Dr. Galen's Little Black Bag

by R. A. Comunale M. D.

  No Deposit, No Return

  Have you noticed that no matter who we elect, he is just as bad as the one he replaces?

  —Will Rogers

  “Politicians!”

  My colleague and friend from residency stared at his iced tea. He was not a happy camper.

  “So, what else is new, Dave?”

  “Maybe it’s just me, Bob. Maybe I’m getting old.”

  Dave Abbot looked up from his drink. Unlike me, he had kept in decent shape over the years since our post-graduate medical training. He was still the lean, well-dressed, ex-Navy doc I had met over four decades earlier. He did not look the three-score-plus that he was.

  The noise in the hospital cafeteria rose briefly then quieted down.

  “Dave, I agree. Unlike me, you’re getting older. So what’s the problem?”

  “I just had a woman in my office the other day. Congressman’s wife. Smart, good looking, great personality. Guess why she came in?”

  A no-brainer.

  “Let’s see. Her pol husband has strayed and taken up with some chippie legislative aide or assistant from the congressional secretarial pool. Now he’s gonna dump her. Right?”

  His eyes widened.

  “How’d you know?”

  Dave had been married to his childhood sweetheart for more than forty years. He considered even looking at another woman out of bounds.

  “Human nature. Power does something to people. Pretty soon they become solipsistic and…”

  “Whoa, bear breath. You’re doing it again.”

  “Eh?”

  “That big-word stuff.”

  “Okay, okay, Dr. Abbot, how’s this? When politicians start to believe their own PR crap, they think the sun, moon, and stars revolve around them. Capite, paisan?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stared out at the nurses, orderlies, and other hospital personnel milling about the food lines. Random memories of my Leni and Cathy, who had each once sat across from me in that very room, separated only by a few years, made my mind wander momentarily.

  “You okay, Bob?”

  I snapped out of my reverie.

  “Do you know how lucky you are, my friend?”

  “Huh?”

  “You have your wife, kids, grandkids—sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if…”

  He saw the look on my face. He knew my personal history.

  “Uh … Bob, you were gonna tell me how you guessed about my patient.”

  “Okay, okay. Did I ever tell you about the No Deposit, No Return Club?”

  We each took a sip of tea. He looked at me expectantly. I shifted my black bag off the table onto a side chair and leaned back.

  “It started about twenty-five years ago…”

  “Tony, there’s a woman at the door. She seems pretty upset.”

  My Cathy, as did my Leni, always called me by my middle name. She had rubbed my arm gently, until I awoke. I had decided to sleep late that Sunday. I had no hospital patients that needed my attention, and Saturday had been riotously busy.

  I was tired.

  Cathy, dear Cathy, had gotten up at her usual time and promised to fix me a special Sunday brunch. When she told me, I mumbled something about her being “good enough to eat,” then quickly fell back asleep.

  That lasted maybe five seconds. I awoke to her pushing on my chest and talking loudly.

  “Tony, wake up. This poor woman is really upset.”

  I didn’t shave. It was only Cathy standing in the bedroom doorway that prevented me from walking into my office in my pajamas. I dressed. By the time I did meet the woman I was fully awake – yet another med-school legacy.

  She sat in the lounge chair, twisting and turning the white handkerchief she held tightly, her facial makeup streaked from crying. Tear-puffed hazel eyes centered a rounded face bracketed by uncombed, light-brown hair.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. What seems to be the problem, Mrs. …”

  “I … I … I’m Ethel Saltzman. I…”

  Tears overcame her.

  Cathy had joined me. She moved to the woman’s side and calmly touched her shoulder.

  “Ethel, let me take you to the ladies’ room.”

  She turned to me and shook her head, as she led the woman away.

  About ten minutes later, a rejuvenated Ethel Saltzman stepped into my examining room. She attempted a weak smile and sat down.

  “How did you find us, Mrs. Saltzman?”

  “One of my friends comes to you. She said you’re here all the time.”

