In Stitches

by Anthony Youn

  “Your loss.” Knockout Two.

  Knockout One wraps her hair around three fingers. “We heard med students like to party, but I guess we found the only two who don’t.”

  Knockout Two does a little hop, points off. “Look, Jerry and Dwayne got in! Jerr-eeee!” Giggling, waving the pipe, they bolt.

  “And there they go,” Tim says.

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  Tim snaps his head back. “For what?”

  “Wait. I thought when they brought out the pipe and I turned it down, you were pissed.”

  “Not at all. Forget it. We can do better.”

  “In this lifetime?”

  “Maybe not. Hey, at least there’s food.”

  We cruise the snack table, pile paper plates high with chips, dip, popcorn, cookies, doughnuts, and I think, Tim is right. At least there’s food. And Tim. And James. And Ricky.

  And at least I have them.

  . . . .

  BACK AT CHEZ James. Monday night a memory. We’re looking at Tuesday morning, two A.M. It all starts again in nine hours with biochem. Tim’s gone, and I remember I promised to wheel his Huffy home. A pang of depression gnaws me. Once again, I’m alone. My beer buzz gone, I feel wasted, a sexless blob. I melt into the warped hardwood floor that smells of cedar and spilled beer.

  “Look at you.”

  Ricky. Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, barefoot.

  “Hi, Ricky.”

  “Oh, Tony, baby. You’re upset, aren’t you? Sad. Horny. Frustrated. You didn’t get any action tonight, did you?”

  “Ah, no, nope. I did not.”

  “Well, here you go.”

  He drops onto my crotch.

  “Get the hell off me!” I sit up and toss him off my lap. He roars and races out of the room. He howls all the way down the hallway.

  Yes, I’m over my gay “thing.” I love Ricky. He’s one of my closest friends.

  But no offense, Ricky, I need a woman.

  I ALSO NEED lessons.

  I tend to obsess. Tim, I’m happy to discover, obsesses as much as I do. By our calculation, we spend one out of every two minutes of our lives in the Nerd Room plotting, planning, and cramming for exams.

  We spend every other minute obsessing over women.

  I admit to Tim that I need help. I tell him how crushed I feel when a girl turns me down. My already fragile ego feels ready to crumble into powder. “Why can’t I get a woman? What am I doing wrong?”

  “It’s all in the preparation. The pregame,” Tim says. “You need to prepare with the same intensity and dedication as you do for an exam.”

  We sit in the student lounge eating a pizza we had delivered to the back door. We scarf the slices almost whole, fearing that Shelly and her squad of gunners might discover us here, mug us, steal our pizza, and leave us for dead.

  “I don’t know how to break the ice,” I say. “I say something ridiculous. Then it goes downhill from there.”

  “I’m taking you under my wing,” Tim says.

  “I’m game.”

  “First, I want you to know that this is an outrage. You’re good-looking, you’re funny, you’re smart, you’re a great guy. No way you should be spending your nights alone, listening to the Chinese guy flush.”

  “I’m with you.”

  He rests a hand on my shoulder. “That’s about to change.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Three things. First, subscribe to Cosmo.”

  I pause, wait for him to laugh. “You’re serious,” I say.

  “Dead serious. Cosmo gives you an edge. I read it cover to cover every month. Just finished a very informative article. ‘Thirty Feisty Foreplay Tips.’ Must reading.”

  “Thirty? I can only think of two. I guess my foreplay’s a little rusty. So’s my afterplay. My during-play could use a tune-up, too.”

  “You can start with my old issues. But I want them back. Now, number two. You ready? This one’s gonna hurt.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Do not talk about your mother. Ever. I know you love her. I love my mother, too. But your mother must never come up in conversation in a bar. Especially when you are hitting on a woman.”

  “I get nervous. I can’t help it.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to hear you telling some chick how much you love your mother’s soup. Swear to me.”

  “Fine. I swear. What’s number three?”

  Tim scans my face. He frowns, considers. He apparently wants to be sure I’m ready for number three. He kicks aside the pizza box. Wipes his hands on his shirt. “All right, Grasshopper. Number three. The secret to the whole deal.” Tim reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette lighter. He flicks it once. A thin blue flame shoots up.

