2. Milton Lance

At exactly eight o’clock Grollman was in the large dingy lab where he had heard about Morris Lewis’s Nobel Prize winning work. No one else was there. After half an hour he began to worry. He wasn’t certain that Milt, or whatever his name was, would be there, but he reasoned that there should be other fellows present. He went to Dr Walker’s office. His secretary was serenely sandpapering her nails. It was obvious that she hadn’t been at it without interruption because she was now using violet colored paper rather than the buff she had employed the previous day.

Before he could ask his question she said, “What are you doing here? The new fellows are all in the cafeteria with Dr Lance.”

“Who?”

“Milt.”

“When was that set up?”

“Months ago. It was in your orientation letter.
”
“What orientation letter?”

“The one I sent all the fellows a couple of months ago.”

“I didn’t get one.”

“Are you a new fellow?”

“Yes.”

“Then you got one.”

Grollman never would discover that the sandpaper secretary had used the payroll requisition forms that would get the fellows paid to send the orientation letters. Grollman, not on the payroll, got no letter.

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

“I did. I told you that you were supposed to meet with Milt. I assumed you could read. Most renal fellows can.”

Grollman figured that there was no percentage in getting the boss’s secretary mad at him, so he asked where the cafeteria was.

“In the basement where it always is.”

He left planning to get her a box of sandpaper to make amends for her mistake. Puce would placate he hoped.

It took 20 minutes for the elevator just outside Walker’s office to answer his summons. He got in and hit his head on a cardboard sign suspended from the vehicle’s ceiling which said, “This elevator does not go to the basement.” He turned to get out but the door closed before he could and the car started up. He punched five, the next floor, but the car did not stop until it reached eight which was as far as it went. After a two minute wait the door opened.

He walked to the end of the corridor looking for another elevator or a stairs but found none. Then he headed in the other direction with equal lack of success. He was about to reenter the elevator and go back to the medicine secretary to ask directions to the cafeteria when he noticed a door marked “Stairs” next to the elevator door which was closed because the elevator was in the basement. He entered the stairwell relieved that he didn’t have to confront the secretary with another apparent idiot request.

After descending half a flight he came upon a sign that said, “These stairs go to the basement.” Two flights more and he reached a landing that was the size of the room he had first lived in as a medical student. At the far corner of the landing sat a fortyish man wearing dark glasses. He held out a tin cup that contained five pencils. Around his neck was a sign: “Can’t get an NIH grant, can’t get promoted.” Grollman hurried by him as though the benighted denizen of the stairs had the pox.

“It could happen to you too, Putz,” the man shouted as he descend.

At last Grollman reached the end of the stairs. In front of him the door said, “This is the basement.” He took the door knob and twisted, but it didn’t turn. Nonplused, he stared at the dumb portal. He tried the knob again with the same result. He then pounded on the door with an open hand and then a fist, but the door was unmoved.

“Anybody there? Let me out.” He felt like an idiot and was relieved when no one answered his distress call. “Why didn’t I stay in Chicago?” he said aloud.

“BECAUSE YOU HAVE AN AMBITION THAT’S GOING TO ROT YOUR LIVER,” said a voice from the darkness behind him.

“Who’s there?”

“WOULD YOU BELIEVE GOD?”

God hadn’t spoken to him since medical school, and then only once – so he didn’t believe it was God. He said nothing.

“WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO OPEN THE DOOR?”

“Would you?”

“WHY SHOULD I?”

“Because I’m locked in here.”

“SO AM I”

“Not if you can open the door.”

“DO YOU THINK YOU CAN BANDY WORDS WITH THE LORD?”

“What do I have to do to get you to open the door?”

“BEGGING WOULD BE NICE.”

“God wants me to beg? Isn’t that kind of petty?”

“YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T KNOW MUCH ABOUT RELIGION.”

“I beg you to let me out of here.”

“I DON’T SENSE SINCERITY.”

“Sincerity counts?”

“NOT REALLY.”

Grollman heard a click behind him. He turned and was covered with the light that came through the open door.

“Thanks.” He turned in the direction of the voice. The landing was now clearly lit; there was no one there.

The basement was full of stuff that was no longer wanted above, but which couldn’t be thrown out because the state required so much paper work to throw something away that it was easier to send it to the basement. Grollman wandered aimfully for about 15 minutes until he stumbled on the entrance to the cafeteria. It was almost obscured by a seven foot high pile of superannuated bedpans. It was closed. A sign read, “You’re too late for breakfast and too early for lunch.”

Grollman had lost all bearings in his wandering through the junk. He was convinced that he’d never get out and was determined to wait until lunch when he could ask someone in the cafeteria the way out when his right eye spied a small window just below the ceiling off to the left of the bedpans. By placing a pile of the bedpans on a red plastic chair that had “Texas A&M” stamped on its back he was able to climb to the small window. To his surprise it was not locked. Another surprise was that he was able to squeeze through the window without falling off of the pile of bedpans.

