parts. He pulled and tucked it, barely enough to avoid arrest for indecent exposure. Tentatively, with slight embarrassment, he reached out his hand to Doc’s. Slap Doc on the back, kick him in the rear, punch him in the stomach, grab his hand to get up from the basketball court, yes. But Jake didn’t ever remember holding Doc’s hand, not like this. It felt cold and clammy, drained of life. None of Doc’s strength was in this hand. It frightened Jake.
The face in front of him slowly resolved into Doc’s face. Gazing at him took. Jake back forty years to a younger, more pudgy face, with all the cuts and bruises of careless little boys. Jake eagerly recalled Doc’s youthful escapades, knowing he deserved to be thought of in ways different than this.
Doc had been a Type A personality before anyone knew what that was, goal oriented and highly motivated. If Ulysses S. Grant High School had voted “Most Likely to Succeed” (it didn’t), Doc would have won. Finney might come away with the silver, Jake maybe the bronze. But the gold medals always belonged to Doc.
One memory led to the next, like beads on a chain. Jake grunted out loud as he thought of Doc’s homework. It had always been neat as a pin, rows lined up as if designed in drafting class rather than scrawled out early that morning. A left hander with an impossible wrist-breaking upside down writing posture, Doc produced manuscripts worthy of framing. Mr. Fieldstein, their seventh grade English teacher, joked that Doc’s homework should be put in clay jars and set aside in a cave so future civilizations would be as impressed with mid-twentieth century America as scholars are with the Dead Sea Scroll community at Qumran. The kids didn’t know anything about Qumran, but they were impressed. Everyone was always impressed with Doc. His handwriting remained meticulous, surviving the ultimate challenge—twenty years as a doctor. Doc was one of a kind.
Jake looked again at the chart hanging next to the bed. “Gregory Victor Lowell.” The few who called him Doc were those who knew him long before he was a doctor. Jake remembered the day in eighth grade when Mr. Bailey asked everyone in the class to write down three possible future vocations in order of preference. Jake wrote down professional basketball player, ambassador to Australia, and writer. Beautiful blonde Joanie Miller, Jake’s first girlfriend, wrote gymnast, teacher, and dress designer. The rest of the class spouted similar combinations of wishful and unlikely professions. But Gregory Victor Lowell simply wrote “Doctor.” When Mr. Bailey pointed out he must write three vocations, Gregory promptly wrote “Doctor” two more times. Old man Bailey acted indignant, but Jake saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a suppressed smile. Teachers always seemed pleased with Doc. He always knew exactly what he wanted to be, and no more doubted whether he’d be a doctor than the rest of the class doubted whether they’d ride the school bus home that afternoon.
From that day forward Jake and Finney called their best friend “Doc.” Students who wouldn’t remember what they wrote down that day would never forget what Doc wrote. By taking home every academic award, as well as the “all around” awards because he was a great athlete, Doc reminded himself and everyone else he was the best. Jake and Finney collected a few awards themselves, but Jake always thought this was only because those in charge felt they couldn’t give everything to Doc.
Jake straightened the top sheet on the hanging clipboard. Doc would want his little room here to look just right. He was meticulous not only in his homework, but—and this was most shocking to anyone who knew adolescent boys—his room was always immaculate. Every sock was matched in his drawers, and not because his mother did it. In fact, he had told her not to do it because so often she got it wrong. (At least, Doc recited two occasions when she had.) Jake and
The face in front of him slowly resolved into Doc’s face. Gazing at him took. Jake back forty years to a younger, more pudgy face, with all the cuts and bruises of careless little boys. Jake eagerly recalled Doc’s youthful escapades, knowing he deserved to be thought of in ways different than this.
Doc had been a Type A personality before anyone knew what that was, goal oriented and highly motivated. If Ulysses S. Grant High School had voted “Most Likely to Succeed” (it didn’t), Doc would have won. Finney might come away with the silver, Jake maybe the bronze. But the gold medals always belonged to Doc.
One memory led to the next, like beads on a chain. Jake grunted out loud as he thought of Doc’s homework. It had always been neat as a pin, rows lined up as if designed in drafting class rather than scrawled out early that morning. A left hander with an impossible wrist-breaking upside down writing posture, Doc produced manuscripts worthy of framing. Mr. Fieldstein, their seventh grade English teacher, joked that Doc’s homework should be put in clay jars and set aside in a cave so future civilizations would be as impressed with mid-twentieth century America as scholars are with the Dead Sea Scroll community at Qumran. The kids didn’t know anything about Qumran, but they were impressed. Everyone was always impressed with Doc. His handwriting remained meticulous, surviving the ultimate challenge—twenty years as a doctor. Doc was one of a kind.
Jake looked again at the chart hanging next to the bed. “Gregory Victor Lowell.” The few who called him Doc were those who knew him long before he was a doctor. Jake remembered the day in eighth grade when Mr. Bailey asked everyone in the class to write down three possible future vocations in order of preference. Jake wrote down professional basketball player, ambassador to Australia, and writer. Beautiful blonde Joanie Miller, Jake’s first girlfriend, wrote gymnast, teacher, and dress designer. The rest of the class spouted similar combinations of wishful and unlikely professions. But Gregory Victor Lowell simply wrote “Doctor.” When Mr. Bailey pointed out he must write three vocations, Gregory promptly wrote “Doctor” two more times. Old man Bailey acted indignant, but Jake saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a suppressed smile. Teachers always seemed pleased with Doc. He always knew exactly what he wanted to be, and no more doubted whether he’d be a doctor than the rest of the class doubted whether they’d ride the school bus home that afternoon.
From that day forward Jake and Finney called their best friend “Doc.” Students who wouldn’t remember what they wrote down that day would never forget what Doc wrote. By taking home every academic award, as well as the “all around” awards because he was a great athlete, Doc reminded himself and everyone else he was the best. Jake and Finney collected a few awards themselves, but Jake always thought this was only because those in charge felt they couldn’t give everything to Doc.
Jake straightened the top sheet on the hanging clipboard. Doc would want his little room here to look just right. He was meticulous not only in his homework, but—and this was most shocking to anyone who knew adolescent boys—his room was always immaculate. Every sock was matched in his drawers, and not because his mother did it. In fact, he had told her not to do it because so often she got it wrong. (At least, Doc recited two occasions when she had.) Jake and
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