  Cathy covered her mouth to keep from laughing. We had just had a discussion about that very topic the previous day. She wanted me to take more time off.

  Looking back, I wish I had.

  I miss you, Cathy.

  “How may I help you, Mrs. Saltzman?”

  “Do you know my husband, Doctor?”

  A light bulb went off.

  “Norman ‘Salty’ Saltzman. Senator Saltzman?”

  “Yes, he’s my husband.”

  I remained silent.

  “He … he told me this morning … he’s going to leave me. He wants a divorce.”

  Cathy interjected.

  “Have there been … problems?”

  “Not that I knew about, Mrs. Galen. We’ve been married twenty years. I met Norman when he first ran for Congress. I worked on his campaign. Then, when he decided to try for the Senate, I ran his strategy committee for him.”

  I was curious.

  “Mrs. Saltzman, when do you think things changed between the two of you?”

  She froze for a moment, as though the thought was new to her.

  “You know, it seemed to start after I had foot surgery.”

  Cathy and I shot a quizzical glance at each other.

  “Uh … Norman sometimes gets a little aggressive when we … uh …you know… and he likes to nibble on my toes. He seems to need it to be able to…”

  It was a bit more than I needed to know, but I have to admit it was fascinating from a psycho-pathology perspective.

  So, Salty Saltzman had a foot fetish.

  They’re called paraphilias. For some folks, becoming intimate involves an attachment with a different part of the body than the usual ones. In Salty’s case, it was the female foot that turned him on.

  Podophiliacs, as they’re called, come in several flavors: Some like big feet, others prefer small. Some fixate on slight differences in the shape of toes—turning them either on or off. When Ethel needed foot surgery, the bloom dropped off the rose for Norman.

  Cathy sat quietly, as I explained what had happened. Mrs. Saltzman seemed to gain hope then broke down again.

  “Maybe I can get the podiatrist to restore my foot to what it was,” she said between sobs.

  No doubt about it, Ethel was desperate.

  “I’m not sure that’s going to work, Mrs. Saltzman. Fetishists have very specific … uh … tastes when it comes to their particular object of desire.”

  We finished our discussion, and Ethel’s face took on a surprisingly relaxed expression. I have seen that same facial expression in those who finally decide to commit suicide.

  “I’m going to tell my friends about you. Is that okay?”

  I nodded. What else could I do? Cathy had put her arm around my waist.

  Ethel Saltzman underwent her foot surgery two weeks later. Norman Saltzman divorced his wife two months after that.

  Ethel became a regular patient, and as time passed more and more discarded politicians’ wives visited the office. It got to the point where I joked to one of them that they were like no-deposit, no-return bottles.

  Then one day I received an engraved invitation to speak at one of the ex-wives’ gatherings.

  I’m not big on such things, but Cathy insisted, so I agreed. I wrote a brief talk about self-worth, hoping that no one would ask to hear it.

  We showed up at the nearby Italian café and saw the entire back dining room occupied by our patients. They were
all attractive, intelligent women, but all discarded by idiots who didn’t realize how lucky they had been.

  I glanced at each one and mentally ticked off the personality traits of her foolish ex-husband: narcissist, sociopath, alcoholic, podophile, pedophile, wife abuser, male menopause (andropause), bisexual, and more.

  Ethel Saltzman saw us arrive and walked over.

  “Dr. Galen, Mrs. Galen, I just thought I’d let you know. Remember Norman?”

  We nodded.

  “He lost his re-election. Guess what he came down with?”

  We waited for the punch line.

  She smiled.

  “Hoof and mouth disease.”

  Cathy and I burst out laughing.

  “Come on, you two. Let me introduce you to the crowd. I think some of our members haven’t met you yet.”

  We walked into the back dining room and were greeted with polite applause.

  “Ladies, most of you know our guests, but I’m going to introduce them anyway. Please welcome Dr. Robert and Mrs. Cathy Galen.”

  More polite applause, then we heard a voice from the audience.

  “Mrs. Galen, Cathy, how did you and the doctor meet?”

