I had arranged to meet Hank in front of a well-known head shop called ‘Blue Haze’ just down the road from where I had parked. He was waiting for me and as I came up behind him I asked in a gravelly voice, “Hey mister, you know where I can get a good bong for smoking my weed?”
He looked up, but didn’t turn around, and said, “Well, I don’t toke out, but my friend Mark smokes like a steam train and he and his stoner friends all seem to like this shop.” He turned around and said, “Oh, sorry dude, didn’t mean to give away your secrets.”
“No problem,” I said, “I know you get kind of nervous being in shady areas like this, so I wouldn’t expect you to keep your wits about you. I’m just glad I didn’t find you propositioning any gay prostitutes like you usually are when I run into you in the city.”
We finished up our banter and hugged. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen my best bud and I was really looking forward to hanging out, eating some really unhealthy food, and watching the Mav’s kick some ass.
We had to walk about a quarter mile to get to the restaurant. That was one of the only problems with this area of town. Parking on the street was impossible to find and the parking lots were few and far between, but the weather was nice and we’d both been hard at work all day, so a stroll in the evening fresh air was invigorating. As we walked down the street and talked about the latest bullshit he had been dealing with at work, it was natural to glance in the plate glass windows of the bars and restaurants that lined the street. The people-watching was always interesting in this part of town, because the patrons of the bars and restaurants were so diverse in race, culture, socio economic level, and age. One high top bar table would be surrounded by a group of oil rig roughnecks in town for a night out, and the next may be inhabited by a group of gay yuppies in V neck sweaters and capri pants. If it was a weekend night, one was certain to run across several gaggles of wasted bleach blond goslings following around their seriously fucked up mother goose, wearing a ‘BRIDE’ banner and a tiara. It’s the perfect celebration destination for bar hopping idiots determined to sacrifice their livers to the gods of inebriation. Like I said, it’s good for people watching and offers plenty of opportunities to join in the intemperance.
“Yeah, well listen to this, man,” I was saying. “Today, I delivered this chick and as I went to deliver the placenta, the umbilical cord avulsed—you know—it tore off. I had to reach up inside her uterus to try to deliver the placenta manually. Thank God for epidurals. So, I’m trying to peel the placenta off of the uterine wall, but I can’t develop a plane between them, and the placenta just started ripping off in my hand. Now she’s bleeding like a stuck pig and her uterus starts to contract down to where I can barely get my hand back up into it, but I force my hand in and grab another chunk of placenta and repeat this over and over. After about ten intrauterine exams, I’ve pulled off all of the tissue that I can bluntly dissect off with my fingers and she is still bleeding heavily. By that time she was starting to look pale. I’d been asking for a Banjo curette, which is like a loop on a handle with a sharp edge used for scraping.”
“Dude, I know what a curette is, I’m not an idiot. By the way, I also know what avulse means, so spare me the two-bit medical terminology lesson.”
“Hey, asshole, shut the fuck up! I’m telling you a story. I know that you know what a normal curette is, but I didn’t know that you anesthesiologists had such an encyclopedic knowledge of all varieties of obstetric equipment.”
“Well, that’s probably why you had to go into such a narrow field of medicine, since you obviously can’t retain basic medical knowledge. I don’t mean to make you feel so inferior. I’m sorry, I’ll just be quiet.” Hank and I always loved breaking each other’s balls like this. What’s more fun than flipping your best friend shit and trying your best to bruise his ego with a creative insult? Even better, of course, if you can somehow incorporate an obscene comment about his mother, which was usually part of our M.O., but, unfortunately, hadn’t worked its way into this particular denigration showdown.
“So, anyway—can I finish? Jesus Christ, it’s like talking to an autistic kid!” I said, trying to suppress a satisfied smirk due to the insult I was able to lay on him.
“No, really”, he said, “go on. I think I know where this story is going.”
