Doctor Nah

by James Mannion

  “Gotcha!”

  “Sheeit! Anyway, I think he knew it was the last hunt. He looked at me with eyes that said, ‘Do it, man. Give me the gift I can’t give myself.’ I shot him and buried him and cried for about three hours. I believe that was the last time I cried. So, honky muthafucka, I share your love of animals and hatred of someone that would harm the Lord’s innocents.”

  “Thank you, Quincy.”

  “For what?”

  “Probably never told too many people that story.”

  “Nobody.”

  “Ya see? There can be common ground between the races.”

  “Let’s not get ridiculous.”

  “What do you know about a drug dealer who calls himself Doctor Nah?”

  “Bad-ass young punk. Connected. Mob or cops or both. He operates with impunity.”

  “It’s time he incurred some punitive damages.”

  “Why you wanna mess with him? Count me out.”

  “He catches stray cats and feeds them live to his pit bulls. He also ran over a shoe box full of kittens in front of some little kids just for the sadistic pleasure of it.”

  “Count me in. We’ll talk about this further when you released.”

  “You da man, dawg!”

  “Please…” he shook his head is disgust as he got up and started to leave. “Please…”

  “See you back at the crib, peeps.”

  “Sheeit!”

  * * *

  “Give it to me straight, Doc.”

  “Well, as you remember, the last time we did a cardiac catheterization, your LAD artery –”

  “The Widowmaker.”

  “We prefer Left Anterior Descending.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Your LAD was 65% blocked. Medicare won’t pay for anything blocked below 70%.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, congratulations. It’s now blocked at 80%.”

  “Delightful. Is that all?”

  “No. We detected a regurgitating aortic valve.”

  “And that is?”

  “Blood pumps through the four chambers of the heart. The valve that opens and closes as it pumps from the left ventricle doesn’t completely close and blood leaks back down. This forces the heart to work harder and accounts for your shortness of breath and fatigue. We have to go in and replace it.”

  “Fantastic. Anything else.”

  “Your aorta has an aneurysm because it’s being overworked. That’s a bulge of weakened tissue that can burst and cause problems.”

  “Like sudden death.”

  “That’s one of them.”

  “So I have, three – count ‘em – three things going on in the heart that are very serious?”

  “Very.”

  “I assume this isn’t elective surgery?”

  “It is if you elect to live.”

  “Well, I guess I should go for it then.”

  “That’s sounds like a good idea to me.”

  I was feeling the panic mounting. “Open heart surgery,” I said to no one in particular.

  “It’s serious but not high risk. We can take care of all three things in one shot and you’ll have the heart of a man 20 years younger.”

  “What’s the risk?”

  “Low risk. 1-3% failure rate.”

  “And if I opt out?”

  “One hundred percent dead. Two to three years.”

  “Sold.”

  “All right. We can schedule you for Monday.”

  “Okay, I’ll come back on Saturday.”

  “I strongly recommend you stay until Monday so we can keep an eye on you.”

  “Good advice, but I have something I need to take care of.”

  “I advise against it.”

  “Noted, but this is non-negotiable.”

  “Unwise. Make sure you admit yourself Saturday morning. Cardiac unit. Second floor.”

  “Will do, Doc.”

  “I hope what you have to do is worth the risk.”

  “’Tis.”

  I had to see a man about some cats.

  * * *

  I was looming around the Martin Luther King Drive station of the Hudson-Bergen Light Rail in the wee small hours of the morning. The Light Rail is an electrified trolley that runs in two directions: from Jersey City up to North Bergen, and the other takes you from Bayonne, passing through Jersey City to its terminus in Hoboken. On either side of the tracks between MLK and Garfield Avenue, there’s a half mile or so of grass, bushes and trees, an unintended nature preserve for a few feral packs. They fare better than most of the city’s strays, because they never have to venture down the mean streets and interact with humans. Also, kind-hearted souls visit the station and leave food at the end of the platform, so the cats appear healthier, well-fed, and have less of a fear of man.

  There was an old bar across the street appropriately called Nostalgia that would have had quite an allure in my drinking days. Thursday night was karaoke night and Quincy’s sources told him that Doctor Nah was a regular. He didn’t make this public. Perhaps because he feared it might negatively impact his street cred. In fact, he was known to pummel any addict that tried to conduct a transaction when he was entering or leaving the ginmill.

  He left the bar alone, no posse, no bootylicious eye candy. He was short but wiry, and had the African-American/Asian look confirming little Aldonza's remark that his biracial mix was black and North Korean. I was told he was skilled in some form of martial arts, which further begged the question, “What the hell was I doing?”

