by J. Schlenker
I’m the name of a Southern belle. I will always rise to the occasion. After all, tomorrow is another day.
I am the envy of vampires. I am crimson, cherry, blood, burgundy, maroon, rose, scarlet, and many more in lipstick shades. I am carmine, the pigment that inspired Van Gogh. I am never innocent in my purest form, but when subdued, I blush and become pink. I am pure. I can be immature and shy. I am unconditional and nurturing in my most mature form.
I am the most vibrant of all the colors. One speck of me, a flower, a leaf, a berry stands out in a forest. I move out of the lush overgrowth into the city. Only I can paint the town.
I am the base chakra. It all starts with me. I govern the material world, the physical body, and the social position in life. If I’m balanced, I will radiate good health and high levels of energy.
Chapter 4
John
* * *
HE STEPPED OUT onto the street under the orange awning of the Java Bean Factory, his hot brew in hand, something to warm him and give him a lift after a rather ho-hum day, a typical Monday. Most GP’s in Manhattan only worked four days, taking Monday or Friday off, but not him. He was still getting his practice off the ground. The hot cup felt like a second skin, a pacifier for his gloved hand against the frigid air.
* * *
There had been Peg Jenkins who wanted a referral for plastic surgery. All of her friends were doing it. She was depressed when she looked in the mirror. New lines appeared everyday. Most people in New York were depressed when they looked in the mirror. Didn’t she know that? A smile and a good attitude helped immensely. But who was he to talk?
“Stop smoking and go easier on the alcohol,” he said mechanically, half listening while wondering how many more patients he could cram in before the end of the day.
“But they calm me, Dr. Gray,” she protested. Peg Jenkins clearly needed someone to talk to, but he wasn’t her shrink. He knew she had one. Most of his patients did. She often brought Dr. Harris’s name up. Her voice had a sound of despair which said that Dr. Harris didn’t listen either. “I’m thinking about changing psychiatrists. I just don’t feel like I’m being helped. Could you recommend someone, Dr. Gray?”
“I’ll think about it, and have my secretary call you with someone. Is that okay?” he asked.
“Hmm, I guess so, Doctor. You know best,” she said with a hiss, following with a sigh. “Well, what about that plastic surgeon?” she asked, not giving up hope.
“Mrs. Jenkins, I really think you should give this more thought.”
The impatience on her face was turning into a scowl, something even the finest plastic surgeon in New York would find impossible to correct. But to placate her, he scribbled some notes in her chart and said, “I will work on the matter and call you next week. Is that okay?” She was probably already lining up a new doctor to replace him.
“Yes,” she said, a slight smile returning across her lips, ironing out a few of the smoking wrinkles around her mouth.
In the meantime, begrudgingly, he wrote her a prescription for Xanax. Begrudgingly because she was already on a string of pills for things that a proper diet and exercise would cure, but she wanted the quick fix, like most of his patients. She had specifically asked for it after seeing it on a commercial. A lot of patients asked for drugs after discovering them during the breaks of the horrors broadcasted over Fox News. They tuned out the side effects.
Why didn’t she get in with the yoga crowd or in with the runners? He rarely saw those in his office, except for an annual checkup or for a sprain or some minor injury. And they usually begged off of any pain pills, like their injury was a badge of honor for all the hard work they put in running that marathon or that extra mile. They merely wanted assurance that nothing was broken and that they would be back hitting the pavement in no time at all. They might even convince themselves deeper breathing while in their yoga moves would melt the back pain away. Usually, they were right.
Peg Jenkins had the time. She didn’t work. Why didn’t she adopt this lifestyle? She lived on Park Avenue with a nice view of Central Park. She was only forty, his age. Forty wasn’t old, or was it?
He felt guilty that he didn’t stress a proper lifestyle more. But then patients with proper lifestyles would not pay off his student loans. Why didn’t he get in with the yoga crowd himself? It couldn’t hurt. Didn’t it relieve stress? Allison was big on yoga, even during her pregnancies, at which time she modified her poses.
