by Robert Klane
The ambulance got there very fast. Too fast for Nemiroff s own good. They lifted him out of the car and placed him on a stretcher, then moved him into the back of the ambulance. There was someone else already in there.
"I'm going to have a baby," the other person said.
Nemiroff turned his head and looked into the crying eyes. "That's wonderful."
The woman let out a blood-curdling scream.
Nemiroff thought she was dying. "Are you all right?" he asked.
The head looked at him. "Oh, it's nothing." She screamed again.
"Look, you want me to do something for you?" He was becoming frightened.
She screamed again. "Oh, no, it's nothing." She looked into Nemiroff's eyes. "What are you in for?" she asked.
"I had a slight accident in my car," Nemiroff answered.
"Does it hurt?" Again the scream.
"Look, are you sure you're all right?" He was very concerned.
"No, it's really nothing." She was staring at him now. "Does it hurt?"
"Does what hurt?" Nemiroff was confused.
"The accident. Doesn't it hurt?" This time she just moaned.
Nemiroff moved his body a little. "No, I feel fine."
"Oh, too bad." She leaned over and patted his hand.
"What do you mean it's too bad?"
"It's nothing," she consoled, "don't give it another thought" This time she let out a scream that nearly tore the roof off the ambulance.
"Wait a minute," he started, "don't give what another thought?"
"Such a nice boy, too." She patted him on the arm again. "What do you think of Stephen?"
"Stephen who?"
"Stephen, the name of my baby." She patted her huge stomach.
"Never mind Stephen," Nemiroff interrupted.
"What do you mean don't give it another thought?"
"I shouldn't have mentioned it," she said.
"No, you shouldn't have, but you did," Nemiroff pressed on.
"It's just a little something I heard about people who die in accidents." This scream reached a new high. "Maybe I should stick with Harold. I had that before I thought of Stephen."
"Who's dying in an accident?" Nemiroff asked, his voice slightly unnerved.
"You are."
"I am not," he said. Nemiroff jumped around a little. "See, look, nothing hurts."
The woman stopped in the middle of a scream. "That's the first sign." She finished the scream. "Look, all I know is that my sister-in-law tells me her nephew who is in medical school tells her that a lot of people who have accidents and think they're not hurt die."
Nemiroff looked at her. "I think my leg hurts." He didn't want to die. "And maybe my arm a little."
The woman looked over at Nemiroff. "Tsk, tsk," she said, "such a nice boy." She turned and yelled to the drivers. "Hurry, I don't want my son should be born next to a corpse."
"Cut it out," Nemiroff screamed.
"Don't worry about it," she went on. "Just think, you'll die, and right away God will take care of the vacancy with my little David." She patted her belly.
"What happened to Stephen and Harold?"
"David was really my first, first choice."
Nemiroff held his ears while the woman screamed.
He waited until she finished. "I'll be damned if he's taking my place." Nemiroff couldn't get the woman's remarks off his mind. He hardly even noticed her screaming any more. All Nemiroff knew was that he didn't want to die. Nemiroff wished he didn't feel so good.
The ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance of the hospital. The two men got out and opened the back door. First they lifted out the pregnant woman, then Nemiroff. Nemiroff read the emergency sign upside down as they wheeled him in. They left Nemiroff and the woman lying side by side in the hospital corridor.
"Don't go away," Nemiroff shouted. "Don't leave me to die."
A nurse came running over to Nemiroff. "You'll have to be quiet," she said. "This is a hospital."
"No shit," Nemiroff yelled, "where else would they bring a dying man?"
"You're not dying," the nurse said. "In fact, the men who brought you in said you hardly had a scratch. You're just here for a checkup."
"Check him for death," the pregnant woman said. She leaned over and tapped Nemiroff on the shoulder. "That's what they tell all of them." She winked at Nemiroff and crossed her arms over her gigantic belly.
"Now we'll just need a few facts," the nurse said. "Name, please?"
"Nemiroff." He grabbed the nurse. "Please, I don't want to die."