  There’s a song that seemed to be blasting from every other car in the ghetto at the time. One has to be very careful about quoting song lyrics in print, lest you violate copyright. Well, go to YouTube and type: French Montana – Ain’t Worried About Nothin (EXPLICIT), and you’ll hear that it’s hardly Cole Porter. And French Montana looks neither Gallic nor from Big Sky country. Wait a minute! I just profiled the guy, which if certain 24-hour news outlets and college professors had their way, would be punishable by lethal injection. The actual refrain, repeated incessantly, is “N-word, I ain’t worried ‘bout nothin’.” Yes, I typed N-word. Does that make me a literary wuss? Perhaps. It also makes me a pragmatic scribe who would like to see his work in print, and if they can consign Mark Twain to the pyre for the use of that word without understanding or caring about the context in which it is used, what chance have I? It’s quite clear that Sam Clemens means it to be a bad word and that N-word Jim is a good man, but I know at least two academics entitled to call themselves “Doctor” who have actually said to my face, “It’s more important what you say about a person or a group than what you do to them.”

  So, you can accost a person with a giant Publisher’s Clearing House check festooned with Mylar balloons and launch into a fusillade of applicable ethnic, racial, gender, etc., slurs and be worthy of being drawn and quartered in the public square. Or you can knock a person down and savagely kick them in the best Sopranos tradition while repeating, “Namaste, you are a holy child of God,” and be a noble Joe.

  Asininity rules!

  Doctor Nah crossed the street to the station. He had a large duffel bag and was listening to that very tune on his smart phone. Even though he wore ear buds, it was loud enough that I could hear the lyrics clearly. His routine was to coax a few cats to him with the temptation of Fancy Feast, then grab them and stuff them into the bag, the poor babies destined to be dog food. This would not do

  There was an obelisk about 7-feet high where the sidewalk met the station that had a large bust of Dr. King’s head on top, and the disrespectful Doctor Nah whipped it out and began to take a leak against it. I guess he didn’t celebrate Black History Month.

  He continued to chant that lyric over and over ad nauseum.

  “N-word, I ain’t worried ‘bout nothin’.”

  I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around.

  “Worry,” I said.

  I punched him in the face. I was wearing a little somet
hing Quincy gave me: leather gloves, the fingers studded with ball bearings. I heard a splat and crunch that I assumed was smashed cartilage and shattered bone. Despite the blow and the cry of rage and pain, Doctor Nah managed to throw a kick that missed my chin by a few millimeters. He also produced a knife with a speed that astonished me and sliced across my chest, cutting my leather jacket and missing the flesh. I think I earned my “crazy cat man” bona fides that night.

  I had no idea what my next move would be, but that’s why half-baked vigilantes have back-up. Quincy stepped from behind the statue of Dr, King and got him in a headlock and dragged him over the fence and onto the grass with a speed rivaling Dr. Nah’s. He had Nah on his stomach and bashed his head against the ground a few times. With Doctor Nah out cold, Quincy methodically and dispassionately broke both his arms and legs. If you’ve never seen something like that, you don’t want to. He then removed a medium-sized Zip-Loc baggie of white powder.

  “Try explaining that to your parole officer,” he said to the unconscious body.

  He was over the short fence and hustling me across the street and down the block. He produced a plastic bag from another coat pocket, held it open and said, “Gloves.”

  I peeled off the gloves and dropped them in the bag. He handed it to me to hold and he did the same with his gloves. He tied the bag and returned it to the jacket pocket.

  “Just one thing, Q –” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “That monument wasn’t much wider than a man and in the middle of the sidewalk. How did you manage to emerge from right behind it without being seen approaching it?”

  He thought for a moment. “I’m Blackman,” he said, imitating Christian Bale’s husky intonations as the Dark Knight.

  “Erright…okay.”

  “Hey, that Dunkin’ Donuts is now open 24-hours. Follow me.”

  I followed.

  * * *

  “No Boston Kreme?!? You best be makin’ extra at this franchise. You in the ‘hood, Patel.” Quincy was legitimately livid.

  “My name is Shaavariti Punjagoon, sir.”

  “Whatever.”

  “With a name like that you’ll fit in around here,” I intervened. “Please forgive my racist friend, but he does have a point. Boston Kreme is my favorite, too. I just had no idea that it was the new watermelon.”

  “That’s outrageous, muthafucka!” Quincy roared, scaring the baristas.

  “Hey, Q, most of the shit that comes out of your mouth is racist. Get over yourself.”

  “Hey, Prana,” Quincy called out to an attractive, and quite young, Indian woman behind the counter, “once you go black, you never go back.”

  “Man, you are a walking stereotype tonight. Yo, Prana, you wanna get it right, stick with white.”

  “Damn, man!”

  “Well, at least it’s not a cliché that’s older than you are. In fact, I just made it up. Not bad, eh? Maybe it’ll catch on.”

  “So you havin’ that operation on Monday?”

  “Hattie told you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Guess I should.”

  “Why any hesitation?”

  “Well, it’s a long recovery period, even after the post-surgery stint in a cardiac rehab. I don’t really have anyone to look out for me.”

