The 34 year-old woman I saw in the mirror was a wreck: I was overdue for a haircut, there were bags under the bags under my eyes, and somehow Himalayan-sized acne had sprung up along my impeccably high cheek bones. This was all after four weeks at my new job. July marked the first month I could practice medicine after graduating medical school and it was the most miserable time of my life. I was an intern- which means I'm lower in the hospital hierarchy than a bag of used tampons. While everyone else was getting beauty sleep, my job as a gynecologist meant taking long 24-hour shifts delivering babies and taking care of major pelvic emergencies.
After those thirty days of hell and tears, I felt like a walking skeleton, my pelvis was having an emergency. My body felt asexual and I didn't even have the energy to jerk off when I returned home. Then, here was the kicker, on my first full weekend off and away from work when I might actually have a chance to get out to a bar and flirt I had to attend a mandatory resident retreat. The chair of our department hosted a beach day designed for team building and get-to-know-each-other activities. If I could, I would have crawled back into my bed to expire, but I couldn't. I had to be amiable and pleasant with people who had been grinding me into the dust for the past four weeks. The very idea of putting on such a fake face made me want to hiss like a cat.
The next major problem that hit me after applying combination sunscreen-foundation and a dark nude lip was realizing I had nothing to wear. When I was in medical school, I used to study hard and party harder. We could go tanning after every lecture and clubbing after every exam at the University of Hawaii Medical School. It was the first time I lived so far away from my conservative Buddhist parents and I exclusively wore thong bikinis to celebrate my sexual liberation and career accomplishments. Whether I was dancing on a stage at "Bubble Night" or playing volley ball with the hot male and nonbinary paramedic students, I had grown accustomed to letting my body feel free.
Things were different since I graduated and matched. Like all U.S. doctors, my first job was determined by a computer algorithm. I had to rank all the hospitals that interviewed me and those hospitals ranked all the applicants they met as well. An algorithm written in the 1960s placed me in Wilmington, North Carolina, yanking me out of the queer and racially diverse community I had started to call home.
It was a nice hospital, don't get me wrong and it would be a great place to train. But I was the only Brown skinned woman in the department and life was lonely south of the Mason-Dixon. I craved meeting a new gay friend group but for now I resigned myself to eating grocery-store hot food and passing out on the couch most nights of the week.
Now I had to design a work-appropriate outfit that wouldn't show off my six foot body with its radiant size-A breasts and splendidly tall, tight ass. It was a struggle until I settled on a matching black top and thong to be covered by jean cut-offs and a long opaque silk beach robe. Even if the shorts came off, no one could see what I was packing in the trunk under the long robe. Fortunately, I had learned how to self wax at home and already forced myself into making the necessary preparations earlier this week. The wedge of triangular fabric took its dutiful place outlining the erotic high V of my groin and hips while the elastic band snapped into place along my pelvic brim where lovers used to line up to kiss back in the day. My beach shorts only had decorative pockets so I snapped my motorolla flip phone over the waist band as a make shift holster and felt ready to go. After grabbing my printed-out Mapquest instructions I hopped into the gigantic SUV I bought second hand and got on the road.
The whole department was there, the fourth year seniors, the third and second years, and us interns. There were four per class. The chair welcomed us into his home already half drunk and introduced us to his wife. When he got to the interns he listed us out: Dr. Beth Green, Dr. Harry Turner, Dr. Sarah Long, and Dr. Erica Assaaa.....Asaanda....handaraaa... Hahaha, Dr. Erica A.
Beers were quickly loaded into our hands before we were all shuttled out into several boats owned by some of the other gynecology professors waiting at the private dock behind his house. The festivities would be out on the intracoastal waterway on one of the half-deserted barrier islands which meant I couldn't even leave early.
I rode with Beth who had helped save my ass several times this month and was the only fellow intern who wasn't a racist piece of crud. In the times we worked together I could already tell she was a genius. Patients loved her, nurses bent over backwards to help her, and our teaching doctors always applauded her intellect and surgical skill. You could tell she was one of those people at the start of a meteoric rise: cheerleader who took a fall from grace and got pregnant at age 17 then fought her way through community college and state university as a single mom before landing at Duke Medical School where she graduated in the top quintile of her class. If I was going to survive this hospital then Beth Green was someone who needed to see me as a friend.
Families had been invited to the outing and there were so many kids packed into all the boats. One of them was Beth's eighteen-year-old son, Tucker Green who gave me a spindly little handshake as Beth introduced me and pronounced my last name with perfect intonation.
"You should call me Erica though," I responded after Tucker exchanged some pleasantries of his own. He was maybe two inches shorter than me, thin as a rail, with an excellent trim haircut and a radiant smile. Honestly, he looked like the high school version of some of the gay men who took me clubbing. The similarities extended to more than just appearances. He quickly had me guffawing while telling me about his old school out in rural North Carolina. Everyone always assumes it must be hard to start at a new high school in your senior year but Tucker was sure to be an exception. In the span of 10 minutes I learned he was a cross country runner and musician already practicing to play in the spring musical.
When we landed at the party spot, more beers appeared in everyone's hand and the workplace olympics began. It was the typical stuff: tug of war, water balloon toss, etc. I drank and applied sunscreen copiously on any uncovered skin then kept it cool chatting with coworkers and limiting my participation to observer. That is, until it was time for the three-legged race. Beth was already getting tipsy and stripped down to a cute pink one-piece while her shoulders grew lobster-red. She stumbled over and begged if I might race with Tucker in her stead since I was basically his height and way less drunk. I tried to dodge but she pleaded and when Tucker appeared I couldn't say no to such a sweet face. We lined up at the starting line and took a scarf from the supplies basket. We both kneeled down and bound ourselves together. While we were this close I took a big whiff of his scent. Beth was a good mom, she clearly didn't let any cheap teen colognes into her house. He smelled mature with a hint of pine. As we stood back up at the starting line I began to wobble and he reached around me with a long sinewy runner's arm. It felt good to be close to someone again. As soon as I had that thought, I felt a shock to my system: this is your coworker's son!
When the race was off we were surprisingly nimble. A few other couples kept up with us but those tied to kids quickly fell by the wayside. I kept an arm wrapped around Tucker's waist and felt his abs ripple with each lunge we took. The finish line was maybe 100 yards away and we soon were in an easy first place. We bounded over the finish line while Beth and others cheered. Momentum carried us for several more yards until finally I tripped and pulled the both of us down in a hot mess of sweat and victory.
By the time we got back, the sun was already on its way down and the coals were hot for dinner. Turns out Tucker and I were the only ones who requested veggie burgers so we had a special grill to ourselves. He prepared me a beautiful cheese burger with all the fixings that left me charmed. However, as soon as it was dark enough I excused myself behind the dunes. That fall after the race had lodged sand deep around my nethers and I had to attempt a sweep out. I took off my jean shorts, believing it was dark enough that my robe would sufficiently cover me.
Then I realized my phone was no longer clamshelled on my waistband. I started hunting around the party site, revisiting my steps. I asked Beth and the others, but people were too lost in the vibes to help. Suddenly Tucker appeared again in the crowd and I asked him to help. He thought we should retread the race track so we grabbed flashlights and set off into the night.
