tried amping up the charm again. “Could I make an appointment with him? Could you set that up for me?”
She sighed, the fight gone out of her. It’s terrible to see a foe humbled. “As I said, he’s due in at nine. That’s when he usually goes over the daily files. I suppose he could see you for a few minutes then.”
“Thank you.” I glanced down at my watch. It was ten till the hour. “Mind if I just wait for him here?”
“Suit yourself,” Bluto answered, and she snorted a coarse laugh. “That’s what people usually do in a waiting room.”
Maybe she wasn’t as humbled as I thought.
*
The nurse was as right as rain. At nine a.m. straight up the outside door opened, admitting a tall, stooped, older man wearing a wrinkled gray suit fifteen years out of date; I pegged him as Manfred. Sitting up in my chair, I laid down the ancient magazine I’d been reading. No doubt about it, the day I’m elected emperor there’ll be some changes made.
The first decree I plan to enact will be directed at every doctor, dentist, orthopedist, ophthalmologist, proctologist, oncologist, head shrinker, boil lancer, joint cracker or worse. Every student of Hippocrates will be included, all medicos of the human condition of whatever stripe, head to toe, skin to bone, or horn to hoof. My edict will be that they must provide big comfortable chairs, built by humans for humans, and lay in plenty of pristine, non-wrinkled, up to date reading materials for their clientele.
Or face death.
I figure with this simple act I’ll endear myself to the ailing and suffering populace of the human race forever, especially the male patients. Because I’ll also ensure those offices will be stocked with the latest fishing and car magazines, so the guys can have something to read besides all those Better Ladies’ Home and sassy Mademoiselle journals.
Manfred—and that’s who he turned out to be—frowned. “Who are you?”
He was a wizened old croc, in his late seventies or so, and beneath his brown-spotted forehead he wore black plastic spectacles with lenses so thick they could have been used as drink coasters. The slack skin covering his face hung loosely enough that I wondered if the nerves underneath had been severed. South of Manfred’s chin his wattles jiggled unnaturally, like he was packed with nightcrawlers.
The doctor’s purplish lips were full, but it didn’t seem he possessed the muscle tone to lift them very high. Smiling appeared to be as alien to this boy as marital fidelity had been to Bill Clinton. His great big, old brown, buggy eyes slowly took my measure, plainly not liking what he found. And as he gazed, the unsettling thought came to me that I knew this guy from somewhere. Then I realized I did; I remembered him from childhood.
He was the boogieman.
I began to answer, but Bluto beat me to it. “Doctor Manfred, this man’s name is Niles. He’s a reporter.” The way she’d said that word, I should have been clanging a bell and yelling “unclean!”
“Yes, but what does he want?”
She curled her lip in unabashed disdain. “He says he has some questions for you.”
“Regarding what?”
“I have no idea. He’s quite adamant.”
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me? You two seem to have me confused with one of your potted plants. But I’m not. Really.”
Manfred pursed his lips together in annoyance, with the unfortunate result making them look like two pieces of old liver caught between pinch rollers. Snapping his head once in the direction of a closed door next to the counter, he sighed, “All right, if you insist on wasting my time, let’s get it over with.” He fairly spat the next word. “Reporters.”
Now on top of everything else, a big, bluebottle fly had somehow gotten in. It was leaving me alone, but Manfred’s eyes followed it warily. One bug to another, huh?
Stalking off with aggravated strides, the doctor left me to follow as best I could. I’ll bet he wondered why his
She sighed, the fight gone out of her. It’s terrible to see a foe humbled. “As I said, he’s due in at nine. That’s when he usually goes over the daily files. I suppose he could see you for a few minutes then.”
“Thank you.” I glanced down at my watch. It was ten till the hour. “Mind if I just wait for him here?”
“Suit yourself,” Bluto answered, and she snorted a coarse laugh. “That’s what people usually do in a waiting room.”
Maybe she wasn’t as humbled as I thought.
*
The nurse was as right as rain. At nine a.m. straight up the outside door opened, admitting a tall, stooped, older man wearing a wrinkled gray suit fifteen years out of date; I pegged him as Manfred. Sitting up in my chair, I laid down the ancient magazine I’d been reading. No doubt about it, the day I’m elected emperor there’ll be some changes made.
The first decree I plan to enact will be directed at every doctor, dentist, orthopedist, ophthalmologist, proctologist, oncologist, head shrinker, boil lancer, joint cracker or worse. Every student of Hippocrates will be included, all medicos of the human condition of whatever stripe, head to toe, skin to bone, or horn to hoof. My edict will be that they must provide big comfortable chairs, built by humans for humans, and lay in plenty of pristine, non-wrinkled, up to date reading materials for their clientele.
Or face death.
I figure with this simple act I’ll endear myself to the ailing and suffering populace of the human race forever, especially the male patients. Because I’ll also ensure those offices will be stocked with the latest fishing and car magazines, so the guys can have something to read besides all those Better Ladies’ Home and sassy Mademoiselle journals.
Manfred—and that’s who he turned out to be—frowned. “Who are you?”
He was a wizened old croc, in his late seventies or so, and beneath his brown-spotted forehead he wore black plastic spectacles with lenses so thick they could have been used as drink coasters. The slack skin covering his face hung loosely enough that I wondered if the nerves underneath had been severed. South of Manfred’s chin his wattles jiggled unnaturally, like he was packed with nightcrawlers.
The doctor’s purplish lips were full, but it didn’t seem he possessed the muscle tone to lift them very high. Smiling appeared to be as alien to this boy as marital fidelity had been to Bill Clinton. His great big, old brown, buggy eyes slowly took my measure, plainly not liking what he found. And as he gazed, the unsettling thought came to me that I knew this guy from somewhere. Then I realized I did; I remembered him from childhood.
He was the boogieman.
I began to answer, but Bluto beat me to it. “Doctor Manfred, this man’s name is Niles. He’s a reporter.” The way she’d said that word, I should have been clanging a bell and yelling “unclean!”
“Yes, but what does he want?”
She curled her lip in unabashed disdain. “He says he has some questions for you.”
“Regarding what?”
“I have no idea. He’s quite adamant.”
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me? You two seem to have me confused with one of your potted plants. But I’m not. Really.”
Manfred pursed his lips together in annoyance, with the unfortunate result making them look like two pieces of old liver caught between pinch rollers. Snapping his head once in the direction of a closed door next to the counter, he sighed, “All right, if you insist on wasting my time, let’s get it over with.” He fairly spat the next word. “Reporters.”
Now on top of everything else, a big, bluebottle fly had somehow gotten in. It was leaving me alone, but Manfred’s eyes followed it warily. One bug to another, huh?
Stalking off with aggravated strides, the doctor left me to follow as best I could. I’ll bet he wondered why his
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