Dr. Saint-Subway.

10 Dec

Usually I only regret not going to med school, as was once my intention for a New York minute thirty years ago, when I am seated on the subway and see something like the man across from me tonight whose temple was distinguished by the kind of wandering popping vein one sees on weightlifters thighs, an angry affair that reminded me of the great Oxbow River in Oregon.

“Not to worry about that,” I’d lean over to him, pointing discreetly, “I see that all the time in my practice. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m a doctor,” I’d add quickly in response to his silent stunned reaction.

I’d be lying of course. He should be EXTREMELY worried.

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