Well it was bound to happen sometime.
When we (and I’ll kindly include y’all in this; no sense in me being the only doofus up in here) were younger, cockier, and knew it all, the last thing we wanted to hear was “how it was” - we knew darn well how it was and didn’t mind telling anyone.
Now as we push beyond 50 and someone wants to tell us how it is, well, we actually know a thing or two, so now you really can’t tell us anything, but that second part? That telling you about it deal? Something’s changing there.
(Big, big sigh.)
I’m afraid as we age, knowing something For Sure and Pontificating (to preach, tell, or holler) about it don’t necessarily skip down the yellow brick road hand in hand anymore. Honestly, I think they got a dee-vorce. Oh, they both still live on the avenue, nod and say “hello,” but that’s about it. Besides all that, Prudence (forethought, discretion, good sense) moved in three houses down, started up some neighborhood meeting thing and really dorked things up.
I might have guessed because recently, I’d be visiting the YB Road (a thing the missus accuses me of often) and someone would say, “Hey, Kevin, I read this article about such and such…” and then tell me something I felt compelled to challenge; I knew something For Sure about it, you see?
I’d holler across the street for my friend, Ponti (that’s what I started to call him after awhile; he started calling me Big K), tag him into the ring and off he’d go. Lately, he still shows up, but Prudence, more and more, gets in on the action. Today I think she took over.
I leave early this morning, headed for the doctor’s office; I’m doing the blood work thing before my physical three days from now. It takes two days for the results to come back and that way he’s got one full day to not really read them before we sit down together.
“Be here light years early,” they said when I made today’s appointment, “because we’ve switched to a new system for billing and you have to fill out some forms saying if we do something wrong to you, it’s your fault, and we need you to read through the history of Western civilization and then sign a form indicating…well…something or other.”
I get there twenty five minutes early because I am a conscientious patient and because I’m on a 12 hour fast – I figure the sooner I get in, the sooner I get out, and the sooner I eat. Great plan in all, except the office is locked up tight at 7:35, so I sit and wait.
They eventually open the doors at 7:55, I do my forms, hand them in and sit. Until 9:15.
I could probably snake a needle from the back and draw the blood myself – had it done enough over the years – and be on my way home in mere minutes. Instead, I flip through several of those great doctor’s office pamphlets whose job it is to gently convince me “feeling worn down, lethargic, and experiencing an itchy nose,” are symptoms of at least a dozen diseases or scary genetic mutations.
Finally the office door opens, that wonderful smell of medicines and pharmaceutical reps waft into the waiting room and blood work girl calls a name.
“Mr. Phyllis?”
Seeing as I’m the only one in the room, I figure it’s close enough; I’ve been called worse. We head to the little lab, I sit in my chair and she asks her question.
“Did you have anything to eat this morning?”
“Four orders of biscuits and gravy.”
“What?”
“And eggs and spuds…in, like, fifteen minutes.”
“What? You’re supposed to fast!”
“Oh, I thought they said, ‘Eat fast.”
She starts to say something but I cut in.
“Just kidding there, young lady; yes, a 12 hour fast.”
Blood work girl grabs her needle and I can’t tell you why but right away I know she’s no good at drawing blood.
A feeling dawns on you when someone doesn’t know what they’re doing. Nothing overt or alarming, but in her case some subtle move reveals her true identity - a faux blood work girl. Might as well be a plumber grabbing the wrong end of a pipe wrench or the cable guy licking the HDMI thingy before he plugs it in. Sitting in the little lab room, hungry, one hour and fifteen minutes later than I should be, I know this won’t go well.
“OK, this will stick…”
Oh yes it will; right in the side of my vein. When they get the side of a vein, know what? It hurts like a big dog.
I must have made a face, because she mumbled, “Is it uncomfortable?”
Right on cue, Ponti jumps out of my shirt pocket, up on my shoulder, does the “Can…you…feel…it?” Ace Ventura dance, clears his throat and gets ready to throw down on this-un.
Last year it would have been an automatic, “Well, kinda but only because I expect a vampire to know her way around veins and all,” or something along those lines.
But this morning Prudence also shows up on the other shoulder and says…very matter-of-factly, “Hey, chucklehead…she’s got a needle in your arm. You know this dance. So…shut up!”
I look over at Ponti; he nods towards faux blood work girl, throws up a double heavy metal salute and says, “Frag her, Big K!”
I must have made another face or something, because FBW Girl flings the last vial on the table and says, “Let me see your other arm.”
“Why?”
“’Cause this one isn’t giving me enough, I need to draw from your other arm.”
Ponti covers his mouth with one hand, covers his…um…private parts with his other hand, bounces around a bit and hollers, “Boo-yah! Get some, get some!”
He uncovers, balls up his hand up and postures for a fist pound from me.
Prudence shakes her head, looks over at Ponti and mutters, “Do you always have to touch yourself there to express your opinion? My goodness. Kevin; let her get the blood, then get up and leave. Period. What is there to gain by saying anything?”
Ponti has been with me for awhile; he’s my OG and this is how we roll. But Prudence makes sense. What to do?
I mumble, “Yeah, guess we kinda missed on this first arm, eh?”
Nurse Cruella de Vil doesn’t say anything, draws two vials and announces, “Okay, you’re all set. Keep this bandage on with some pressure and keep this tape on your left arm.”
I walk out of the lab room, rip the bandage off and tomahawk it in the garbage. Like Dwight Howard. Ponti runs up and chest bumps me.
Prudence looks at the shoes the other nurse has on and says, “Those are cute.” I nod my head in agreement and say, “Mmm-hmm.” The earth momentarily stops rotating.
Ponti stops dead in his tracks. “Dawg! No, no, no…”
"Have a nice day,” I tell the receptionist, and in a cherry voice add, “I look forward to seeing you in a couple days. Buh-bye”
Prudence turns to an open mouthed Ponti when I’m not looking, smiles an evil grin and says, “And please dress appropriately on Thursday; Kevin will have khakis and a smart polo – what are you wearing?”
As we drive home, Prudence makes small talk about this and that, while Pontificate sits in the back seat, holding his breath and turning red in the face like it’s his job. I try to ignore it all and watch the arm that doesn’t know how to give enough turn black and blue. Looks like one of those 1945 war films showing the Axis powers taking over Europe.
Eventually we pull in to their neighborhood. Above the Munchkin’s heads, I see there’s another house for sale on the block and with horror I watch the Real Estate broker walking a couple up to it: Tact and Patience.
And with a slow, side to side shake of my head, I look for something rock-like to bash into my noggin. This party’s over, that’s for sure.
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