A White Coat Is My Closet (11 page)

Without so much as a greeting, I sat down next to Peggy and pulled the list of patients out of my pocket. “Everyone is pretty stable and shouldn’t give you any difficulty tonight.” I went over each name one by one, briefly discussed each child’s diagnosis, and reviewed their condition with her. I concluded my fifteen-minute summary by saying, “Baby Martin’s fever spiked a couple hours ago, so I ordered another CBC. If her white count is going up, you might consider changing her antibiotics to get broader coverage. I thought I’d probably switch from clindamycin to vanco.”

She eyed me disapprovingly. “Have you checked on it yet?”

For a second, I didn’t understand the context of her question. “Checked on what?”

“The CBC,” she answered snidely.

“First of all,” I answered impatiently, “I ordered it not more than thirty minutes ago, so it probably hasn’t even been drawn yet. Secondly, Peggy, let me explain a concept that may be unfamiliar to you. The point of sign-outs is not for me to stay around all night to ensure that you don’t have any work to do. The point of sign-outs is to make you aware of the things that are still pending to give you the opportunity to follow up on them. I know that under the current system, you might actually have to do something tonight, and I apologize. But that’s the point of having a night call team. Sending me down to the ER to admit that kid at one minute before four was already a huge dump. Maybe within the letter of the law, but a huge dump nonetheless, and you know it. Now, why don’t you pop a few Imodium? They might control your dumping tendency by slowing your bowels down for a few seconds and thus allow me time to finish signing out to you.”

She glared at me but offered no rebuttal. “I’ve heard enough. Go home.”

“Thanks,” I replied, but my voice didn’t offer even a hint of gratitude. “I’ll see you in the morning.” I almost knocked the chair over as I stood up. I wanted to leave quickly, before she had the opportunity to ask for any additional clarification. I thought she’d start nitpicking me for the sole purpose of keeping me captive.

When I got to my apartment, the light on the answering machine in my bedroom was flashing. My heart almost leapt out of my chest. I practically tripped as I launched myself across my bedroom and over to the blinking machine. My hand was shaking as I pushed the play button, and I unsuccessfully cautioned myself not to build up any high expectations. I held my breath as the automated voice announced in staccato beats, “You have one new message and four old messages. First new message: Mr. Sheldon, this is the West Valley Insurance Agency. You may be paying too much for car insurance. Please give our offices a call and ask to speak to one of our friendly sales representatives about….”

I didn’t even listen to the end of the message. I almost broke my finger stabbing the delete button. I even cursed the answering machine for its blatant betrayal. The nerve of it to even record a damn solicitation when I was waiting to hear from Sergio. It was infuriating.

I drew a few breaths and calmed myself. I even felt a twinge of embarrassment for having allowed myself to feel such huge disappointment.
No big deal that he didn’t call. He’s probably busy. All I know for sure is that I had a good time talking to him. I’m powerless to influence whatever impression he might have had of me.
My mind raced with every cliché I had ever read in any self-help book.
Your only alternative is to continue to lead your life as well as you can. Give up trying to control variables over which you have no control. If he’s not interested, better to know before you become even more emotionally invested
.

I caught myself in the middle of my own mental therapy session and released an almost pathetic chuckle. Shaking my head, I began consoling the empty room. “Could you forego doom and gloom long enough to at least take off your shoes? You said good-bye to him little more than twenty-four hours ago. Quit acting as if you’ve just been dumped. Jesus, within the confines of your own head and within a matter of mere seconds, you’ve created and destroyed an entire relationship that in reality hasn’t even begun yet. It’s a little too early to enter into the obligatory period of mourning.”

I jumped into the shower and was relieved that I actually did succeed in putting Sergio out of my head. I let the hot water pour over my shoulders and felt the day’s tension slowly seep out of my body. I even succeeded in pushing away thoughts of Peggy. I was sure she had already begun plotting how to guarantee tomorrow would be hell for me, but screw it; I refused to worry about it.

I closed my eyes, braced my hands against the wall next to the showerhead, and stood motionless for what seemed like an eternity. Then I grabbed the bar of soap and begin running it slowly over my body, concentrating only on the sensation of my own wet fingers against my skin. As I passed my soapy hand over my dick, I briefly considered getting myself off, but dispelled the inclination because I knew any fantasizing would bring memories of Sergio flooding back into my head, and the mental torture of second-guessing myself would immediately resume. Instead, I tried to imagine myself on a white sandy beach, enjoying a relaxing vacation, relieved of any responsibilities related to the hospital.

When the hot water began to run out, I rapidly rinsed off any remaining soap and grabbed my towel. Having successfully washed away most of my aggravation, my attention was drawn to my loud stomach rumblings.
Damn
, I thought.
I haven’t eaten anything since the turkey burger at lunch more than nine hours ago. No wonder I’m starving. It’s already past nine o’clock.

I pulled on a pair of gym shorts, grabbed a raggedy tank top, pushed my arms through it, and tugged it on as I headed into the kitchen. I consider eating some of the leftover pasta in the refrigerator but was hesitant to consume so many carbs right before bed. I tried to limit most of my carbohydrate consumption to around workouts so the calories would be burned off. I’d never have the definition I wanted in my abdominals if I indulged in carb-loading as a bedtime ritual. Instead, I grabbed a can of tuna from the cabinet, some low-fat vinaigrette salad dressing, and a single slice of multigrain bread. A healthy tuna sandwich would have to do for dinner tonight. Besides, I was exhausted.

I was so focused on my hunger and so intent on my sandwich preparation that I was startled by the sound of the phone ringing. I grabbed it without really considering who might be calling. I pushed the talk button and cradled the phone under my chin to keep my hands free to spread the tuna over the freshly toasted piece of bread. “Hello.” Apparently, even the tone of my voice sounded distracted.