Jim Roberts, tennis elbow. Maybe he should take up soccer, he told him, give his arm a rest. He gave him a complimentary sample of pain pills and told him to give it a break and told him that he’d see him in six weeks if there was no improvement. Jim was always in the office for something, a hypochondriac. Tennis was temporary. Next week it would be golf. At least he exercised. This was one of the few times that an office visit had been justified. He would be back before six weeks, no doubt of it. Why was he complaining? Poor old Jim helped pay the rent.
They poured in and out, fifteen minutes a whack. There was the young blonde who he had strip and put on the thin backless gown. She had sprained her ankle. Darts of condemnation shot from the eyes of Lydia, his nurse. The young girl, twenty-five, didn’t question him. She would have to give up her ice skates for a while. Allison sometimes asked him about his day. He gave her generalities. Doctor patient confidentiality, he told her. Amongst themselves, doctors bragged about this sort of stuff all the time. The young girl had been his only perk of the day, of the month, for that matter.
Well, there were other benefits. There were the free lunches. Who says there are no free lunches? Doctor’s offices were the exception to the rule. Pharmaceutical reps streamed in every day. If they came early, they brought bagels and Starbuck’s coffee. For lunch, it was pizza or an array of deli sandwiches and salads, always something different, an assortment to please everyone who worked there. Today it had been Chinese. They knew everyone by name and what their food preferences were. Then there were the free samples, and the offers that came with them, cruises and vacations if he would just write an astronomical amount of prescriptions, which he did. He, Allison, and the kids had gone to Disney World this past summer, completely paid for.
This was his day, day in, day out, not what he envisioned. Maybe he should have gone into gynecology. He could eventually be turned off by sex. He heard it happened. But then, it was happening anyway, and he was only a general practitioner. He and Allison had planned on another child. No, make that Allison had planned on another child. He didn’t see that happening anytime soon. He was always tired. He shouldn’t be tired. Boredom was making him tired.
* * *
There had never been boredom when he worked in the ER. If anything he was exhilarated, on a constant high. He was also sickened. Sickened by blood. Sickened by death. Sickened by stabbings, by drug overdoses, bullets in young kids, kids who should be home in a safe environment like Molly and Little John. He was sickened by the long hours. His family suffered. He argued to himself he was making a difference. He counter-argued he wasn’t. It was a constant battle within him when there was time to think at all.
He had once talked to Mark, Allison’s brother about it. They would often discuss things over a beer. Mark had said he was fighting inner battles, like in the Bhagavad Gita. John didn’t really have a clue what he was talking about. Mark was often spouting off about the larger truths in life and recommending that he try meditation. For one, he was just trying to keep a roof over their heads and keep Mark’s sister happy. And secondly, he couldn’t see that any of this was helping Mark. Mark was usually a mess. Instead of solving any of life’s problems, they just had a second round of beers.
Working in the ER had been a constant rush, living on the edge, living on adrenaline and cafeteria coffee, greasy donuts, and vending machine snacks. He was killing himself. Didn’t most doctors die young? Allison had settled the argument as with most cases in their marriage. With the help of her parents, she arranged for him to
settle into something more stable, a nine-to-five practice in Manhattan.
* * *
He stood, holding the warm thick paper cup — recyclable, he imagined. They all were these days. He remembered when the hospital finally changed from Styrofoam to paper. A few of his peers complained. Didn’t these supposedly, highly intelligent people have any sense? Maybe they had a point. He was always seeing the little sleeves along the sidewalks. They had a way of coming off. Today they stuck to the snow like miniature sleds beside the overflowing garbage cans. At least people gave it their best shot. Who wanted to place their Coach fur-lined gloves on the nastiness of what protruded over the top, trying to stuff down their espresso and six-dollar drink containers? These were the least of the world’s problems. What about all the prescriptions he wrote along with all the other doctors, not to mention the over-the-counter ones? Drugs were being shot out into the system and no one ever seemed to complain, to question, what might be in the water. The street drugs were minuscule in comparison.