“Okay, so I’m waiting for the curette. It’s sometimes amazing how a simple instrument like this is all you need to save someone’s life, but without it, the situation is totally fucked. She’s lost maybe 1200 mil’s at this point and the bleeding is not slowing down. I have to decide whether to call the O.R. and get her into surgery, where I can ligate her uterine vessels, or keep waiting. Finally, as I’m about to page Anesthesia and the House Supervisor, a nurse pops in the door with the fucking curette. Within a minute I had scraped out her uterus and her bleeding was letting up. Fucking nurses, man! That curette should be right where everyone knows where to look for it, so that we can get it right away when it’s needed.”
“Sounds familiar. Hospital personnel have fucked me over many times. I guess they figure that it’s not their liability at stake if something goes wrong. And you know what, they’re right. If that chick bled to death today, it would be you getting sued. So, what was wrong with the placenta? Why did it not come out?”
“I appreciate your concern for my medical-legal liability, dude”, I said, “, but I was kinda’ worried about my patient too! Damn, man ...you are one cold-ass motherfucker! Is that what you think about when the shit hits the fan in the O.R.? I knew you were self-absorbed, but I guess I didn’t know that your patients were just statistics on a risk analysis report.” Score another one for the Markster!
As I hammered my point home, he stopped walking and turned toward me as—I swear to God—his jaw dropped in disbelief.
“I just meant—you know—it’s just that,” he actually stammered, and I knew I had landed a punishing blow in our ongoing verbal boxing match.
“Yeah yeah, it’s just what? Is it that you are a heartless bastard?” I jabbed once again. “Or, is it that I just totally nailed you?” As I cracked up, I saw relief, then embarrassment take over his facial expression.
“Oh man, you should have seen the look on your face,” I boasted. “That was freakin’ priceless!”
“Dude, that was bullshit!” he replied, as he good-naturedly elbowed my shoulder. “You got me though. I gotta give you that one. Touche’!”
“I’m just fuckin’ with you,” I said. “I know you care about your patients.”
“Of course,” he replied. “That’s a given. I just hate that other people can do—or not do—so many things wrong and that the liability always lands squarely on our shoulders.” The color of his face was returning to normal, so I knew he was recovering from my surprise attack.
We had started walking again, and I decided that I’d broken his balls adequately for the time being, so I said, “You are right about that. So, anyway, to answer your last question, she had a condition called placenta accreta, where the layer between the placenta and the uterine wall doesn’t form right. It’s seen more often after—whoa, wait a second,” I had just spied something interesting in the restaurant we were walking by.
We were walking past a place call Samurai Shack, a trendy ramen house and bar where one can usually hear the female yuppie mating call. This usually brings all of the yuppie stags running. In other words, this place was a typical meat market where you could, for the low price of twenty-five bucks, purchase a bowl of what is essentially Top Ramen and a single beer or cocktail. If you were lucky or deserving (or both), you might find a piece of ass to bump uglies with. Come to think of it, this place was perfect for Hank. Except for his age—twenty years older than the typical patron—Hank was definitely part of the target customer base. Since his divorce, he had been going out a lot with the younger members of the O.R. staff. I knew that his main goal had been to sample as much young booty as possible before engaging himself in a long-term relationship
. Based on the volume of texts he would send me, including pictures of his conquests, he seemed to be scoring on a very regular basis. Perhaps this is why he didn’t have his face pushed up against the window the way I’d expected at this particular butcher shop, eyeballing all of the different cuts of meat on display.
As if he had read my mind about this place and my estimate of his interest in such prime window shopping opportunities, Hank said, “Damn, Marky-Mark, I don’t know what you are seeing, but I feel like my mom just brought me to a pet store and told me to pick out a puppy. Check out the selection, dude!”
