Page 7 of Pot Shot
I groan.
“Second, don’t masturbate in your office, and don’t call me instead, either.”
“But you’re my advisor!”
“Not in the job description. Third, you need to apologize to Ms. Stoner.”
“Are you sure avoiding her for the rest of my life isn’t a viable alternative to,” I take a deep breath, “apologizing”?
“It isn’t, because after you apologize, you’re going to ask her out. And if she offers you a puff, by God, take it. I’ve never met a man who could benefit more from smoking weed than you.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Believe it, Dr. D’Angelo. That is your chief advisor’s medical opinion.”
“Yes, sir.” Funny how fast that flies out of my mouth, all these years later. “But Iresent it, sir.”
I don’t remember exactly when Dr. Sampson becameEric, perhaps during residency? But he said at our first advisory meeting during orientation week in medical school that if I had a question, I could always come to him.
He’s openly regretted that a few dozen times since.
After we disconnect, I spend the rest of the shift in a mortified haze with occasional breaks of activity. Ms. Petrillo’s grandson with a high temperature and a bad case of the flu. Billy Clark’s broken thumb. Nothing to top Nomi’s mangled labia, though. God, I feel terrible, betrayed by my body in a moment when a patient needed me to be professional. Worse, there’s nothing to break me out of the loop of shame and frustration I keep cycling through. Nobody could ruin lasagna, it’simpossible! Seeing Nomi after so many years—still beautiful, still feisty in that hot-blooded way of hers, still in Sparrow Nook doing nothing with her life? It’s maddening,and this idle night shift is making it worse. Time passed relentlessly in the Philly Gen ER, every heartbeat bringing a new disaster to triage. I didn’t have time for this ridiculous introspection. But by morning, I’ve reconciled with what must be done:
I’ll apologize to Nomi Wyeth.
Even though she stole my valedictorian titleandmy heart only to throw it all away smoking weed with that terror Eve Ionides, I’ll do it. I’ll apologize to the first girl I ever kissed. The first person to break my heart. And because the universe hates me, the first vulva I’ve ever stitched up.
What a night.
“Good morning, Julian.” Dr. Srinivasan putters into our shared office at seven thirty, newspaper under one arm, a large coffee in the other. “How did your shift go?”
I stand up and smooth the front of my coat, the memory of Nomi’s pert ass momentarily parching my mouth. “Uneventful.”
“Oh?” Dr. Srinivasan plops down in the rolling chair I just vacated and promptly adjusts the height, springing him up half a foot taller. “That is interesting, as I received a complaint about you to my cell phone.”
The blood drains from my upper extremities and pools in my belly. Did Nomi spy the outline of my semi-erect penis? It’s aggressively present when I’m at zero stimulation and outrageous when fully erect. A former girlfriend dubbed it aprotruder, and I’ve been self-conscious of it ever since.
Or was it Eve Ionides? Did that mean little lesbiansee my penis?!
“Calm down, Julian, you look like you’re about to stroke out.” Dr. Srinivasan gestures for me to sit, and I do, reluctantly. I’ve known him since I was little and coming in for my own yearly checkups. It’s still an adjustment to think of him as my boss.
Dr. Srinivasan looks at me appraisingly, but he doesn’t check the front of my pants, which is a good sign, I think. “Ms. Petrillo texted thatyou were very rude and implied her grandson contracted the flu from, and I quote, ‘licking doorknobs.’”
I exhale, letting my back rest against the seat. “He’s three years old. Aren’t they all licking doorknobs at that age?”
“No, they’re not tall enough. You also received a complaint from Mr. Donahue about his diabetic medication two days ago.”
“What did I say to him?”
His eyebrow arches, disrupting the rows of forehead wrinkles like a stone thrown into a lake. “You called his insulin his cheesecake shots.”
I arch my brow right back. “He eats a slice every morning, Dr. Srinivasan. Forbreakfast!”
Dr. Srinivasan sighs. “The last thing a patient wants is their doctor’s scorn. It’s your job to help, not to shame.”
“Even when they’re being stupid?”
“Especiallywhen they’re being stupid.” Dr. Srinivasan chuckles. “Being a primary care physician in a town this size requires you to be more than right—it requires you to listen and belikable. Skills you must learn if you want Philly Gen to reinstate you.”