  He gently slapped me upside the head. “Fool!”

  I smiled sweetly. “Mumia wuv me!”

  “Sheeit.”

  We drank the remainder of our coffee in silence. When we left and headed in the opposite direction, we saw the lights of a police car near the obelisk of MLK. Peering into the brush, I saw the glowing eyes of several feral cats observing the proceedings.

  * * *

  I knocked on the door of the apartment and little Aldonza answered.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello, Mr. Wizard.”

  “How’s our little friend?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess. And your reaction just told me I was right.”

  She looked scared. “You gonna tell?”

  “No, I think you did the little baby a favor.”

  She took me by the hand and led me into the living room. A cat was sitting contentedly in the lap of an ancient woman in a wheelchair. I suspected by her demeanor she had some form of dementia, but she was smiling and petting the little tortoiseshell cat from the bodega as it purred. Pet therapy in action.

  “How’d you do it, Aldonza?”

  “They always leave their door open. Cat kept running outside, especially when it saw a bird. One Sunday morning when I knew the place would be busy, I scattered some birdseed on the sidewalk. Birds came, cat ran out, I threw her in my backpack and brought her home. She safe now.”

  “Good girl.”

  “I’m going to call her Deva, after your baby.”

  I sat down on the floor. Deva II looked up, leapt off the old lady’s lap and trotted over to be. She placed one paw on my foot and stared in the opposite direction. I started to cry.

  “You okay, Gandalf?”

  “My Deva used to do the same thing.”

  “I’m not in trouble?”

  “No. This is a rare happy ending in the ghetto. Just promise to always love her and take care of her.”

  “I promise.”

  I stood up when I heard the door open. A woman in the blue scrubs of a journeyman home health care aide came into the apartment. She was momentarily alarmed.

  “It’s okay, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me ma’am. I’m young enough to be your daughter, Mr. Scanlan Grimes.”

  “How did you –?”

  “I’ve seen you around. You hard to miss around here. And I heard some things about you. Good things.”

  “You’re Aldonza’s mother?”

  “Yes. My name is Ja’avon. Why are you smirking?”

  “No reason.”

  “You think I have a funny name?”

  “Of course not, my dear…um…how do you spell it?”

  She spelled it.

  “The apostrophe is an interesting touch.”

  “Stop smirking.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help hearing the voice of Captain Jean-Luc Picard in my head.” I did a bad Patrick Stewart imitation, “Stardate 6969.69. We have entered the Ghetto Quadrant to open diplomatic negotiations with a species known as the Ja’avon.”

  She didn’t laugh, but smiled politely. “Is my daughter in trouble?”

  “Not at all. Your daughter saved a life. Just one thing –”

  “Yes?”

  “If you ever have to move to a place that won’t let you have a cat, you know where to drop her off.”

  “I would never move to a place that wouldn’t accept pets.”

  “Good for you. Well, I should be going.”

  Deva II was rubbing against my legs, so I picked her up. She kicked me in the face with a hind paw, squirmed and leapt from my arms.

  “Like mother, like daughter.”

  “Mr. Wizard?” Aldonza tugged at my sleeve.

  “Yes?”

  “You can come and visit her any time you want.”

  “I’d like that. If it’s all right with your mother.”

  “It is,” she said, as she showed me to the door. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “In fact, anytime you want to open diplomatic relations with the Ja’avon…”

  “I think a union of our two cultures will benefit the Federation.”

  * * *

  I sat on the stoop of Hattie Hawkins’ house and thought about Beauty Hind (B. Hind for short), and brooded about how she was faring as the concubine of a bloated blowhard who went by the name Ninja Tony (read The Little Sistah). I wondered if I’d ever have any dealings with them again. Ah, who’s fooling who, dear reader? I can in good faith guarantee it.

  Open heart surgery. Fifty years old. What the hell happened?

  A young black kid walked past the house and elected not to mind his own business. “What you lookin’ at man?”

>   “I may have been looking in your general direction, my narcissistic young gangbanger, but I assure you that you were the last thing on my mind.”

  He was shocked that an old white guy would be so brazen and assumed a menacing stance. “Fuck you, old man.”

  “That the best you got? In a couple of days, they’re gonna crack my sternum open like a lobster and slice and dice my heart. Slice and dice, Spud. You wanna put a bullet in my heart right now, I’d only be mildly annoyed.”

  He appeared a bit befuddled. “What you doin’ in my neighborhood, man?”

  “I’ve lived here long enough to call it my neighborhood too, kid,” I said. “As to what I’m doing at this particular moment: I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.”

  He called me a motherfucker and went on his way. At that precise moment, the first snowflakes of the season began to gently fall.

  God bless us all…what the fuck.

  If you liked DOCTOR NAH, you would enjoy THE LITTLE SISTAH,

  also by James Mannion.

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