The pregnant woman started to whistle "Taps."
"Would you please get her the hell out of here," he yelled.
"Now, now, Mr. Nemiroff." She tried to calm him. "Religion?"
"What?" he asked.
"What's your religion?" she repeated.
"I'm dying and you want to know my religion?" So that was it. They'd find out he was Jewish, and they'd let him die.
The pregnant woman leaned over to Nemiroff. "That's so they know what kind of a funeral."
"Get her the hell out of here," Nemiroff shrieked. "She wants me to die. She wants a place for her baby."
The nurse signaled to one of the orderlies to come over and take the pregnant woman away. She struggled to get up in a sitting position. Nemiroff watched her disappearing down the hall.
"Such a nice boy, too," she yelled.
"I hope you deliver a nine-pound fart," Nemiroff screamed after her. The nurse pushed him back down on the stretcher. He looked up at her. "I don't want to die."
The nurse wheeled Nemiroff into a nearby examination room. He just kept shaking his head and repeating the same phrase over and over again. "I don't want to die."
The nurse took one last look at Nemiroff before shutting the door. "A doctor will be with you in a minute."
"Wait, wait," he screamed, "don't leave me."
"Everything is all right," the nurse said. "Look, I told you when they brought you in, there's nothing wrong with you. Just let the doctor check you over." She shut the door.
Nemiroff put his head down and stared up at the ceiling. He started counting the holes in acoustical panels, and was up to three thousand and forty-six before the door of the examination room opened again. Nemiroff stopped counting and looked at the man dressed in white.
The doctor picked up the card the nurse had filled out. "Mr. Nemiroff?"
"Hurry, Doctor," Nemiroff pleaded, "before it's too late."
It's strange the way fate plays with the lives of men. Take Dr. Harry Chittleman, for instance. Harry Chittleman had wandered aimlessly through life until the ripe old age of twelve before fate stepped in and guided him to his chosen profession.
It had all started that humid Saturday afternoon when Nancy Weinburger, that precocious eleven-year-old from next door, happened to wander over into Harry Chittleman's yard.
"Hello, Harry," she said.
"What do you want?" Harry snapped. Like most twelve-year-old boys, Harry could well do without any girls.
"Whatcha doing?" Nancy cooed.
"I'm going to beat the shit out of you if you don't get out of here," he threatened.
"Don't you want to play with me?" little Nancy Weinburger asked.
"No." Harry looked at Nancy. "What can you play with a little girl, anyway?"
"We could play doctor," said little Nancy Weinburger's precocious little mouth.
"Doctor?" Harry asked. "How do you play doctor?"
"Boy, are you stupid," Nancy said. "How old are you?"
"None of your business. Twelve." Harry was hurt.
"And you never played doctor?"
"I never wanted to," Harry answered. "How do you do it?"
Nancy Weinburger leaned over to Harry. "First you have to find a dark closet," she whispered.
"Who the hell wants to play in a closet?"
Nancy Weinburger got up and started to walk away.
"O.K.," Harry called after her, "we'll get a closet'' He was hooke
d.
Harry led Nancy into the house. He stopped her in front of the hall closet "This good enough?" he asked, opening the door. Nancy peered in. "Fine." They got into the closet and closed the door.
"Now what?" Harry asked.
"You be the doctor." Nancy Weinburger picked up her little blue dress and held it over her head. "Examine me."
"This is playing doctor?" Harry asked. "I want to get out of the closet!"
"You can't leave until you examine me," little Nancy Weinburger said. "I'm your patient!"
"I don't want to."
"You have to or I won't pay you."
"You're going to pay me?" He was shocked.
"Sure, all patients pay their doctors." She grabbed Harry's hand. "Now examine me."
Harry Chittleman figured what the hell. His fingers got very busy. The busier his fingers got the more he liked being a doctor. And the more Nancy Weinburger liked being a patient. This was fantastic, Harry Chittleman thought to himself. Why didn't I ever think of this before? That's where fate came in. It was at that very moment Harry Chittleman decided to become a doctor. He would have his own little closet somewhere, hang out his shingle, and women would come to see him in his closet and he would examine them. Not only that they would pay him to examine them. Harry Chittleman wondered why everybody didn't want to become a doctor.
