A White Coat Is My Closet (9 page)

“Wow,” I said, conveying to him that I was genuinely impressed. “That’s one of the nicest Italian restaurants in town. I’ve never eaten there.” I smiled at him, giving the impression that what I was about to say was also intended as a compliment. “Too rich for my wallet.”

He seemed pleased by the recognition. “You’ll have to come by sometime. I’ll treat.” Then, realizing that the invitation might have seemed too forward and not wanting me to assume he was already suggesting a bona fide date, he quickly retreated. “I’ll throw a scoop of gelato in your direction. We make it ourselves. I’ll even go so far as to let you choose the flavor.”

“Cool, I’ll hold you to that.” Then, to let him know I recognized an attempt to backtrack when I saw it, I continued teasing. “A scoop of gelato.” I smiled enthusiastically. “Sounds like an excellent first date.” I continued to hold his gaze, looking for any indication that my comment had made him squirm. It wasn’t a direct proposition, but the intent was none too subtle. Make no mistake: I was hoping for a first date.

His expression, however, remained completely neutral. He looked neither uncomfortable nor eager. In fact, he lay back down as if any inference had been lost on him completely.

I was disappointed. I had been hoping for a sign. Was he interested? I knew his English wasn’t perfect, but I also knew that he wasn’t naïve. He had probably understood my hint perfectly and had decided to just play it cool.

I arbitrarily decided not to let my disappointment leave me disheartened, though. It was pretty obvious we had been enjoying each other’s company, so I convinced myself to stay in the moment. Why let expectations sabotage a good thing? If nothing progressed beyond the next five minutes, at least I would remember having had a fun afternoon.

I too assumed a more comfortable posture on my lounge chair. “Okay, Mr. Silver Medalist, because I am such a gracious winner, I’m going to give you a second chance in a rematch.” I figured we were comfortable enough with one another that there was now no risk in asking more questions to try to get to know him better. “What gives your life meaning other than working out in the gym and waiting tables?” He looked confused when I glanced over at him, so I clarified. “What else do you do for fun?”

He was quiet for a minute, and I began to fear that I had again allowed myself to skate out on to thin ice. He was a difficult read. I never knew when he was going to interpret something I asked as being too intrusive. I forced myself to relax. We were just having a conversation. He didn’t have to volunteer his blood type. He could be as vague as he wished.

I waited casually, as if I wasn’t aware of his prolonged silence. Though, if he didn’t answer, I wasn’t sure how I would redirect the conversation. It would be hard to choose a safer topic than what he did for fun.

When he did answer, his voice was soft, but its tone was filled with an unmistakable resolve. “I’m an artist.” He looked at me to affirm that I hadn’t reacted negatively to the disclosure, then elaborated. “At least I want to be.”

“That’s amazing,” I said with genuine enthusiasm. I had always been envious of people who had artistic ability, and even had I not been attracted to Sergio, I would have been impressed. “What kind of medium do you work in?”

Above his dark glasses I could appreciate that he had furrowed his brow. “Medium?” he asked.

“Yeah, do you paint, do you sculpt, do you draw? What kind of artist are you?”

“Oh.” He relaxed when he understood my question. “I paint. Well,” he said, his smile betraying a slight embarrassment, “at least I try to.”

“Oh, come on,” I chided, “I bet you’re being modest. Has any of your work ever been displayed?”

“Only in some small galleries,” he conceded almost apologetically. “Nothing big.” Then, with either a renewed sense of pride or with a little bit of bravado, he interjected, “Yet!”

“That’s so cool.” My enthusiasm negated the promise I had made to myself not to be too forward. “I would love to see some of your work.”

He seemed to appreciate my sincerity. Rather than acting as if he thought my response was an attempt to manipulate him, he seemed genuinely pleased. He smiled, idly scratched the hair in the cleft of his impressively muscular chest, then answered, “Maybe we can make that happen one day.”