He was on his knees on a small diamond of grass facing a parking lot. Before he attempted to rise he was pulled to his feet like a rusty nail to a magnet.

“I got you at last, you slimy son of a bitch,” said a cylinder-shaped black man in a white cowboy hat. He looked like Smokey the Bear.

Grollman tried to pull away; then he noticed the badges (he wore two) and the gun stuck to the black man’s side like bubble gum on the underside of a seat in a movie theater so he went limp like a possum – actually more like a marionette with no strings.

“I didn’t do anything. I got stuck in there. I’m a doctor. I just got here. I was lost. I’m a renal fellow. I’m a commissioned officer in the US Army. My name is Richard Grollman. I work for Dr Lance. I also work for Dr Walker. I don’t have any allergies. I just moved here from Chicago. Do you know Mabel Stuart? And besides I’ll never do it again – whatever it is.”

The black man in the cowboy hat with the stuck on gun and badges looked at him like he was crazy which he would be for quite some time to come, though he would die sane.

“You sure are a talkative fucker. Now just give me one story.”

“I was trying to find the cafeteria where I was supposed to meet Dr Lance who was giving the orientation for the new renal fellows of which I am one when I got lost and couldn’t get out of the basement except by climbing up a pile of bedpans and out the window where you apprehended me. You see it’s all quite innocent.”

“Who inside can vouch for you?”

Grollman groaned when he realized that the only person in the building who knew who him was Dr Walker’s secretary.

“Dr Lance. Do you know him?”

“Oh sure. He’s the guy who thinks Bubbles is a virgin.”

“Yeah that’s the one.”

“How does he know you.”

“I work for him.”

“So he’ll vouch for you.”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Whadda you mean, ‘yes and no’?’”

“He hasn’t met me yet. That’s why I was in the basement. I was supposed to meet him in the cafeteria, but he was gone by the time I got there.”

“So how’s he gonna identify you?”

“Take me to him, he will.”

OK, but if he can’t you’re in the county jail.”

“What for?”

“Stealing bedpans. We’ve lost hundreds of the suckers to you assholes.”

If Grollman had realized how easy it was to find Milton Lance he would have gone after the bedpans a lot sooner, because it took his captor about two minutes to get him to Lance’s office where oddly enough Dr Lance was.

Milt’s office was about the size of a broom closet, but it was well lit. Its owner was sitting on a folding chair behind a card table. He was reading “The Story of O” with such concentration that he did not notice Grollman and his arresting officer in the doorway. The doorway was as far into the office as they could get.

“Milt, do you know this guy?”

Lance looked up, but went right back to his book. “Never saw him before in my life.”

“That’s true Dr Lance, uh Milt. I’m Richard Grollman the new fellow from Chicago.”

“The guy who’s in the army?” He didn’t take his eyes off of the book.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t eat breakfast?”

It took Grollman a few beats to get the connection. “I couldn’t find the cafeteria and I wasn’t told about the meeting.”

“Then how did you know to go to the cafeteria?”

“The sandpaper lady told me just a little while ago.”

Lance took an eye off the book for a few seconds and studied him as though he might hold more interest than a rock.

“What’d he do Milt?” said Milt to Milt, which was the burly black man’s name. Grollman now noticed a brass name tag on his chest that said “Milton.”

“He was tryin’ to steal bedpans out of the basement.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“He’s in the army. Army docs are such tight asses that they never crap, so what would he need a bedpan for?”

“No shit?”

“See, you got it just right. Just leave him here. I’ll take care of him.”

Black Milton looked unsure.

“Do it and you can watch Bubble’s pelvic exam.”

At that Black Milton let go of Grollman’s arm which he had held like a cherished solecism since Grollman had emerged from the window. White Milton went back to his book. Grollman froze, overcome with frosty neglect. Black Milton took a worn copy of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” from his back pocket which he read while leaning against the door frame. Thus engaged they passed the next 10 minutes. When at last Lance put his book down, stretched, and yawned he noticed Milt deeply engrossed in his text.

“Milt why are you still here?”

“I’m waiting for Bubble’s pelvic.”

“Oh, she called in sick – so it won’t be today.”

Milton took the news with dejection. He closed his book, put in his back pocket, and departed.

“Well what about you?” asked Milt.

“I don’t care a whole lot about Bubble’s pelvic.”

Lance didn’t seem to care that Grollman did not care about Bubble’s pelvic. “Do you want to be a clinical fellow or a research fellow?”

Grollman hadn’t realized there was a choice. Without thinking he said, “A research fellow,” and passed a defining moment without any comprehension.

“OK, go in the first lab on your right and find something to do.” Lance got up and said, “Time for my piano lesson,” as he left.

“I guess that was my orientation,” said Grollman to the bridge table.