Dr. Feelgood (4 page)

“And would it be so bad if they knew we went to dinner every now and then?” I stared out of the passenger window with my arms crossed.

“Maybe not for you, but for me, definitely.”

“Why, because you’re dating every woman in the
place.” I looked over at him. He did not smile. “I’m just kidding.”

His eyes still belonged to the road. “No, you’re not.”

“Where do you want to eat?” I flipped down the visor mirror and checked my lip gloss.

“I thought we’d go to Lawry’s in Beverly Hills.”

“That works.”

“So, how was your day?” he asked casually.

“Cool. And yours?” I closed the mirror and looked inside of my purse for a breath mint.

“Cool.”

“Why are you making small talk with me, Makkai?”

“I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Does it have anything to do with that man who came after you in the hospital the other day?”

“No. Word travels fast, huh?”

“You know it.” I popped a spearmint Lifesaver into my mouth without offering him one.

He cracked a slight glimmer of a smile. “They should call it Peyton Place Hospital, or Desperate Doctors and Nurses.”

“Cute. But, what’s really up with you?”

Then he just spilled it. “Mary Jane, I don’t think we should see each other anymore after this.”

“Why?” I turned my head toward him, lowering my chin with an edge.

He still looked straight forward. “It’s just too risky for me. I mean, I really like you and everything, but I don’t think we’re on the same page as far as keeping this to ourselves. I think you’re a lot more casual about it at work than I am.”

I was blinking like I had a spastic twitch. “Just
because I said good night to you in the hallway when I was leaving?”

This time he did glance over at me. “You stood there like you wanted me to walk out with you.”

“I did not. I was waiting for your reply.”

“It just felt weird.”

“That’s just your paranoia. So you’re saying you don’t want to see me anymore?”

He answered quickly. “I want to, but I’ve worked too hard to risk this by violating the rules.”

“The hospital doesn’t have any rules about dating coworkers.”

“Yes, but I do.”

My arms assumed a crossed position again. “Fine, Makkai. No more fooling around. But, are you sure you want to be seen with me out at dinner? God forbid a patient or an administrator walks in.”

“Actually, I think we need to just cut the outings and only kick it at night when we’re both feeling the need.”

My hand flexed in his direction. “Not. Why don’t you just take me home? I’m not some cheap floozy, Makkai.” I put my studded purse onto my lap.

“I want to take you to dinner.” He signaled and made a lane change.

“It’ll be like the darn last supper. I am not desperate, you know. I am a quality woman, and since you don’t know that, trying to only take part of me won’t work. Take me home.”

He sped down the wide-open freeway with his
DR FG 1
vanity plate proudly perched upon the rear end of his flashy Benz and headed back in the direction of my apartment in the Palms area. He
coolly slipped in a Stevie Wonder CD, playing
“You’ve Got It Bad, Girl.”
I wanted to scream.

That man gave me my first orgasm ever. I’d thought sex was good before, but he taught me how to explode with a rush like a bomb. The very first time it happened he used his doctor talk just before by whispering in my ear while stroking me. “Fear and anxiety are shut off during the female orgasm, you know. You can’t be afraid of letting go. There’s a strong deactivation of the cortex of the brain.” Damn him.

And I’ll be darn if that medical mumbo jumbo didn’t work right in the middle of busting a rush that scared the crap out of me. Hell, I did indeed need to be afraid of letting go. It almost hurt. That was unheard of, that kind of ex-rated sensation.

Anyway, after the conversation in his car, I stopped being his nurse and went back to working in ICU, but the stress of what you see in that department on a daily basis is wearing me down and burning me out. My desire is to work full-time with the babies in the obstetrics department, where the newborns are, the ones that are in need of critical care. That’s where I can give one hundred percent of my energy with pleasure. Energy that deserves to be given to the sweet innocent ones who didn’t ask to come into this crazy world. They schedule me up there every now and then, but for now, I’m usually on the eighth floor assisting Makkai and the other doctors.

I’m not the one to play cat and mouse with this man, even though he does deserve every letter of his nickname, Dr. Feelgood. No wonder that lady’s husband came up here trying to kill him.