Giving the impression that he sensed we had connected on more than a superficial level, Sergio ran his eyes over me appreciatively. Almost as if he were seeing me for the first time, he burst into an enthusiastic line of questioning. “Okay, Zack. Italian, pizza box, waiter, artist….” He smirked at me teasingly. “… and swimming judge. That’s me. Tell me something about you. What kind of work do you do?”

Surprisingly, I hesitated. Certainly I was proud of being a doctor. In fact, it was one of the few things about myself that I was proud of. It was just that in the past, when guys learned what I did, I felt that they came to one of two immediate conclusions: I was either boring or I was rich. I didn’t want Sergio to assume I was boring, and as a resident, I damned well wasn’t rich.

As I considered my options, I tried to buy myself some time by replying noncommittally, “I work in a hospital.”

He smiled, as if he realized I was purposefully dodging the question. “Do you sweep the floor, or are you a nurse?”

So much for being vague. I let my gaze float over the pool, acting as if I’d inadvertently forgotten to disclose only a small detail. “No, I’m a doctor.” I paused for a second, but then quickly interjected, “Actually, I’m in my last year of residency.” I didn’t sound defensive. I guess my immediate clarification was an attempt to dispel any expectations that I might be rich. I looked at him guardedly and tried to gauge if he had concluded that if I was a doctor and not wealthy, I therefore must be boring.
Damn
, I thought.
Could I, just once, assume that someone might actually have a positive first impression of me?

Unbelievably, his face brightened immediately. “Wow, good-looking
and
a doctor. That’s not something you see every day.” He gave me a cockeyed grin. “I might even pretend to be sick just for the benefit of an exam.” He gave me an almost imperceptible wink.

For reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I was dumbstruck. I would never have dreamed that his reaction would be both affirming and flirtatious. Whenever I was talking to a guy as good-looking as Sergio, before the first words were even spoken, I began building myself up for rejection. It was as if I could feel myself being sucked back into my adolescence and being swallowed by all the insecurities I had ever felt.

I was sure that as a subconscious attempt to protect my feelings, I had preemptively begun to write “defective” across my own forehead so I wouldn’t be hurt if Sergio read it. I had indoctrinated myself to believe that anticipating rejection made dealing with it more tolerable. Years of conditioning made it implausible to think, even to hope, that my interest in him would be reciprocated.

When he responded so positively, it became impossible for me to suppress my smile. “Hmm, for you we might even be able to work out a private house call.” I smiled broader. “That’s usually a service provided only to my celebrity clients, but for you I think I’d be willing to make an exception. And,” I said as I pushed my sunglasses down so he could see my eyes, “the exam would come with a satisfaction guarantee.”

He laughed and shook his head gently. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then, just to prevent me from building immediate expectations, he smiled and flexed his bicep. “Fortunately for me, right now I’m feeling pretty damned healthy.”

I was sure my expression registered how impressed I was with his physique, and now, if he was trying to retract what had been a subtle come-on, I wasn’t going to be discouraged. Also, because I sensed we really had begun to hit it off, I replied, “Yeah, but you might still benefit from an exam to officially certify that impression.” I winked. “You never know what might turn up.”

With seemingly no effort, his expression went from teasing to an intensity that took my breath away. “If something turns up, I’d better find myself in good hands.” Apparently, the come-on hadn’t been accidental.

I swallowed, felt a blush creep into my cheeks, but held his gaze and tried to answer with the same intensity. “Like I said—satisfaction guaranteed.”

We stared at each other for a brief instant, then both started to laugh. He pitched himself back against his chair, then asked with genuine interest, “What kind of doctor are you, anyway?” Then he turned and looked at me a little skeptically. “You’re not one of those who works on dead people, are you?”

I laughed. “What? Would that make you less enthused about me examining you? All you have to do is lie still.”