But things hadn't exactly worked out the way Harry Chittleman planned. He had gone to medical school, he had served as an intern, a resident, and now he was a full-fledged doctor. But Dr. Harry Chittleman had yet to get one woman into a closet with him. Somewhere, fate, that lousy son of a bitch, had thrown Dr. Harry Chittleman a bad ball.
Nemiroff read the name pinned on the pocket of the man examining him. Dr. H. Chittleman.
"Take a deep breath," Dr. Chittleman said. Nemiroff took a deep breath. "Uh hmmm," the doctor said.
"I don't want to die," Nemiroff told him.
"You're not going to die," the doctor reassured him.
"What do you know," Nemiroff yelled. "That pregnant woman's sister-in-law's nephew. He knows."
"I can assure you, you're not going to die," the doctor said.
"Are you sure?" Nemiroff could hardly believe his ears.
"I'm positive," Dr. Chittleman said. "Now just drop your pants and let me finish the examination."
Nemiroff thanked God for letting him five. He felt a little sorry for the person who was going to die to make room for the pregnant woman's baby, but that was his tough luck. He noticed Dr. Chittleman staring at him.
"What a funny pair of balls," the doctor said. He started to laugh.
"What are you talking about?" Nemiroff asked.
"That's a very funny pair of balls," Dr. Chittleman repeated. "Has the nurse seen this?"
Nemiroff was gaping. "What do you mean, has the nurse seen this?"
Dr. Chittleman was laughing harder now. "I think the nurse should see this. They're very funny."
Nemiroff was mad. "How can a pair of balls be funny?"
Dr. Chittleman was holding his sides now. "They're just funny." He opened the door and called to the nurse. "Nurse, come in here and take a look at this."
Nemiroff lay back down on the table. He couldn't believe it. The nurse came in and walked over to the table.
"Have you ever seen a funnier-looking pair of balls in your life?" Dr. Chittleman asked.
Nemiroff felt his face turning red. The nurse started to laugh, and now both she and the doctor were hysterical.
"Has Dr. Beaton seen this?" the doctor asked the nurse.
"I don't think so," the nurse said.
"Get him in here." The nurse went out to the desk and paged Dr. Beaton. She came back five minutes later towing Dr. Beaton. "Take a look," Dr. Chittleman said.
Dr. Beaton looked over at Nemiroff, naked from the waist down, lying on the table.
"Is that funny?" Dr. Chittleman asked his colleague. All three of them were now laughing at Nemiroff.
Dr. Chittleman ignored him. "Where's Nurse Lane," he asked. "She'd really get a kick out of this."
Nemiroff couldn't stand it any longer. He got up off the table and started to pull on his pants. "You're all out of your fucking minds," he told them. They just laughed at him.
"Please," Dr. Chittleman begged, "just wait for Nurse Lane."
"I'll be damned if I will," Nemiroff shouted. He started to walk out of the room. The doctors and the nurse followed him, still laughing hysterically. Nemiroff didn't know which way to go. He just knew he wanted to get the hell out of that hospital, and fast Nemiroff started down the long hospital corridor, looking for a way to get out. He stopped for a moment to pull up his pants. A nurse walked by wheeling a woman on a table. The woman looked over at Nemiroff. It was the woman from the ambulance. Nemiroff noticed her, then he noticed the baby on the table beside her. The baby was alive and so was Nemiroff. He hoped she wouldn't get upset and try and kill him or something to make room for her baby. The woman watched Nemiroff as he pulled up his drawers and started to hitch up his pants. She picked the baby up and held it out toward Nemiroff.
Nemiroff smiled. Maybe he had her all wrong. Maybe she wanted to be friends after all. Nemiroff started to walk over to the woman and the baby.