An ambulance shot by. A red flash. Snow was beginning to fall yet again. There had been a thin layer on the sidewalk when he left the house this morning. Another stabbing or gun-shot wound he supposed. Or maybe it was a heart attack, an old person. He hadn’t seen the inner workings of a heart in quite some time. He only heard it through his stethoscope these days. Sometimes, he missed that, the three dimensional inner workings of a body, the throbbing, pulsing, life at its root, a universe of its own.
Allison was probably beginning dinner about now. She had a ritual of laying everything out in advance, double-checking her list like Santa Claus, an aspiring OCD Julia Child.
He made his way towards the subway, being pushed along with the rest of the five o’clock crowd, trying to avoid being stabbed by people’s wet black umbrellas as they fumbled with their brief cases. He only had his overcoat and his Burberry scarf, more of a fashion statement, something to make him look like a respectable Manhattan doctor, rather than a functional shield against the snow. It was a gift from his mother. Today, he needed the hand-knitted one Rain had made him, but it probably got carted off to Goodwill when she broke up with Mark. No point in reminding Mark, Allison would say. Allison didn’t like Rain.
It was only Monday, the beginning of another long week. Was that Shelly, Mark’s newest squeeze, getting on the subway down a car from him? This would be her day off. Mark had said she had a small part in Wicked. Who was that character she was with? Must be one of her theater friends. She didn’t see him. Just as well. He really wasn’t in the mood for Shelly, although he should butter her up next chance he got. Maybe she could maneuver some good seats for them. He guessed Mark had already seen it. Yes, they would have to go, he and Allison, find a sitter for the kids. He wondered if they could get that college student that came before. No, that had been two years ago. She had graduated by now, moved on. Had it been that long since they had a date night? They could ask Allison’s parents to babysit. They were always eager to do so. In fact, they would probably drive from Long Island, make it easy on them.
They hadn’t had time for many plays. That was supposed to happen with his new practice. It hadn’t. He was always exhausted. To his amazement, Allison was a ball of energy, always working on something. It was remodeling the downstairs bathroom at the moment. He hypothesized it took her mind off of their declining marriage. The demise was subtle. Both knew; neither would admit it.
He admired Mark, Allison’s brother. A free soul. He wasn’t caught up in the get ahead trap. Nor was he caught up in the marriage trap. Mark was only thirty-three, still plenty of time. Allison said she wanted him to settle down, but yet she criticized everyone he ever dated, just like her mother. Couldn’t they just let him be?
The women Mark brought around weren’t many. He only knew of three since he and Allison had been together. Considering Allison’s criticism, he probably hid them. Of the ones he had introduced them to, Rain was his favorite. Pure entertainment, she was. Why couldn’t Allison be more like Rain? But then, if anyone was Allison’s opposite, it was Rain, a pure scatterbrain.
Shelly, he would have to agree with Allison, was a bit on the loud side, to the point of being obnoxious. She had come over with Mark for dinner on Italian night and scared the children when she belted out an Italian aria at the dinner table. She wasn’t invited back. Allison said the children still weren’t over it. Maybe that’s what it took to be on Broadway.
And, what was the other one’s name, the one before Rain, Emma, Erma? Oh, well, he couldn’t remember. Sometimes he thought she was being flirty with him. She was supposed to get Mark this big record deal or at least a meeting with some top record executive. That never panned out. Maybe there were others Mark saw on the sly. Probably lots of one-night stands. Of course there were. After all, he was a musician. Didn’t women flock toward those? He wasn’t bad looking; women must love his dark curls and blue eyes.
He gasped as he entered the subway. It reeked of discarded food and homeless people. He should be used to it by now, but it was always such a contrast coming from the sterilized smell of his office with its alcohol, cotton balls, and bandages. He looked around, found a seat next to a woman who must be one of the homeless, riding back and forth to keep out of the cold, as many did.
