The Emergency Room (an excerpt from Chapter Thirteen)
The atmosphere in the emergency room of Vengeful Savior, like emergency rooms everywhere, tends to range from a state of mild disorganization to utter chaos. On the day of Oliver’s admission, it fell somewhere in between, the staff having just begun to regain some semblance of control after caring for a man who had walked in the front door an hour earlier with an axe lodged in his skull. That unfortunate fellow, who had been attacked following a less-than-legitimate victory in a game of dominoes outside a nearby Publix grocery store, had required the services of most of the emergency room team, particularly housekeeping, which had made the arrival of Oliver with his bitten bottom that much more unwelcome.Oliver had been assigned to a first year medical student, who had asked him to disrobe, don a strikingly undersized hospital gown, and then attach a leather harness around his waist. With Herculean effort, the medical student, unaided, had successfully managed to attach Oliver, bottom end up, to a traction assembly that was mounted over his bed and hoist him into the air. And so, having found bed 8 and passed through the privacy curtain, Bernard was shocked to be greeted by an eye-level view of Oliver’s plump and painful posterior that the hospital gown was insufficient to hide.
“Oliver?”
“Who’s there? Come around here so I can see you.”
One unfortunate consequence of Oliver’s positioning was that, while others could see more of him than he would have liked, he was able to see only a chart positioned on the wall directly in front of him that outlined—in Spanish, with cartoons—the primary symptoms of a variety of sexually transmitted diseases. After only a few minutes of staring at that chart, he had grown tired of Luis and Carlotta and their enfermedades .
“Oliver, it’s me, Bernard.”
“Oh, it’s you. Well, I have nothing to say to you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“La-di-da, there’s no one there, I’m all alone.”
“Oliver, that’s not very mature.”
“Oh, what’s that noise? Is it somebody speaking? No, I think the fellow in the next bed just farted.”
Oliver, why are you being so difficult? What did I do?”
“What did you do? What did you do?” Oliver struggled to turn his body so he could face Bernard, but the traction device would not permit it. As he wiggled his exposed buttocks in the air unpleasantly, he vented at Luis and Carlotta. “I don’t know how you did it, but you’re responsible for me being here in this mortifying position. How did you get Napoleon to bite me? Did you step on his foot?”
“I had nothing to do with this, Oliver. You slipped on a wet floor and you fell on your dog. What did you expect him to do, lick your face? You’re not exactly slim, you know.”
“I don’t need any sarcastic comments about my weight, Bernard, especially right now. I’m feeling rather exposed, and there doesn’t seem to be any real hope of my receiving actual medical care. That medical student hung me up here like a side of beef at least an hour ago and nobody has been by since. Except for you, of course, but you’re useless.”
“Would you like me to see if I can find a doctor for you, Oliver?”
“That would be quite civil of you. And it’s the least you could do. But before you go, could you find a sheet and cover my bottom? This situation is really quite embarrassing.”
“I don’t think I should do that, Oliver,” said Bernard, who was happy to see Oliver’s predicament prolonged. “I’m sure the medical student knew what he was doing. Perhaps the fresh air will help your wound.”
Bernard succumbed to his morbid curiosity and leaned forward to take a closer look at Oliver’s derriere. Surrounding an area of missing tissue were the impressions that had been left by Napoleon’s two rows of teeth. An angry wound to say the least.
“But—”
“I’ll be right back, Oliver.”
As Bernard stepped through the curtain, he was confronted by a wall of white coats. The doctors stepped past him wordlessly and surrounded Oliver’s bed. Bernard remained inside the curtain, curious to see the outcome of Oliver’s examination.
Radiating a self‑satisfied air, the attending physician stood at the center of a group of residents and medical students. The physician was Ballwinder Singh, and he was the Director of the Division of Proctologic Surgery at Vengeful Savior. Bernard recalled that Dr. Singh had been the honored recipient of the Melchior P. Thwaite Award at the annual benefit of the Schistosomiasis Society at Morningwood, although due to his dusky complexion he had been required to enter and exit the club by a side door.
The Schistosomiasis Society had presented a moving video montage of Dr. Singh’s career, with a particular emphasis on his early years when he had become engaged in a noble but ultimately unsuccessful effort to quell an epidemic of gastrointestinal disorders by fencing off the Ganges River to prevent the people of Calcutta from drinking from and bathing and relieving themselves in its squalid waters. Although certain of the graphic images in the video had caused many of the club members to lose their appetite and a few to rush off to the restrooms, there could be no doubt that Dr. Singh had come far in the world.