The Samurai Shack was full that night and there was a group of people waiting in the small lobby where the hostess was standing guard and studying the table chart as she tried to come up with the best estimate of how long the wait would be. There were several hot chicks among the crowd and, as it had been unseasonably warm for the previous few days, everyone was looking forward to shedding their long sleeves and jackets as spring approached. Most of the ladies were wearing tight T-shirts, short shorts, and sandals which allowed them to display their colorful pedicured tootsies. What I had seen was much more interesting to me than a particularly large set of tits or a nicely stuffed set of shorts, although one did not have to look too hard to find either of these. What I had focused on was a dashingly handsome, young urban professional, who was turned sideways to me, standing at the bar. He held a bottle of Bud Light in one hand and his other hand was resting on the lower back of the attractive brunette standing to his left, sipping on a pinkish cocktail. They were facing a slightly older couple, and their collective body language and positioning near the hostess stand gave me the impression that the foursome was out for the evening together and were currently waiting for the report from the hostess that their table had become available.
I recognized this guy right away and instantly felt the same feelings of disgust and disdain that I always experienced when I saw him walking hand in hand with my daughter. It was Brandon. Hadn’t Ryan just told me that he was out tonight at a ‘business dinner?’ This didn’t look like business to me, and it looked even less so when the girl at his side responded to something he said with a playful slap to his shoulder and grabbed him around the waist, hugging herself against him. He then put his arm around her shoulders and reciprocated the hug. As he did so, he turned to face the plate glass window which separated the fashionable and attractive diners and bar patrons from those less-trendy losers walking by on the sidewalk. The smile on his face slowly melted as he recognized the face staring at him through the window. It was his future father-in-law who, he knew, already didn’t much care for him. As he lifted his beer bottle in a gesture of salutation, I could tell that he instantly began calculating the damage and working on a plausible story. I held up one hand and winked. As I did so, I said to Hank, “Can you believe this asshole? I’ll bet he’s about to come out here and give me some made up explanation about how this double date is actually a business dinner, and how that chick is just a business colleague.”
Hank had now seen who I was referring to. He had only been around Brandon once or twice, but I knew that he had received the ‘save the date’ wedding invitation with several of Ryan’s favorite engagement photos featuring the two love birds. He had even commented that he thought Brandon was a ‘good-looking cat’ and speculated about the attractiveness of my future grandchildren.
“Oh, I love it,” Hank said. He had come to hate Brandon through my description of his behavior and attitude. “That fucker thought he was gonna be sly and step out on Ryan. Oopsie, though, future father-in-law just happens to show up at the right time. Well the wrong time for you, asshole. Could it get any better than this?”
As predicted, Brandon had slowly made his way through the crowd and come out the door to the sidewalk, where he gave me a casual, “Hey, Mark. How’ve you been?” He looked at Hank and said, “You must be Mark’s running buddy, Hank. Ryan has told me a lot about you and how you guys are always up to something fun.” He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Brandon James.”
Hank hesitantly reached forward and grasped his hand. I was guessing he was going to go for the ‘pit bull hand crusher’ technique as they shook, and by the way Brandon’s knuckles turned white and his eyes popped open widely, I knew I was right. “Yeah, I recognize you from the announcement. You remember the wedding announcement, right? You still going to need me to save that date, or are you working on a new situation with that brunette you had stuck on your side like a dryer sheet?”
“Who? Oh, that brunette?” He asked innocently, as he pointed his presumed date out through the window. She and the other couple were looking back with inquisitive expressions on their faces. It looked like they were thinking, ‘Who the fuck are those guys?’
I said, “Dude, don’t even start with the ‘who, that brunette?’ routine. We were out here watching you two, and it is pretty clear that you two are pretty familiar. I just don’t understand why assholes like you have to play around. If you’re not committed to Ryan, just move on. Trust me, nothing would make her family happier.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, that is my cousin, Charlotte. We grew up together, so yeah, you could say we are ‘pretty familiar’ with each other, to use your words. She is applying for an internship at our office. The guy standing by her holding the martini is Jeremy, the office personnel manager. The other chick is his wife, Debra. This is a ‘get to know you’ dinner. Ryan knows I’m out tonight.”