  My Cathy, my wonderful Cathy, started to laugh.

  “The big oaf knocked me off my feet.”

  I had to defend myself.

  “She’s right, ladies, I did knock her off her feet—literally. I wasn’t watching where I was going in the hospital corridor and knocked her flat on her keister.”

  Cathy looked at me, winked, and put her arms around me. Then she kissed me in front of everyone.

  “He’s just a big teddy bear, folks,” she said, laughing.

  The applause subsided, as Ethel Saltzman stepped over to an easel covered by a drape.

  “Dr. Galen, Mrs. Galen, we welcome you to our little gathering.

  She reached over and, with a flourish, pulled the drape away from a large placard. The women in the group stood up and erupted into cheers and whistles.

  The sign read: THE NO DEPOSIT, NO RETURN CLUB

  Things Aren’t Always What They Seem

  “Dr. Galen, take a look out the window.”

  Barbara pointed at the glass sliding door. Out in the parking lot, a large limo had pulled in, and a liveried attendant stepped out. He walked carefully to the rear passenger door, opened it, and waited, as a well-dressed woman gracefully stepped out. The chauffeur took her hand and escorted her to my door then backed away.

  “Are you Dr. Galen?”

  A husky voice redolent of a long-dead movie star caressed the air.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I would like a brief checkup.”

  “Certainly. Please come in.”

  I led the very fashionably dressed, middle-aged woman to the first examining room. I waited until she sat down, then I took a chair, my pen poised over the data-entry sheet. She chuckled softly, as she looked at my Goodwill couture. The clothes she wore would easily consume several months of my income. She casually waved a wrist adorned with a diamond-and-imperial-jade bracelet.

  “My name is Lavinia, Lavinia Portenté.”

  She waited expectantly, but I didn’t know who the hell she was.

  “Yes, Ms. Portenté?”

  She seemed disappointed, but she politely gave me her address, date of birth, and medical history—and she asserted that there was nothing significant of that nature in her past.

  I asked her to put on an exam gown then left the room, telling her to call out when ready.

  Several minutes later I heard, “All right, Dr. Galen.”

  I began my examination at the top and worked my way down: nothing unusual, except for an Adam’s apple on her throat—and, of course, the moment of truth.

  I finished up and stepped out once more to allow my patient to dress.

  I reentered the examining room after hearing, “I’m dressed, Doctor.” I detailed my findings and recommended some lab tests.

  Portenté agreed, smiled, and stepped out to the secretary’s desk. Shortly afterwards, Barbara walked into my office and said, “Well?”

  “Fascinating patient, eh?” I replied.

  “And...?”

  I showed her my best poker face.

  She waited.

  “And...?” Barbara didn’t give up easily.

  “That was Louis Porter. He does quite a good imitation of Marlene Dietrich, doesn’t he?”

  Yasmin’s Song

  Oh, why do we allow these people

  To breed back to the monkey’s nest,

  To increase our country’s burdens

  When we should only breed the best?

  Oh, you wise men take up the burden,

  And make this you(r) loudest creed,

  Sterilize the misfits promptly—

  All are not fit to breed!

  Then our race will be strengthened and bettered,

  And our men and our women be blest,

  Not apish, repulsive and foolish,

  For the best will breed the best.

  —Dr. William de Jarnette, director,

  Western State Hospital, Staunton, Virginia, 1938

  “Trick or treat!”

  They stood at my front door—witches—goblins, skeletons, devils, lawyers, politicians and IRS agents—all pint-sized versions of adult nightmares.

  Cathy nudged me.

  “Give them the candy, Tony!”

  Tony was her special name for me. After all, I was born Roberto Antonio Galen.

  I obeyed, throwing candy, as well as pennies, nickels, and dimes, into the outstretched paper bags. I watched little eyes light up behind paper masks and a few—just a few—even managed “thanks, Mister” and “Happy Halloween,” before running back down the walk to extort more goodies from the next house.