The creepy expression that crossed his face was so funny it made me laugh harder. “Come on man, it’s kinky. My bedroom is a walk-in freezer. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” I continued to wail in hysterics but then, not wanting to carry the joke too far and have him run screaming away from the pool, I finally admitted I was teasing. “No, really, I’m a pediatrician. So don’t worry, you’re safe with me. In fact, you fall a little out of my age range, so you couldn’t be my patient anyway.” I paused. “Though the offer for a complete exam still stands. It would just have to be done after hours.” I continued to grin.

He smiled too. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to make an appointment. In the meantime, why pediatrics? What made you choose that?”

As much as I had been enjoying the teasing, I was pleased he seemed to genuinely want to know more about me. I sat back, and my voice took on a more serious tone. “It just seemed like a natural choice. I love medicine. Love feeling like I’m helping people. It’s just that I get a lot more satisfaction out of working with kids. They’re innocent, they’re resilient, and”—I looked at Sergio intently—“they’re never really sick through any fault of their own. I mean, it wasn’t very gratifying to take care of adults who were in liver failure because they had spent their whole lives drinking. Besides,” I said with a smile, “when a kid throws up on you it can be kind of cute. When an adult throws up on you, it’s always gross.”

He looked a little taken aback. “I can’t imagine throw up ever being anything other than gross.”

“Guess you kind of develop a stomach for it. There are days when a little vomit is the least of your problems.” I laughed, enjoying the easiness of our conversation.

I was relaxed, and as I sat there, I became contemplative. “Why pediatrics?” It was something I was frequently asked, but I usually just offered my standard response without giving it any real thought. Something about being asked by Sergio, however, necessitated a more intensive examination of my motives. I began to elaborate, as much to clarify my own thoughts as to give Sergio a more insightful explanation.

“I guess by nature I’m kind of nurturing.” I blushed a little but was determined to answer sincerely, even if that meant being made to look ridiculously sentimental. “I like the intellectual challenge of medicine, but by taking care of kids, I’m free to love my patients too. Children were put on this planet to be loved. You can’t look at a child without feeling something. I get the best of both worlds. My job requires me to use my brain, but I have the freedom to lead with my heart.”

When I finished, I felt too embarrassed to look directly at him. “Does that sound really sappy?”

When he didn’t immediately answer, I felt even more self-conscious. Maybe I had freaked him out with my Mother Teresa sermon. When I finally did get the courage to look at him however, I caught him staring at me intently. Rather than being put off, it seemed my honesty had made a profound impression on him. He held my gaze for a moment, smiled approvingly, then gave a nod. “Sounds like you’ve found your calling. That’s cool.” He lay back and tilted his face toward the sun. “Really cool.”

When I lay back, I reached to fish my watch out of my backpack. “Man, it’s almost five o’clock. We’ve been talking for three hours already. I have to get moving. I’m supposed to meet some friends for dinner at six.”

I hesitated. I clearly didn’t want to leave and would have preferred to continue talking to Sergio but wouldn’t have felt right bailing on my friends. I felt immediately uncomfortable. Three hours of talking, and I suddenly couldn’t make my tongue work.
What’s the protocol here? Do I ask him if he wants to get together sometime? Do I ask him for his telephone number? Do I write my phone number down, hand it to him, and hope for the best?

In an attempt to disguise my discomfort, I began desperately searching through my backpack as if looking for something of vital importance. Then, realizing I could only seek refuge in it for so long, I pulled my T-shirt and shorts out. The obvious progression would have been to begin putting them on, but I felt paralyzed. In protest, my body refused to move until my brain came to some sort of conclusion as to what to next say to Sergio. Feeling defeated, I just looked at him.

He seemed to be entertained by my exaggerated flurry of activity and just lay there smiling at me. Then, seeming to take pity on my nervousness, he came to my rescue. “You know, Zack….” He even managed to look a little embarrassed himself. “It might be fun to get together again sometime. Can I give you my number?”

Somehow, I managed to calm the adrenaline coursing through my body. I looked back at him and offered an apologetic smile. “That would be easier than me having to set up a vigil outside of Osvaldo’s hoping to accidentally run into you.”

We both laughed.