Why was he complaining about his life? How could he say it was bad? He didn’t, of course, if anyone asked. He always said the ubiquitous ‘fine.’ And when he asked how someone else was in return, outside of the office, they also replied with the meaningless ‘fine’ back at you. But then did he need a long list of complaints? Sometimes it happened when people found out he was a doctor. They were looking for free medical advice. Why couldn’t people surprise him and say for instance, ‘I’m stupendous, feeling great,’ or ‘I just experienced the most marvelous thing.’ Wasn’t that the kind of things Oprah said? Is that why millions flocked to her show, for the positivity? Allison was an Oprah addict.
The train came to a stop. Sleek, good-looking, red coat, red heels, she gave him a smile, as she stepped into the car and grabbed the pole. Oh, the thoughts that were going through his mind and every other red-blooded male on the train when she grabbed that pole. It momentarily took the chill out of the air and the stench from the surroundings. He immediately got up, giving her his seat. Other men had moved to do so, but he was the quickest. She flinched as she took her place next to the ragged homeless woman. He tried not to stare, along with every other male in the subway car, as she crossed her legs. They shimmered as if she had been photoshopped into her beige stockings, damp from the snow. Maybe he wasn’t dead yet.
There had been the one brief time at the hospital. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Maybe it was the color. She, too, had worn a red coat over her scrubs. They had stepped outside into the snow; her for a cigarette break, him just for a break. It came after a rather intense episode. But they saved the kid, a stabbing. He was only fourteen. The sad thing is, they both knew he would be going back to that life. They had both dropped their blood soaked gloves into the trash at the same time. There had been a look between them. It had been building for months. She grabbed her coat and wrapped her scarf around her auburn hair. He followed. There was a passionate kiss behind a column where the ambulances came through. He had just begun to move his hand over her breast when two emergency vehicles, with bright flashing lights blinding them, pulled up almost simultaneously. Startled back into reality, he abruptly pulled his hand back.
They were needed once again, this time a woman. She had been beaten up badly by her husband. He had caught her cheating. This brought them both to their senses, some kind of sign. The other patient: a small child, hit by some kind of crane, one of those New York freak accidents. There was a lot of freak that went on in New York. Sandra, the nurse, went off with the other ER doctor to attend to the woman. He raced to the child.
He and Sandra were both married, although neither wore their rings in the ER. Allison was a tad put off by it, but understood. Sandra di
vorced and transferred to another hospital shortly after. He was relieved, not about her divorce, but about her transfer.
That night he second-guessed himself. Maybe someone had seen them. He seemed to remember a woman crying. His wife was pregnant with Molly. What had come over him? This wasn’t him. Or was it? He had found this type of behavior in other men despicable. He was happy with Allison. Or so he thought. At least comfortable.
* * *
Allison had taken the initiative during their dating. She made it far too easy for him. There had been no chase, no hunt. Wasn’t a man supposed to win the woman he loved? She never gave him a chance. She was always there, like a mother, in some respects. But, she wasn’t his mother. Early in their relationship, just when he started to break away, she sensed something. Like a spider devouring her prey, she lured him back into her web. It was a carefully planned seduction, done in steps, much like Allison’s checklists that he found on their refrigerator and lying all around the house. She was notorious for her lists. She had probably noted all the steps in their courtship in carefully detailed fashion with her black Pilot Precise pen.
After a time, when he backed away, Allison announced that she might be pregnant. She announced it during a lunch meeting at a restaurant they had never been too before, in a mall next to a jewelry store. She talked him into wine. He protested, saying he shouldn’t drink while on call. She insisted on one glass, just a small one, but she had sparkling water. Allison was methodical like that.
Marriage only seemed natural. She led him straight to the ring she wanted. Nothing ostentatious, or expensive. Something practical, something thoughtful that said she knew he was a first year intern and that she could wait for something bigger when he was a full-fledged doctor.
Of course, the jewelry store being next door was just a fluke, one of those serendipitous moments they shouldn’t ignore. He believed in signs. Allison knew this; she had played him, but there were never hostile intentions. It was always for his own good.