  “A cigarette lighter?”

  I’m dubious.

  “Surefire,” Tim says.

  “I don’t smoke,” I say.

  “I don’t, either. Who gives a shit? Get yourself a lighter. Carry it with you at all times. You see a cute girl about to light up, you whip out your lighter, cup her hands in yours, look into her eyes, and you’re in. Two moves. Lighter out, flick, deep soul-searching look. Bam. Phone number.”

  I snicker. Reach for the last slice. “That is total bullshit. No way I’m buying a cigarette lighter.”

  I BUY A lighter.

  Nothing fancy. A Bic flick. A dollar fifty-nine at CVS. I lock myself in my room and practice. I walk around the room, try it out in different pockets in various pants and shirts. Front pocket, back pocket, shirt pocket. I settle on pants, left side pocket. Then I practice lighting it until I can whip that thing out and flick the flame up fast as an assassin.

  Monday night. Party night. Tim and I hit a bar. I’ve read two issues of Cosmo, and I’m so good with my lighter I can twirl it and flick it in one motion. I’m ready.

  We survey the room. Cute coeds abound. Tim spots his prey, a husky softball-player type sitting alone. Tim winks, sidles up to her, carrying two beers. He hands one to her. She blushes, laughs, touches his arm. Home run.

  Leaving me, as usual, alone. Playing with my lighter. Doubting Tim’s training. I drain a beer, order another, down that one. Two beers. That’s all it takes for me to fall down a hole and crash-land into the town we call Pityville. I stare into the dregs of my beer and wallow. Hell, Ricky does better with women than I do. And he’s gay.

  I need to get rid of these beers. I locate the line to the bathroom, which snakes ten people long down the side of the bar, around a corner, past the pay phone. What a night. I have to wait an hour to pee. And there’s Tim and the lady shortstop across the room, laughing, touching, gathering up their things, getting ready to head back to his place to play long ball. Any second now he’ll ask me to wheel his Huffy home. I have to face it. I’m hopeless.

  “Is this the line for the bathroom?”

  I tilt my head down slightly and see the face of an angel.

  She’s ethereal. Beaming a smile up at me that could melt metal. Short hair. One dimple. Olive skin. Eyebrows that wave hello. A hint of Asian about her. Maybe Polynesian. I don’t care. I love Asians.

  “Huh?” I say. So debonair.

  Her smile fades. She leans her back into the pay phone. She looks away. Tim’s words dance through my head. Do not talk about your mother. Do not bring up her succulent octopus soup.

  Focus, Tony.

  Do not mention thirty feisty foreplay tips.

  Or is it thirty feisty foreskin tips?

  I’m losing it.

  And then a miracle happens.

  The angel pulls out a cigarette.

  Time stops.

  She holds the cigarette between a long lovely index finger and a long lovely middle finger. She lifts her knee and fishes around in her purse. “Damn,” she says. Still rummaging in her purse, “Do you have a light?”

  Do I ever.

  I slip my hand into my jeans pocket and, with mercurial speed, whip out my lighter, twirl it, flick it, whoosh. An inviting p
ale blue flame shoots up, tickles the air.

  Two angel hands cup mine. The angel dips her head and lights her cigarette. She tosses off a cloud of smoke from the crinkled-up corner of her kissable mouth. “I’m Carly,” she says.

  “Good name. Strong. Yet feminine. I’m Tony.”

  Three minutes later, she gives me her phone number.

  Two hours later, I call her.

  We talk until dawn.

  I never mention my mother.

  We go out the following Monday night.

  We date for four months.

  We get through twenty-three of the thirty feisty foreplay tips before she dumps me.

  Home run!

  FIRST YEAR. SECOND semester. Six weeks to go. If I squint, I can make out a dim flickering light at the end of the long dark tunnel.

  Most days and every weekend we hole up in the Nerd Room. Tim and I continue to schedule breaks to discuss women and plan our dating strategy. But with under a month to go, two seismic changes occur that throw us off our game.