“Uh, hi. May I speak to Zack, please?” Not even the uncertainly in his voice disguised his accent. Sergio was calling. I was so surprised, the phone tumbled off my shoulder, and I had to throw both the knife and the piece of bread I was holding onto a plate to grab it before it hit the kitchen counter.

Trying desperately to recover, and in an attempt to not sound like an idiot after I interrupted the phone’s free fall, I paused a few seconds before replying, “Hey Sergio. It’s Zack. How are you? I was hoping to hear from you.” The last sentence came tumbling out before I could engage my filter. I wrinkled my forehead, closed my eyes, and reminded myself not to sound like I’d been obsessing about him all day.

Sergio’s response sounded animated and musical. To my surprise, his tone actually suggested he was happy I had picked up the phone. “I was looking forward to talking to you too, Zack. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to call. I’m at work, and it’s been crazy busy.” He sounded irritated, though just briefly. “Some of my customers have been a real pain in the ass. But,” he said, his voice lightening again, “I was calling to see how you were and to ask if maybe you wanted to get together this weekend.”

I had to adjust the phone in my hands because I was concerned he could hear my heart pounding through it. I felt momentarily light-headed so took a few deep breaths to prevent my answer from betraying my excitement. There was nothing on the planet that I’d rather do. “Yeah, that would be great. I’m on call on Sunday, so I’ll have to be in the hospital by 7:00 a.m. I’m off all day Saturday, though. What did you have in mind? Will Saturday work for you?”

I gritted my teeth, praying for what I hoped would be an affirmative response. “That works,” he said happily. “I have the closing shift Saturday night, so I don’t have to be at the restaurant until five in the afternoon. We could hook up in the morning. What do you think?”

My brain raced with any one of a million acceptances, but again, I tried to modulate my enthusiasm so he wouldn’t suspect that were it possible, I would have climbed through the phone that very instant.

“Saturday morning would be great. What would you like to do?” I silently congratulated myself for sounding appropriately interested but not ridiculously excited.

“Do you have a bike? Maybe we could meet for breakfast then go for a bike ride. We could put my backseat down, throw the bikes into the back of the car, then head down to the beach. What do you think?”

“Excellent.” I was no longer worried about trying to contain my enthusiasm. The plan sounded like a blast. “What time do you want to hook up?”

“Well, I’m going to need time to clean up before work, so I should be back no later than three thirty. If we want to make a day of it, we should get an early start. Can I pick you up at eight?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Make a day of it? He wanted to spend the whole day with me? Again, an answer escaped my lips before my brain engaged, but at least it was accompanied by a lighthearted chuckle. “You can pick me up now.”

There was a brief silence and a confused question followed. “Now?”

I continued to laugh. “I was just kidding. Saturday is good. I just don’t want to have to work another four days before being able to see you again.” I realized I was blushing and was relieved that Sergio couldn’t see me. Trying to temper my response, I followed quickly with, “I love bicycling on the beach on a sunny day.”

“Great.” I could swear that Sergio’s enthusiasm was equivalent to mine and smiled even more broadly when I thought I heard him catch himself when he replied, “It’s set, then. It will be our first—” His voice caught. “Our first bike ride together.”

I was sure he had intended to say date, and ordinarily I would have been concerned that his hesitation to do so indicated a reticence about going out with me. Then I shook my head and forced myself to admit that not even my abysmally low and twisted self-esteem could draw that conclusion. The man had just voluntarily suggested that we spend the whole day together.

Instead I smiled into the phone and said, “Yeah, our first bike ride together. If I didn’t know better, I’d even say it was a date.”

Refusing to take the bait, Sergio just responded, “Okay, I’ll pick you up at eight. Listen, I have to get back to work. Let’s try to talk again this week.” Before I could reply, the cadence of his voice picked up. “Wait, wait, wait. I don’t even know where I’m going. What’s your address?”

I was still beaming as I basked in the prospect of “Let’s talk again this week.” However, in an attempt to return the conversation to a low-key exchange, and not wanting to scare him off with my eagerness, I opted for a casual response. “Have a pencil handy?”

His comeback was light with soft laughter. “I’m a waiter; I have a pocketful of them.”

I laughed too. “Okay, it’s 8753 Fourth Street. Near where Fourth Street runs into San Vicente. It’s a duplex. We’re on the second floor.”

There was only a brief silence before an only slightly suspicious question followed. “Who’s ‘we’?”

What he was asking took a second to register, then I replied with a joking hint of surprise, “I have roommates. But you’re not extending the invitation to them too, are you?”

“No,” he answered. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or embarrassed about having asked for clarification. Either way, when he continued, he maintained the same good-natured tone. “The invitation is personal. I’ve got the address. I’ll be there at eight. We’ll talk before then, when I have more time. Oh, and Zack?” I could imagine him curling his lips slightly upward. “I’m looking forward to it too.”

“All right, Sergio.” I leaned against the counter, held the phone against my ear, and hugged my arms into my chest. I knew I sounded soft, warm, and content. “We’ll talk. Have a good night at work. Saturday will be great.” Before I hung up, I couldn’t resist adding, “You made my day.”

He laughed. “That’s what I do. Good night, Zack.”

T
HE
craziness of my work schedule had prevented Declan and me from seeing much of each other, so we decided to meet for dinner when I got out of the hospital the next day. The restaurant he had chosen was in the heart of Santa Monica, on the south side of Wilshire. It wasn’t difficult to get to the actual location, but parking was a bitch and, because both of us were on a budget, neither was willing to spring the requisite seven dollars to valet. We ended up finding a free parking space on an obscure side street and walked about four blocks back to where the soft light of a neon sign designated which of the three glass doors was the entrance.