N
ow, don’t get me wrong, creamy terracotta complexioned Nurse Cherry is fine, you know, cute face, slim waist, just the way I like ‘em. She’s a triple threat, face, ass, and chest. I can hear that song “Mary Jane” by Rick James playing in my head when I see her. She has a sultry strut without even trying, kinda like that waitress in the movie “Car Wash.” At least I don’t think she’s trying, but if she is, she’s all right with me. And even better, she is sweet, sweet like candy. She always smells of a sexy scent like she’s recently bathed in Perry Ellis body wash for women. Kinda reminds me of the scent this private dancer used to wear years ago.

Anyway, she looks like she could be Beyonce’s older sister. She has about a twenty-inch difference between her waist and hips, and her waist is twenty-one inches as it is. She’s shaped like a hard, brown Coke bottle. And I’m sorry to go there but I’ll be dammed if Mary Jane doesn’t have the biggest damn clit I’ve ever seen in my entire life. That’s all I’m going to say about that for now.

And I know my buddy Carlos is trying to get at her. I have to be cool with it, though. That’s been our deal since college when we’d end up sharing women. The deal was that if anyone started catching feelings, he could throw up a stop sign and the other would honor it. But, I can’t say that I’d throw one up regarding Mary Jane Cherry. She’s cool and all, but it’s not that kind of party. I’ve found that she’s not very experienced, but definitely willing to learn. However, believe it or not, I’m not willing to risk my job just for some lovin', no matter how good it is.

And speaking of my job, I’m constantly thankful and amazed that I’m blessed enough to be able to do what I do. My true priority my entire adult life, though, has been my career. There has been little time for a social life. My dream was to be a cardiac surgeon, and thank God I achieved that dream, even though it seemed like a long shot. Surgical residency was time-consuming and stressful, but I kept the faith and kept at it, knowing that once the right opportunity came along, the rest would unfold, as long as I was prepared.

Truth be told, back in the day when I was only fifteen, no one believed me when I told them I’d end up being a heart surgeon. That is, no one but my faith-filled mom.

My mom moved us to California when I was in the tenth grade. My younger sister Fonda, who was named after my mom’s favorite actor, Henry Fonda, and I were born and raised in a small town in Florida called Wildwood. It’s what some would call country. Okay, it’s what everybody would call country. Our two-bedroom place looked more like
a shack than a house, but it was home. Fonda and I shared a tiny room with an old, beaten down wooden bunk bed.

We’d hang out in the kitchen or else in the front yard, usually with my mother, but sometimes just my sister and me. And we’d dance, barbecue up a feast, and listen to oldies. Mom got us hooked on old school. I adapted a love for anything that’s Stevie Wonder.

I can hear Mom now, snapping her fingers to
“Signed, Sealed, Delivered”
like it was yesterday. “Here I am baby,” she’d bolt out loud like she had a lucrative record contract, tightening her hand into a fist beneath her chin as if it were a microphone. She’d mix up her fancy footwork and shake her hippy-hippy-hips to the groove, grabbing our hands and twirling me and my sister around like we were her dance partners at a local corner juke joint. Those cherished memories are etched on my heart like a forever tattoo.

A lot of times I’d play baseball in the open field next door. I’d toss the ball in the air as high as I could and catch it with my too-tight, tattered glove. I’d never miss. I had an eye for the exact spot it would land, most times not even having to take even one step back or one step forward. Or, I’d pretend to throw the ball as far away as I could, never releasing it, just testing out my upper arm strength.

Yeah, the field of dirt with the broken down chain link fence and homemade bases made of cardboard was my field of dreams. Sometimes I’d just sit on home plate and dream about what life would be like if I were looking outside of my own
estate one day, seeing a few tall tress on my very own property.

Those were my grand and rare alone times when I was young. But, most times I’d hit a few balls with my dad’s cousins, my “play uncles” when they’d come over. They were quite the characters … my Uncle Leroy and Uncle Milton. I’ll never forget them.

Uncle Leroy was patient. “Hey there, boy, now place your feet parallel to the width of your body.”

“Dat boy’s body’s bout as narra as a strang bean dere,” Uncle Mil-ton joked at my expense. His beer belly shook when he chuckled.