  First, Tim meets Jane. Jane is different from all the other girls I’ve seen him date or take home for the night. She’s pretty. She’s smart. She seems not at all desperate. She shakes Tim up. He’s no longer obsessed with women. He is now only obsessed with Jane.

  “I’m going to marry her,” he tells me.

  “Have you told her this?”

  “No. It’s too soon. Things are still fluid. I’m not sure she even likes me all that much. Which makes me even more obsessed with her.”

  “She may be too good for you,” I point out.

  “I know. I thought of that. Just motivates me more. Makes me work harder.”

  “So no more driving nine hours to Saratoga for a quickie?”

  “Those days are over, my friend. I have a long uphill battle ahead of me. But she’s worth it. She’s the one, dude.”

  “You going out with her Monday night?”

  “Haven’t asked her yet.”

  “You’re playing it cool. Masterful.”

  “Actually, she hasn’t given me her number yet.”

  I whistle low. “Think I’ll hold off renting my tuxedo.”

  “Only a matter of time,” Tim says.

  SECOND SEISMIC CHANGE.

  I fall in love with anatomy.

  It happens over time but begins as a result of my competitive nature.

  Months ago. The day after Dr. Gaw humiliates me in class, I decide to fight back. I refuse to give her control of my life and of my medical-school education. My plan involves mental judo. I vow to make her not only change her opinion of me but to fall in love with me. This becomes my obsession.

  I begin by asking myself a key question. Who is Dr. Gaw? Not sure I want to go there. I do know this. Dr. Gaw seems to despise the living. She’s clearly gaga over her cadavers, enthralled with her bins of body parts, orgasmic over her prosected organs. Therefore, I will pretend to love what she loves.

  Day two, I motor from the back of the lab, where Tim, equipped with smelling salts, hides, and push my way to the front, where I rub shoulders with the gunners and ass kissers. I take notes like a court reporter, laugh along with the ass kissers at Dr. Gaw’s lame attempts at humor, and listen raptly as she gushes over her livers, spleens, and kidneys. I can play fascinated with the best of them. I share meaningful glances with the gunners. I ooh and ahh with the ass kissers. I smile with respect at Dr. Gaw. It’s all fake, a front. I don’t give a shit. I just want an A in this freaking class.

  Then one day I do give a shit. It starts again with hands. For the second time, I walk by the open bin of hands, and I’m drawn in. Again, I see the humanity in those hands. I feel their humanity. My perspective shifts. I alter my entire view of this class and medical school in general. I don’t care about Dr. Gaw, or the gunners, or getting an A. I think about all the body parts in the lab, and I imagine them belonging to people I know or people I’ve seen. Then I wonder who these people really were. I wonder how they lived their lives, where they worked, what they did for fun, what made them afraid. I wonder who they loved, and I wonder who grieved over them.

  I drift over to the bodies that we will study, some under tarps, some lying naked, their innards exposed, and certain details that I’d never noticed jump out—tattoos, dental fillings, scars—and I feel lightheaded. I am in awe of these people. Most of all, instead of feeling detached from them, as I assume most doctors do, I feel attached to them. Committed to them.

  I can’t say that I feel this way constantly, every second of anatomy class, every moment of medical school. I will often lose this feeling of reverence toward these bodies, especially when I’m grinding through my notes, preparing for an exam. But I’m able to bring myself back, to locate the humanity easily.

  Especially when I look into the bin of hands.

  FIRST YEAR. THE last week.

  I don’t want to scream it yet, but—

  I HAVE SURVIVED MY FIRST YEAR OF MEDICAL SCHOOL!

  I should make that into a bumper sticker and slap it on my Huffy.

  Second year promises to be better. James and Ricky have invited Tim and me to share a house with them. According to Ricky, they’ve found a fabulous two-story colonial on Flower Street. So much potential. He’s already painting and decorating. “It’s going to be a showcase,” he says.

  “It has to be a step up from Owen Hall,” Tim says.

  “Hopefully,” I say.

  “You two wound me,” Ricky says.

  “I apologize,” I say. “Work your magic. You’re a male Martha Stewart.”

  “If only.”

  . . . .

