I.
It was 3 in the morning when I reached my apartment building on the Lower East Side, the cool moist air from the Hudson River soft on my face as I walked the last few blocks. It had been an evening of glittering bars and conversations. The people in the Army medical unit had used the end of my two-year service as a reason to drink, smoke weed, and revel.
I'd been assigned to a reserve Army unit in Manhattan, actually at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, and the physicians and nurses were loose and friendly. Carlo, the colonel who ran things, was a good guy: a surgeon first, a professor at NYU second, and a reserve officer maybe fifteenth, or not at all in his mind. He ran things with a light hand. I'd been a junior doctor, straight out of residency at UCLA after medical school at Dartmouth. On a whim I'd sent an email to someone I'd found online at the Pentagon, inquiring about surgical positions. I was not particularly interested in the military and I couldn't explain, even to myself, why I'd done it. But someone from the Army had contacted me in Los Angeles and confirmed I really had a medical license. And a short time later I was at Fort Hamilton.
Carlo had genially tested me out, seen I had skills, and helped me develop new ones. New York City was a good assignment, large and cosmopolitan. We never wore uniforms. One day a week we handled medical issues for Army units in New Jersey. But Carlo worked it so we spent most of our time at Bellevue Hospital, right in the heart of Manhattan, working on the gunshot wounds, car accidents, drug overdoses, and assorted other traumas that denizens of large and cosmopolitan cities inflict on each other.
I was good with languages and that was a real asset given the varied patients flowing though the ER and hospital. The first time I'd assisted with reattaching a severed finger, it belonged to a Brazilian construction worker who'd rolled his car drunk; and I could speak Portuguese and so commiserated with him before the anesthesia kicked in as he expressed his thoughts on why road curves should be better marked. I remember watching as Carlo's precise hands moved with the micro-needle. He explained to me and Lisa, another junior surgeon, how you first connect these blood vessels, then those nerves, then that blood vessel, make sure you stitch like this. The next patient with a digit experiencing separation anxiety I did the reattachment under his supervision. Two years flowed quickly.
We'd started out the evening at a bar in Chelsea, then moved to Drume in the Village, and then to another bar called Mexico City, a dozen of us with some assorted girl and boy friends. I'd gotten pleasantly high, and mildly drunk too, and enjoyed the evening. At Drume, in the hallway near the restrooms, Lisa passed by me then suddenly reached up and threw her arms around my neck, pressing herself up against me. She kissed me deeply and thoroughly, and smiled. "You're a good guy. I wanted to do that. I'll miss you." She stroked my cheek and walked on. At Mexico City, Daniel, the second in command of the unit, had called for attention, then stood up on the table to shouts of approval. He presented me with a gift, a poster of a Pierre-Auguste Cot painting, which he genially hoped would not be wasted on a philistine like me. I stood and replied that despite them all being displeasing to the eye and having poor hygiene, I nevertheless loved them. My head spun pleasantly as I sat down. A beautiful woman across the bar, in a golden dress, looked at me and smiled.
II.
Two years in the Army medical unit, and today had been my last work day. Monday I was heading on a flight back to Los Angeles, where, starting in a month, I had lined up a job at a top hospital. I paused by a tree, looked up at the sky. I felt a tinge of pleasant sadness.
I turned off Houston onto a side street and reached my building, sniffed the light night scent coming from the sidewalk trees. I took the elevator up to my floor, walked down the hall, coded open my door. I leaned the rolled-up poster against the wall of the kitchen, and drank a bottle of water from the fridge. It was deliciously cold, and had that pure, indescribable taste of clean water. I took off my shoes and lay down on top of the covers of the bed and closed my eyes. Tiredness washed through my muscles, my mind perfectly blank.
A voice in my head quietly spoke.
Your I.D. card
.
I had learned to listen to the voice. It wasn't my friend. But it nearly always was useful.
"
What about my card?
" I thought.
Turn it in tomorrow
, the voice said.
The thought faded like a scent of jasmine dissipating into an evening. My consciousness turned off like a tap closing and I fell asleep remembering the sweet taste of Lisa's lips but somehow she was wearing a gold dress.
III.
I woke up late the next day, not feeling too bad considering. After a cup of tea and another bottle of water, I dressed and got my military ID. I had to return it at the Federal Building near Wall Street, not at Fort Hamilton, since that's where the Department of Defense office that oversaw the doctors' recruitment program was located.
I was about to head out the door when I stopped.
You're not working today
.
I went to the kitchen, opened my stash drawer and took out a pre-rolled joint of Blue Dream and a lighter. I went onto the balcony, which had a nice view of the Hudson. It was the reason I'd paid more to take that unit. I smoked the joint, savoring the taste of the smoke.
I liked smoking marijuana when I had unstructured time, or was going to a fun social event. For me, what it did was let me see the object or idea removed from its context or environment. You could metaphorically pick the thing out, without the baggage of its context, and examine just
it
for itself. See the thing with fresh eyes. Then you could plug it back in, and see anew, or maybe for the first time, how it really connected with its surroundings.
Like with music, when high I could readily follow each instrument or voice and hear just that part, while still hearing how it fit into the whole song. With social interactions you could see what people were really doing, underneath the masking symbolic actions that normally tended to shortcut analysis. Sex with a good partner was fantastic.
And on a different note, I also enjoyed riding my bike on the streets of Manhattan while high. I liked fast city riding and it was good exercise, and marijuana focused you in on the moment. Maybe I'd do it later today. But right now it was after 1 p.m. and I had to return that ID.
IV.
I got off the subway at Civic Center and walked the few blocks to the new Federal Building. Sixty stories tall, it dwarfed the old Javitz building. I badged in through the security checkpoint.
I entered the atrium of the building, and headed toward the elevator banks, but then stopped and went over to the food shop. I ordered a cranberry muffin and another cup of tea then stood near a cluster of couches and potted plants at one side of the atrium. The tea had a good hot bite.
Bertie Wooster after a night on the tiles
, I thought. I ate the muffin out of the wrapper. I was hungry and it was delicious. I finished the muffin and drank down the tea, throwing the wrapper and cup in the trash.
People, both military and civilian, were continually crossing the large lobby and riding and exiting the elevators. It was a busy place. I watched a group off to one side. There were three of them, standing about five yards away from me. The first was a man, late 50s, on the short side and on the stout side, with silvery hair and intelligent eyes. He was wearing a dark blue suit with chalk striping. A really nice suit. The guy had a first-class tailor, I decided. And he favored a pocket square, which was not my thing but on him it looked appropriate.
Next to him was a woman also in her late 50s, taller than the man and slender, with shoulder length grey hair. She carried herself with perfect posture. Elegant and confident. She was wearing a blue and cream long-sleeved dress, and understated jewelry.
The man and woman were listening to a third person, an army Major it looked like, who was nervous and uncomfortable, and clearly relaying unwelcome news. From my position partially screened by the plants I could see and hear them.
The Major was speaking rapidly.
"So because he's in the hospital he cannot be here. And we don't have anyone else. I'm sorry."
Suit man seemed to take this in stride, and even with a bit of humor. He responded calmly.
"Thank you for conveying that, Major. Let me make sure I understand the facts. Lieutenant Goran, a translator who actually speaks fluent Turkish, and whom we specifically requested a week ago because of that, came down with food poisoning last night. A case of such severity that he is presently hospitalized and presumably will remain so for at least the near future. Is that accurate?"
"Yes, sir. He is in the hospital and reportedly looks very pale."
"Ah, pale. What did he eat, if you know?"
"He said he went to a restaurant called Anglion, but I don't know specifically what he ate."
