As I Was Cutting and Other Nastinesses by L.V. Rautenbaumgrabner

As I Was Cutting and Other Nastinesses by L.V. Rautenbaumgrabner

Author:L.V. Rautenbaumgrabner [Rautenbaumgrabner, L.V.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: New Pulp Press
Published: 2011-06-13T04:30:00+00:00


Henry made an appointment with his doctor. He doubted he’d get to see his real doctor, Dr. Gustafson, probably have to see someone else in the practice. Damned HMOs. He had to see a Jew doctor once, a Dr. Cohen, honest to God, fucking stereotype. The Jew didn’t hurry him any more than his real doctor did, maybe even took more time because he was trying to be nice, wanting to fit in. You’re not fitting in anywhere, Dr. Cohen, except in your own money house. Want to fit in with me? Want to go hunting with me? Or would I pull a Cheney on you? So sorry, doc, your nose got in the way. He hadn’t said anything, didn’t fuss about a Jew looking up his ass. Dr. G. had been sick. He accepted that. Man’s got to do what a man...etc. Wobble would have been proud of him, but who gives a shit what she would like or not like?

No Dr. G. today. No Jew doc either. Get this, listen to this one. Today they wanted Henry to talk to a fucking Indian. Gimme a break. An Indian would only fit in rat-filled alleys of Calcutta. Luckily Henry wanted something other than having some part of himself poked into. Might even be better if this wretched refuse waited on him today. Fucking Indian wouldn’t object to his questions.

Indian tried to shake his hand, but Henry ignored it. “It’s about bladders,” Henry began.

“You think you have a bladder infection? What are your symptoms?”

“Now did I say there was anything wrong with my bladder? I didn’t say that. You said that. Don’t you go putting words in my mouth, Dr. Ghandi.”

“Dr. Chatterjee, please. You should show respect.”

“Whatever. Look, I want to know about bladders. Thought you could tell me about them. I gave them a $30 co-pay out there, and all I want is to talk with you a few minutes. I paid for these minutes.”

The doctor sat impassively, waiting.

Henry had a list of questions, and he wrote down the doctor’s answers. “How big is my bladder?” Henry asked. “How big is my wife’s? How do they empty when they’re full—gradually, or all at once? Do bladders age? What color are they? Is yours brown and mine white or pink? I want to know. I paid my $30.”

Took just a few minutes. The doctor answered each question succinctly, never elaborating. When all the questions on the list were attended to, Henry even thanked him, but could tell the Indian didn’t like him. Few people did. Like he cared if a fucking Indian liked him. Point was, he had his answers.



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