  FIRST YEAR ENDS with a jolt.

  Bianca.

  Two days left. I pop into the admissions office to drop off a form. I hand the form to a secretary and head out the back door. I screech to a stop.

  Leaning over a desk, arms slicing the air, speaking with deep-throated passion in a Spanish accent, her legs lined with runner’s calves bent and brushing the desk, her back arched, her ass tight in a short skirt swaying, stands the hottest woman I’ve seen this side of Gloria. A woman in a pin-striped suit sits at the desk, nodding like a mourner, as “Gloria” raises one hand to the sky. I blink twice to clear my head.

  I shuffle forward to hear her voice. I see now that the vision is taller than Gloria, her cheekbones higher and cut like glass, her complexion off-white, her eyes aqua pools. What ruins me is her laugh. She roars, uninhibited, husky, gleefully, carrying away both the woman in the pin-striped suit and me.

  Instinctively, I whip out my lighter.

  “Sir, there’s no smoking in here.”

  Pinstripe. She speaks like a principal over a loudspeaker.

  “Sorry.”

  The vision laughs. What teeth. They gleam. Dr. Schwarzman would hand her a trophy. I snap the lighter shut, return it with a flourish to the side pocket of my jeans. “Would you have a drink with me tonight?”

  I can’t believe I say this.

  She laughs. “Yes,” she says.

  “Awesome!”

  Pinstripe shakes her head. Can’t tell if she’s happy for me or thinks the vision is out of her mind.

  “Well, sorry to intrude.” I start to leave. I’m about to hit the glass doors.

  “Where?” Her voice so husky I can feel her breath from ten feet away.

  “Ha.” What an idiot. Then cool takes over. “USA Café.”

  “I’ll find it. Nine o’clock?”

  “Great,” I say. “By the way, I’m Tony.”

  “Bianca,” she says.

  THAT NIGHT WITH Bianca, I’m in a zone. Every line clicks. Every joke kills. Every move devastates. And when I lead Bianca in the shopping-cart dance? Forget about it.

  At our table, eyes trained on each other, hearts thumping from drink, the heat of the bar, and the closeness of our bodies, I say, “Tell me everything about you.”

  We sip our drinks, beer for me, sangria for her.

  “I’m pretty boring,” she says,
which is such a lie. “I was born in Mexico, raised in San Antonio. I always wanted to be a doctor. I applied to about twenty medical schools to cover my bases. I had my interview today. I’m dying to get in here.”

  “Is this your first choice?”

  “Yes. But it’s so hard. Very competitive.”

  “You’ll get in. I’m sure you will. It’ll be so great. The two of us. We’ll hang out all the time.”

  “I know, right?”

  “When will you find out?”

  A shrug. A slug of sangria. Bianca slurps down to the orange slice at the bottom. She runs the back of her hand across her mouth like a slap. Leaves a heart-shaped red lipstick blotch.

  “They mail me the result in six weeks. I have to go back to Texas. Unless I can move in with you.”

  “Not a problem. My parents will love you. You can pass for Korean, right?”

  “Sí.” Then she levels me. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I know.”

  “That sucks.” I must scream those words, because the bar goes quiet. “Now what?” I say after a while.

  Bianca presses her hand to my cheek. “I had so much fun tonight, Tony.”

  “That’s it? We may never see each other again.”

  “But if I get in here—”

  Now I shrug.

  “Well, it’s late,” Bianca says. “I have to pack—”

  She stands, mouths “goodbye” to James, Ricky, and Tim, who grunt as a group, watching me carefully, concerned that I’m about to stroke out. I stand, nearly knock over my chair. “I’ll walk you home,” I say.

  “It’s okay. I want to be alone.”

  She kisses my cheeks European-style, one side and then the other, then lightly brushes my mouth with the tip of her finger. I watch her disappear out the front doors of the diner.

  “I’ve never seen you operate like that, man.” James noogies my arm. “You reminded me of me.”

  I crash onto my chair. “I’m never gonna see her again.” I barely croak out the words.

  Three pairs of hands clamp down, massaging my back, mussing my hair, kneading my shoulders. Ricky kisses my cheek.