  Cathy smiled at my perplexed face.

  “Tony, didn’t you ever go trick-or-treating?”

  My beloved second wife already knew the answer, but sometimes she liked to tease me. My whole life had been a trick or treat, with emphasis on “trick.”

  How I enjoyed her teasing. It often led to more … uh … pleasurable activities.

  “Why celebrate ghosts and goblins? Aren’t I Devil enough for you?”

  I twirled an imaginary handlebar mustache.

  She put her arms around me and whispered, “Trick or treat!”

  Then came the phone call.

  Certain activities should not be interrupted, but I sighed and grabbed Mr. Bell’s damned invention to stop its incessant ringing.

  “Doctor Galen?”

  I snarled out a “yes.”

  “Dr. Galen, do you have late hours?”

  I stared at the wall clock in front of me: 9 p.m.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Uh … we’ve never been to see you before, but our little girl is running a fever of 104 and holding her ears and screaming. We don’t want to expose her to an emergency room.”

  “Bring her over now.”

  I heaved a sigh and hung up.

  “See, you really do have a soft spot, Tony.”

  Cathy massaged my clenched jaw.

  No, I don’t, but this was the job I signed on for when I took the Hippocratic Oath. People, especially kids, don’t get sick just on weekdays.

  She put a finger on my nose and pulled on my ear.

  That always worked.

  “I’m no Mother Teresa, young lady. You know how much I enjoy an uninterrupted evening reading and listening to music and discussing Plato with you.”

  “And canoodling?”

  She had a way of batting those long eyelashes.

  I didn’t have to reply. Cathy knew me all too well. She also knew that when my mental hibernation was disrupted, I would quickly become my eponym: the bear.

  “Need any help?”

  “Nah, you stay here. I shall return!”

  “Aye-aye, General MacArthur.”

  I turned on the office lights and waited. My mind brought forth
scathing comments about parents waiting until nighttime before seeking help for sick kids.

  I heard the car pull in the parking lot and went to open the door, when the outside light illuminated not only the patient but my brain.

  Mother and father walked slowly up the path, each holding an arm of a crying young girl between them. In the half shadow I saw something else.

  “Dr. Galen?”

  “Yes, come in. I’m sorry I didn’t get your name on the phone.”

  “Lon Thomas. This is my wife, Nabila. And this is Yasmin. Say hello to the doctor, Yas.”

  A tremulous, hoarse “hello” greeted me.

  Lon Thomas was a mutt.

  Remember Frankie Fontaine as “Crazy” Guggenheim on the old “Jackie Gleason Show?”

  That was Lon. At six-feet-two and two-hundred-eighty pounds, he resembled a cross between a Sharpei and a Bulldog. But when he opened his mouth, it was baritone honey.

  Far from being a mutt, Nabila Thomas was the Estonian Nefertiti: stylish dress, eyes taking in everything, and making instant assessments.

  Speaking of old TV shows, if you remember “Rocky and Bullwinkle,” you will instantly know what I mean when I say that her voice was identical to Natasha Badenov.

  “Yasmin, dear, come. Sit on the table and let the doctor look at you.”

  I gazed at the young girl wiping tears from her face and I knew.

  Yasmin Thomas was ten going on eleven. She couldn’t have been more than three-feet-six at the time. Her short forearms attached to small, stubby-fingered hands, and her almond-shaped eyes and small ears set in a face broader than usual for a child of her age.

  I took her hands and held them, trying to put her at ease by smiling. It also gave me a chance to look at her palms. Yes, only one skin crease.

  Lon and Nabila Thomas watched me silently, as I addressed their daughter.

  “Yas, I’m going to shine a light in your nose and mouth, and then we’ll look at your ears. Is that okay with you?”

  Eyes devoid of even childhood guile looked at me. Slowly her head nodded and she returned my smile.

  I turned on my scope light and held it out to her. She took it and handed it back to me.

  “Open wide now.”

  A thick, fissured tongue protruded from a square-jawed face perched on a shortened neck.