I'd have preferred Earnest. Has much more of a debonair ring to it. With respect to all the Frank's of this world of course. But, Frank? Yes, Frank I carry with a measure of mixed emotions, or is it a measure of Boulevard Wheat? Well, whatever. But yes, it must have been that confounded ale which led to it all. In relating this trivia, I've been called the F-word. And, if by reading this, you gain a measure (that word again) of insight into my personality and decide to call me whatever you choose thereafter, know this: our predecessors set the tone with their hard-drinking lifestyles, questioning minds, industriousness and famed cynicism. And if I'm to be a self-respecting journo, don't fault me for starting the one place I'm led to believe good stories are to be found.
I was quaffing by the quantity. It was a respectable bar, although some of the dodgy patrons mooching around, seemed to have been best served, not inside the establishment, but by being far, far away. Which is not to say that I consider myself beyond reproach of course. Reprobate, is the word that comes to mind of those who've been less than complimentary about me.
Enter the medical doctor who sits two places away from me. The clientele is looking up. A neurological surgeon, he's treated innumerable patients suffering spinal cord and brain diseases. And hey, whose to fault a doctor taking some well deserved r & r with the working class? Sharing a pitcher or two, whilst be enthralled about life-saving operations performed - who wouldn't chip in for a couple of rounds to save the doctor spending his hard-earned cash? Except, there's something amiss about our surgeon. He's as untidy as a prescription note. Something about the boxers he's wearing that's been bugging me, along with a crumpled check shirt that has seen better days. Although, I've seen college women strolling around campus in long pajamas. Could this be something de rigueur? Not likely. And chances are the bag at the foot of his barstool doesn't have a stethoscope. Maybe a syringe yes, an old Greyhound ticket stub perhaps, certainly no keys for a Porsche or Lexus. My nagging doubts thankfully didn't extend to me offering a round in return for services rendered in the operating theatre, and I left safe in the knowledge that the only money I've had to spend on a doctor was for a recent colonoscopy.
After being unceremoniously ejected by the barman, the incident left me wondering whether the pseudo surgeon should in fact be a patient. My attention then turns to those around me. In the corner, a woman is fixing a toothpick to serve as a lance on a miniature figurine mounted on the bar counter. It looked like a character from an Asterix and Obelix comic book. She moves it around, making war noises and acting like everything depended on her strategy to defend a Gaul village under attack by an imaginary Roman legion.
Next to her, another woman strikes up a conversation, but the urge to smoke means she frequently has to leave to indulge her vice, only to return and pick up where she left off. The conversation vacillates from the house she intends to rent, to her frequent arguments with a male friend. For my part, I waffle on about fake doctors and how past frustrations as a patient, also meant having to have incredible patience. Like sitting for hours in the waiting room, flipping through well-worn tabletop magazines and wondering about the afflictions of those opposite me. At some point, the doctor shows and despite your pain, your spirits lift. But, he's leaving the building without saying a word. I'm gutted. If only his receptionist volunteered to tell the ailing and afflicted that he was going out to lunch, it wouldn't have been so bad.
I'm taken to the present by the woman's persistent coughing. Her nicotine-stained fingers are clenched in a fist, covering her mouth. She regains her composure, mutters to herself about kicking the habit and thereafter candidly remarks that she hasn't had sex in two years. She delights in saying why she'll never give in to the affections of the male friend she lives with. Whether by sharing that with me meant I ought to help her come out of her hiatus, I'm not sure, but I hoped that by nodding my head in understanding, it's more than she could have counted on from an uncaring doctor's receptionist.
By now, a lanky, well-dressed man (who could have passed for a real doctor) takes the place vacated by the man in boxers. Even his drink suggests class. Some milky-looking concoction that has its place on the deck of a luxury ocean liner, along with the daiquiris and mai tais being nursed by retirees enjoying their TIAA-CREF benefits. He leans over, as if to share a secret of his success.
"Do you know what it's like to have a 50 pound penis?" he whispers. My comeback was he ought to try living with 60, but I hold back. Without thinking, I automatically look at his crotch. He jokingly pulls his jacket over the focus of my attention and I'm immediately embarrassed. He doesn't expand further and instead, proceeds to dip three fingers in his milky drink. He strokes his black hair and specks of white, dot his temple. He does it several times without saying anything further. I'm flummoxed by the gestures. Maybe, it's his way of saying he's cool. There's a sexual connotation in the whole imagery and maybe it's to show he's on the prowl. I wonder then, if the woman whose been abstaining, has been paying attention.