"Stop," she yelled, "don't come near my baby. I don't want my baby to be near someone who is going to die."
Nemiroff stopped. "Then what did you hold the baby up for?" he asked.
"I just wanted my baby to see a funny pair of balls," the woman said. "It would be a shame if he didn't see them before you die."
She put the baby down next to her and the nurse wheeled them both off. Nemiroff turned and walked out of the hospital. He kept walking all the way home.
Nemiroff watched the rain come down and cried. Nemiroff didn't always cry when it rained, but ever since that first day he had spent locked in with those kids at Camp Winituck with no escape, he secretly wished it would never rain again.
It was too much. Even some of the more stable counselors would begin to crack at the first sprinkle. For Nemiroff, it was an impossible situation. It was whenever it rained that Nemiroff seriously thought that maybe the army wouldn't be so bad after all.
Uncle Bernie loved the rain. Uncle Bernie was a frustrated showman. A ham. And every time it rained, Uncle Bernie had an audience trapped inside the converted stable that served as Camp Winituck's recreation center. Uncle Bernie played a bad piano, sang bad songs and played a lousy fiddle. Uncle Bernie secretly wished that it would rain every day of the summer.
The rain was really pouring down, and the one hundred and thirty-seven campers and counselors were crowded into the small area of the recreation room. They all were deathly silent as they waited for the dreaded announcement they knew must come. This time the unfortunate chore fell upon Mr. Robinson. He got up in the center of the crowd and raised his hands.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "it gives Camp Winituck the great pleasure of introducing the one, the only"—he paused for emphasis—"Uncle Bernie."
The front door burst open and in rushed Uncle Bernie complete with straw hat, cane and tap sneakers.
"If you knew Susie, like I knew Susie. Oh . . . oh . . . oh, what a gal. ..'"
The booing and catcalling started with a whisper and grew to ear-breaking volume.
" 'There's none so classy, as this fair lassy. Oh ... oh . . . oh . . .'"
The booing had stopped bothering Uncle Bernie a long time ago. He did seven choruses, broke into a little time step, and finished big with a double backward somersault, catching his straw hat in his teeth.
"Throw the bum out," one of the campers yelled.
"The hook," screamed another, "somebody give him the hook."
Uncle Bernie didn't care how much they screamed and booed. They had no place to go, and by God, they were going to be entertained whether they liked it or not.
" 'Swanee . . .'" Uncle Bernie went on to his second number without a break. " 'Swaaahaahaaneeee ... the sun shines east... th
e sun shines west...'"
Somebody's shoe caught Uncle Bernie in the head.
" 'But I know where the sun shines best...'" He picked up the shoe and tossed it back without missing a note.
It had been a long time since it rained. Uncle Bernie did twenty-eight songs before he moved on to the piano. There was a pile of shoes knee-deep around the spot he had been singing from. Uncle Bernie banged a few introductory notes on the piano.
"O.K., everybody, it's request time once again." He let his fingers run up and down the keyboard. "C'mon, now don't be shy. Speak right up and see if you can stump old Uncle Bernie."
"Burn the piano," somebody suggested.
"Did you say 'Come to Me, My Melancholy Baby'?" The piano started tinkling. He did a twenty-minute version. Uncle Bernie must have been tired because he only played for five hours. He didn't notice that half the camp was now standing outside in the pouring rain.
Uncle Bernie finished on the piano and immediately picked up his fiddle. The shoes flew at him from all directions. "Now for the real treat," Uncle Bernie announced, still ducking the shoes, "a real old-fashioned square dance." He started to play a few notes on the fiddle. Nobody moved. "C'mon, get out here for the square dance." Nobody moved. He pointed to eight of the counselors. "If you aren't out here for the square dance by the time I count ten, you're fired."
The eight counselors got out on the floor.
"That's the spirit," Uncle Bernie cheered. "Now grab a partner." He started to fiddle some notes.
Nemiroff took a chance and asked Miss Booe if she would like to be his partner. To his surprise she accepted. He would be able to touch her again.