“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.
