying. Angelina will find that out next year."

  "Any chance of a scholarship for her?"

  "No. My daughter's smart, but not driven. She doesn't think she has to be," I sighed. My own upbringing had been vastly different from Angelina's, in almost every way imaginable, culturally, financially, geographically. Coming out of South Carolina, my choices weren't robust. My family could afford junior college, and made subtle hints at my joining the army after high school. I lucked out by earning a National Merit Scholarship, which gave me a springboard out of the low country, and into a vast new world. It wasn't merely the other side of the country; Berkeley might just as well have been on the other side of the planet.

  "Things have a way of working out," Eli said. "She might even get a free ride for softball. I hear she's quite the pitcher. Brentwood's having a great season."

  "Long shot," I shrugged. "We'll figure out a way to pay for it. Business seems to be picking up. I've been doing some work for Garter Vitamins."

  "I thought you were focused on political campaigns, not those supplements."

  "Sometimes you have to turn a blind eye to things, especially when their business helps with the bills. You know, Garter's always looking for doctor endorsements. Would be an easy payday for you."

  Eli gave a small guffaw. "Sorry. There's a fine line between medicine and snake oil. I've taken an oath. First do no harm."

  "Good to know."

  "So," he said, quickly changing the subject, "what brings you to my doorstep?"

  "My aching back," I said. "It's been hurting like hell the past couple of days."

  "When did this begin?"

  I struggled to recall. It was probably over a month ago when I first noticed some irritation. Like many aches and pains that afflict the middle-aged, I just assumed it was the advent of a new phase of life, a distraction I would need to endure for a while. I imagined this ailment, like the many other annoyances that beset us, would eventually go through its progressions and then dissipate.

  "Maybe a month," I said. "Leslie’s been bugging me to come see you."

  "Smart woman," the doctor smiled, instructing me to take off my shirt and engage in deep, methodical breathing. The pain ebbed and flowed as I took air into my lungs before sending it back out. Eli pressed the cold metal disk against various sections of my back and listened carefully through his stethoscope. He asked me where the pain was, and I stopped him at a spot six inches below the area where my neck and left shoulder connected. After a minute of poking and prodding, he stepped back and placed the stethoscope back around his neck.

  "Thoughts?" I asked, feeling my researcher's deployment of open-ended questions starting to take shape.

  "This is why married men live longer," he said, jotting a few notes down. "People think it's because of companionship, sharing experiences, regular sex. Nope. All wrong. It's very simple. It's because wives tell their husbands to go see the doctor when something doesn't feel right."

  "And?"

  "And then they nag their husbands until they listen."

  "I'll remember that next time Leslie and I have a fight and I start conjuring up fond thoughts about one of the cute, young women I work with."

  "Don't go beyond thoughts," he said, wagging a finger. "You've got a good deal there. Don't mess it up. All it takes is one dalliance and you're through. Wives never forget, even if they can forgive you. And you'll never hide it from them. They can practically smell the betrayal on you."

  "You're quite the fountain of wisdom," I remarked, thinking back on my most recent business trip, and the dalliance that was offered up to me by Haley, who was simultaneously comely and predatory. The temptation was there, but so was the feeling that such a tryst would not end well.

  "Second marriages can do that to a person. Socrates once said that when a man has a good wife, he becomes very happy. Want to know what he said about a man who has a not-so-good wife?"

  "You're going to tell me regardless, aren't you?"

  "He becomes a philosopher."

  We both smiled. Leslie and I had married right after college. Neither of us dated much, we just blended together nicely, comfortable in the way a fuzzy, old sweater made you feel warm. Leslie was slender and pretty, she had those soft, delicate doe eyes that could tug on my heartstrings as well as light up my heart. We shared the same approach to politics, which is to say we enjoyed the strategy of a campaign more than getting into the nitty-gritty that came later, the wonky aspect of public policies, the actual act of governing.

  "So, what's the diagnosis, Doc? Am I going to make it?"

  Eli did not answer right away, instead he turned back again and wrote something in his folder. He looked down at it for a few seconds and then jotted down an address on a small slip of paper. Handing it to me, he gave me a long, concerned look.

  "I think you need to go in for a chest x-ray," he said.

  "Why?"

  "I heard some wheezing. And the pain is in an unusual area. Might be something, might be nothing. But you should get it checked out. The ima
ging center is a block away. It'll only take a few minutes."

  I nodded, a bit puzzled, but I didn't inquire further. Eli was telling me all he knew, and like a good doctor and a better friend, he was not going to speculate. I didn't want him to, either. I looked down at my phone and checked my afternoon schedule. Aside from returning a few phone calls, I was free.

  "Sold," I said, putting on my shirt before Eli walked me to the exit. I was about to say goodbye and suggest we get together for a family barbecue soon, but one of the nurses came out from her station, phone in hand, a puzzled expression on her face as she addressed me.

  "Mr. Baker?"

  "Yes?" I said.

  "I have this vice president calling you."

  Eli looked at me curiously. "You're having your calls forwarded to my office?"

  I shook my head. "No. In fact, I didn't think anyone knew my schedule today. Except maybe Wanda, my project director. I just finished a meeting with Garter. Maybe it's their VP of marketing."

  "Why would they be calling you here?" Eli asked.

  "No clue. I suppose I could have left something behind at her office. But I can't imagine how she could have tracked me here."

  "No, sir," the nurse said, a little more emphatically. "That's not it. Not at all."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have the vice president on the phone," she said a little more emphatically.

  "Which one?" I asked.

  "The vice president," she repeated, starting to get annoyed, "of the United States."

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