Bernard looked on as Dr. Singh began. “Gentlemen,” he said, which resulted in looks of annoyance from the women in the group, “today we have a very interesting case: a man with a bite to the buttock.”
“Excuse me?” said Oliver.
“What makes this case interesting?” continued Dr. Singh, ignoring Oliver. “Anyone?”
“Excuse me?” repeated Oliver in a slightly louder voice.
“What is this interruption?” asked Dr. Singh with annoyance.
“Well, I’m the fellow with the bite to his buttock,” responded Oliver in an ingratiating tone, “and I was wondering if you might be able to take me down from this hoist. I believe that I could lie in exactly the same position on the mattress.”
“Sir, your turn will come, but at present I am addressing the students. Please do not interrupt me again.”
“But—”
“Sedatives!” cried Ballwinder Singh.
“Yes, Dr. Singh,” answered the senior resident, who stepped forward holding a large syringe.
“Alright, alright, I won’t say another word, I promise!” pleaded Oliver. The resident waited for Dr. Singh’s response with the syringe held aloft.
“Fine. I will continue. But I will have you sedated if you continue to disrupt my didactics. Now, I was asking a question. What makes this case interesting?”
“The unusual arrangement of teeth for a human bite?” offered a resident.
“It was a dog bite,” said Oliver defensively.
“Silence!” warned Dr. Singh. “But, as the patient states, it was a dog bite, so the pattern of teeth marks is appropriate. Anyone else?”
“The amount of tissue that was bitten away?” asked one of the medical students, prompting Oliver to wonder whether it might be possible to have a prosthetic buttock fabricated.
“No, given that this patient is morbidly obese, it is not surprising that the beast was able to grab hold of and tear off a chunk the size of a golf ball. Anyone else?”
Oliver did not appreciate being characterized as morbidly obese, but he said nothing.
“No one else?” said Dr. Singh. “Alright, the interesting aspect of this case is—”
“Excuse me, please allow me to pass.”
In this instance, Oliver was not the source of the interruption, although he was concerned that Dr. Singh might have him sedated anyway. Instead, Margaret Van Buren was pushing her way through the group of doctors to Oliver’s bedside. Ballwinder Singh recognized her immediately.
“Why, Mrs. Van Buren, it’s a pleasure to see you, as always, but these are, er, such unusual circumstances,” he said, gesturing toward the bitten buttock. Oliver plummeted through the depths of embarrassment into a state of utter mortification.
“Yes, Dr. Singh, how are you? Well, I’m not here to see you; I’m here to see your patient. At least the front of him. Well, the upper part of the front of him, hopefully.”
“Greetings, Mrs. Van Buren,” said Oliver to Luis and Carlotta. “I regret that you are seeing me in this unfortunate state. I had a bit of a mishap with my beloved pet. He tried to give me a playful nip and apparently he went too far.”
“Yes, quite a bit too far,” said Mrs. Van Buren, inspecting Oliver’s rear. “Doctor, when do you expect that you will be discharging Mr. Booth?”
“In my expert opinion, I anticipate that we will be sending him home within the hour,” responded Dr. Singh. “A few stitches and some pills and he’ll be as good as new! Missing a bit of his butt, of course, but he could stand to lose a few pounds. Couldn’t you, Mr. Booth?”
Oliver sighed as the group roared with laughter.
Dr. Singh continued. “Now, Mrs. Van Buren, I am so pleased that your good friend Mr. Booth is out of the woods, as you laypeople like to say, thanks to my expert intervention. Please allow me, then, to ask you a question. Have you ever thought of extending your philanthropic endeavors to Vengeful Savior? We were hoping to build a new plastic surgery wing to provide services to our friends from Palm Beach, but construction can be so expensive.”
“How much money will it cost?” asked Mrs. Van Buren, suspicious of Dr. Singh’s intentions.
Eagerly, the doctor responded, “Ten million dollars?”
“Unlikely.”
“Five million dollars would still go a long way.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps naming us in your will—”
“Dr. Singh, I anticipate that my unfortunate demise will be many years in the future,” she responded with finality.
Mrs. Van Buren turned away from Dr. Singh and spoke directly to Oliver’s buttocks. “Mr. Booth, since you will be discharged within the hour, I would appreciate it if you would be at my home tomorrow morning at 9:00. I would like to meet with you and Bernard to review your purchases. We’re going to go over my guesthouse from top to . . . bottom?”
Mrs. Van Buren was laughing as she and Bernard left Oliver’s room.