Uncle Leroy continued, using physical gestures as examples. “Like I said, about the width of your body. Straddle that poor excuse for a home base. And keep your elbow up. Grip the bat, like this, with your right hand higher than your left.”

“Jus let him hit the dern thang. Or miss it, hell, he’ll learn soon nuff.”

Uncle Leroy insisted, “Will you let me do this? This could be our next Hank Aaron, right here. Makkai Worthy, the professional baseball player.”

“He’s Makkai Worthy the strang bean ret now.”

“Cut it out, you two. Just let that boy have some fun. Hit the ball, sweetheart,” Mom said as she stood on the sidelines with Fonda, cheering me on. Mom always spoke as though she was born and raised in California. She was college educated even though she didn’t graduate, but perhaps it was from her early days of being an English tutor, until Dad made her quit working.

“Mama, can I try?” asked Fonda, with her tall self. She was wearing her peach colored, frilly
dress. She always wore dresses, with big bright ribbons in her long, braided hair.

“No,” said Uncle Milton. “Dat sports deres fa boys.”

“I want to play, too.” Fonda was adamant, flashing a sour face.

Mom looked at her. “Baby, let’s go inside and leave the guys to themselves.”

“Hit it hard, Makkai. I know you can do it,” Fonda said as she turned toward the house with her girlie voice cracking from her hurt feelings. She looked back at me as Mom had her hand on Fonda’s back. Fonda’s wide eyes said, “Show ‘em, big brother.”

I couldn’t help but give her a thank you smile, and then I looked forward, centering myself over the cardboard, remembering everything my Uncle Leroy told me. My elbow was up. My feet were resolutely planted, and my grip was not too tight, but firm.

Uncle Milton looked at me, eye to eye. I looked at the ball. He looked at me. I looked at the ball. He wound up and then threw the pitch underhanded.

The ball made its way along until, a wham-bam, I slugged the dang sucker. The wooden bat met that dirty white hardball with a loud thud, and it traveled up and up and up, journeying over and over and over across the street and right into … Mrs. Pope’s brand-new stained glass living room window.

“Damn, dat dere boy has an arm fo sho,” said Uncle Milton, scratching the scalp beneath his salt-and-pepper afro.

Uncle Leroy stared at the direction and distance the ball traveled and then looked at me. “I told you he could do it.”

Uncle Milton replied, “Yeah, but can he start makin dat money now, cause once dat old bag come out here yellin', it’s gon be all bout fiddin’ her windapane.”

I stood there, half smiling and half scared as hell, looking back at the front door where little Fonda stood, wearing a big grin with my name on it.

“Good job, Makkai,” she yelled. “Good job.”

Mom nodded with pride, flashing her signature warm smile. Mom was always there.

Y
es, those were the days. They say you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. I disagree. I am a city boy through and through. The country can’t do anything for me now. But, it was my life back then.

Yeah, you could say my mother, Corrine Cotton, raised us by herself ever since she left my father. She’s my heart. Tall and dark-skinned and strong and heavyset, she’s always been one loving woman. I suppose she woke up one day and realized she was through with doing it all alone after getting tired of an empty bed on a regular basis, so she filed for divorce and decided the best place to go was sunny Los Angeles where my mom’s best friend lived. She wanted to be as far away from my dad as she could. I don’t think my mother ever quite got over my father, that’s what I believe anyway. But, she hid it with her usual anger when we’d say his name … Roosevelt Worthy.

Perhaps the anger was because Poppa, Roosevelt Worthy, was a through and through, player
to the bone, rolling stone. Truly, wherever he lay his hat was his home. The only problem was, he never wore an actual factual hat when he should have … on his popular penis.

He drove big rigs for a living and was always on the road. Yeah, Dad loved to drive. The final woman to call the house was just before we left. Mom had never raised her voice when there’d been confrontations before, but with this woman, Mom went totally off. However, there was one thing that Mom and these women seemed to agree upon after all was said and done … that Roosevelt Worthy was the throw-down, get the job done, turn-you-out king in bed.

Sometimes we knew Dad had done something shady just by the look on Mom’s face, but usually it was because we overheard them late at night. She hoped that my sister and I didn’t notice his indiscretions, and since I was the male, I believe she definitely didn’t want me to adopt his irresponsible ways. Oh well, who knew?