“You sure you two aren’t ‘kissing cousins’ Brandon?” Hank asked with a sneer. He was clearly going to try and help me save face by creating an awkward situation for Brandon. God love the idiot. His heart was usually in the right place, even if he was making us look like assholes.
“That’s disgusting,” Brandon shot back. “You probably get it on with your family members, Hank, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us do. From what I hear from Ryan, you can’t keep your dick in your pants regardless of what chick is around. Sounds to me like your wife couldn’t stand to have you around, so she tossed you out. Now you’re getting with your assistant and anyone else who will give you the time of day, right?”
“Listen motherfucker, what makes you think you can talk to me like that? I love Ryan like my own daughter, but do you think that somehow gives you a free pass to disrespect me?” Hank had aggressively moved toward Brandon as he said this and had him backed up against the window. Many of the diners and drinkers inside were now looking at the spectacle right outside the window. They could easily see that Hank was pissed off and liable to start wailing on Brandon.
“Dude, do you think I’m intimidated?” Brandon said, with a slight break in his voice. “I know you may be a big, tough, ex-Marine, but I’ve been in my fair share of scrapes. You should back the fuck off of me. Besides, that cop is walking towards us. I doubt you want to get your ass thrown in jail tonight. On the other hand, maybe you do. You wouldn’t have to look very far in the jail for somewhere to stick that diseased cock of yours.”
I could tell Hank wanted to take his head off, and he could have. Brandon was nearly as tall as Hank, who was about 6’3, and definitely had an athletic build. I was sure that he was no pussy, and he clearly had the self-confidence to talk trash to a bigger guy. Hank, however, had at least forty pounds on him and most of it was muscle. Hank could definitely be a blow hard and was overly impressed with his own physical prowess, but he was strong and fast, and was not without skills. You don’t get a black belt in Tae Kwon Do without demonstrating your ability to beat someone’s ass fairly-readily.
Although my immediate impression regarding Brandon’s reference to the ‘cop walking towards us’ was that it was a bluff, I had turned to look down the sidewalk to check out who all was watching this verbal altercation. Sure enough, one of those bike cops with the dorky shorts and the ‘Top Gun’ sunglasses had just parked his bike and was now walking toward the three of us as he was grabbing the radio mic on his shoulder, no doubt speaking to his dispatche
r. I could imagine him saying, “This is Alpha-Niner-Niner, approaching a potential twenty-two eighty on Commerce Street in front of Samurai Shack. Send a back-up unit.” Or something like that, anyway. Regardless of his verbiage, this didn’t seem like a good time for Hank to take Brandon’s head off with a roundhouse kick to the side of his pretty little face.
“Dude,” I said to Hank. “He’s not lying. We’ve got a cop coming this way and he looks like he’d just love to tase someone.”
Hank looked at Brandon and said, “I’m sure we’ll get a chance to continue our conversation sometime. You were making some really interesting points.”
“Is there a problem over here?” asked the policeman as he approached. “It looked to me like this gentleman may have been physically threatening you, sir. What’s going on?” he said, as he directed his inquiry to Brandon.
Brandon replied, “No problem, officer. I was just talking to my future father-in-law and his friend. It’s just really loud out here, so we had to speak up and get close. I’m headed back into the restaurant and they’re taking off, right guys?”
“Yep. Going to get us some Angry Dog. Thanks for checking in with us, officer. You can run into some real punks down here, and we sure as heck don’t want anyone messing with us when we’re trying to have a dinner out and catch up. Brandon, sorry about the mistaken identity thing. I’ll see you this weekend at brunch. Tell your colleagues we’re sorry to have kept you out here. I noticed that they headed into the dining area, so your table must be ready.” It looked like we were losing the interest of the cop and he had mentally moved on already, hoping that some punk would give him the chance to light him up with fifty thousand volts.
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