Drop-in

Early on Monday morning, when I had an overloaded schedule before me, Angela, my receptionist, buzzed me on the intercom.

“A full house, doctor,” she murmured. “And Doctor B. just walked in. He wants to see you.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“It goes back to Cleve—”

“Lord help us! Appointment?”

“Surely you jest.”

“I'll be right out.”

So, I said to myself, he finally made it. Five appointments in 3 months. He never showed up for four of them and reeled in for the fifth so contrite and incoherent that I begged him to forget the whole thing and go home. I finished my coffee, got up, and faced him across a crowded waiting room.

“Hello, Ray,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“I just dropped in to get some pills for my bowels.”

All eyes turned to the carpet and ceiling.

I said, “You weren't referred for x-rays?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I don't need x-rays. Sound as a dollar. I dropped in for some of those laxative pills. The small, orange, treacherous ones.”

He clearly needed other things as well. A shave, a square meal, a trip to the dentist, a new zipper for his grimy flannels, and a shirt to replace his sagging turtleneck.

He stared at me, puffy-eyed.

“OK,” I …