What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Part 7

What had I done? I had been foolhardy and now I was being trampled by the world’s condemnation: “Who the hell are you? Do you know how many people would have loved to go to med school? Do you think your grandfather wanted to leave high school to support his family?” I must soldier on. An honest day’s work. Absolutely nothing wrong with that.

“Your eyes are your windows to the world, and they’re non-replaceable…” droned the predictably stilted and mind-numbing workplace safety film. The sound was bad, the actors self-conscious. It was like a porno movie with safety replacing sex, which may have accounted for the unexpected attentiveness of the frat boys. When it had mercifully ended, I sat down to fill out the application.

What a complicated set of feelings I experienced as I tried to jam my educational history into the tiny box they provided. As I shakily finished with “MD, University of XXXXX”, I decided it was just too much. I grabbed my application and headed back down the long red ribbon, if not running, then shuffling very quickly.

I tried to fly through the guardhouse, but they stopped me to confiscate my application. “You don’t understand. I’ve changed my mind. I’m just going to get rid of this.” I clutched the shameful document to my chest. “I’m sorry,” he returned. “No paperwork leaves the premises.” Glancing at his sidearm, I handed it over and dashed down the red stripe and home.

The next day I got a message on the answering machine from the coolguy at the warehouse who had apparently been given my contraband paperwork. “Dr. Nostrum, I would very much like to discuss…” I guess he figured even a degenerate doctor on the loading docks would be a boon for workplace safety. Degenerate. What else could he have thought? Had I been caught selling oxycontin from the trunk of my station wagon? Had I decided that a breast exam should accompany an evaluation for earwax impaction?

I sat silently on the couch for two days after that. On the second day, I rose to step outside. The rain had torn the spiders’ webs, and I watched them labor over the repairs as the drizzle or rain or precipitation or whatever thrummed against the hood of my poncho. I began to envy those industrious little insects. They had their job and they did it. There was no conflict — no soul searching. No choices. I grabbed the mail: my seventh rejection from the nun. I was beginning to think she was not interested.

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Published in: on November 27, 2006 at 10:25 am  Leave a Comment  

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