Victory Lap

October, 2001

A coincidence.“ Happenstance”, she called it…

Happenstance.

He said it out loud. It was a good word. Potent, he thought. His wife had used it this morning and he remembered taking great comfort in it. Breakfast was pancakes, the maple syrup scent in an amber cloud around her face. He could still smell it, even in this clinical-smelling waiting room. Had there been other people in the waiting room, they would have known what he had for breakfast straight away. But - of course - the waiting room was empty. That made sense: 8:30 am Saturday was an unusual time for a doctor’s appointment. The doctor had been adamant.

Well not just adamant.

He thought, leafing through an issue of Vogue from 1999.

The guy had insisted. You’d told him you were busy today and the son of a bitch acted as if you hadn’t spoken at all, just went right on. Urgent. That’s the word for it. The guy sounded urgent: “It would be best if you could get in here today, this morning.” What the fuck? The last-ditch was the worst part. First, a blatant fib: You told him you were forty miles out of town. Left for the weekend, “Band business, last minute.” You said it in a tone of voice that you hoped would make an end of it. Pathetic. The guy said: “Tell you what, turn around. I only need you for a few minutes. In and out, you have my word.” Then, by far, the worst part of the conversation. The doctor takes a few beats, lets the phone silence come to a boil and offers a quiet: "please".

Please.

Fuck.

He'd hung up and went to find his wife. She was in the kitchen churning out the pancakes from a stovetop skillet. The story came out of him in a rush, despite his best efforts. He told her about how the doctor had called him at 7:00 am. He told her about the long, urgent sounding voicemail the Doc had left. He told her about how he’d tried to duck the appointment. She’d recieved it all, his wife had, without so much as a second's pause from her pancake-ing. Then came that word:

“Happenstance, babe. He’s probably got plans for later and he just wants to get you taken care of. Lots of doctors keep weekend hours. He’ll have a waiting room full, not just you. Now go so you can come back to me.”

And he felt good. It was instant. His wife said the right things, like always. He was being silly! Worrying at nothing. The pep talk’s lingering effects kept him thinking positive for the twelve minute drive to the doctor’s office. He remained so, not obsessing, examining, or second-guessing the situation until the very moment he turned into the office block. Save for one gleaming 2002 Range Rover - forest green - which he guessed was the Doctor's, the lot was empty. Empty and big. Like a football field, with white lines marking spaces for cars instead of yards. Absurdly, he pulled his Benz into a spot directly adjacent to the Rover.

So much for Saturday hours. You should leave. That’s the move here. You should pull out of this parking lot, grab an unsafe amount of booze, and stalk the cellar until tour starts. A week’s time from right now, you’ll be on the road, safe. On the road.

He didn't leave, didn't even move. He just sat, motionless, stalling for time in the air-conditioned hum of the Benz. Then, incredibly, he was on the move, and before long standing in the the doctor's waiting area. There were magazines. He saw Popular Mechanics, National Geographic, Road and Track. He saw the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times. Everything would be ok in time, he was sure of it. This thing with his back would clear up, he was certain. The stomach will sort itself out in time, on the road. Safe.

He never even sat down, just bolted for the door. He was extending his hand to the door knob when two things happened at once. The first was that a lava-hot pain bloomed in the space between the small of his back and his belly button. The second was a man dressed in jeans and a blue, short-sleeve tee shirt came shambling into the waiting area and said his name.

The chronic shooting pains in his midsection were a big part of why he’d made this appointment. They’d started almost eight weeks before and he’d found them manageable, most of the time. This one was worse by far, however, than any that had come before. A burning flash in his stomach became a wretched agonizing seizure. The pain radiated out to his skin and within seconds his entire body was consumed by white-hot invisible flames. He felt himself fainting, falling towards the door. He grabbed at the knob, went down to one knee to get his balance and became dimly aware of movement in his peripheral vision. His faculties and processing capacities were overtaken by a flood of pain messages to the brain. The only thing coming across was the suffering and it was morphing, getting worse by the second. The doctor gave him a few beats before moving over to him to assist. He led from behind, steadying him with a hand on his stricken back. They sat together in an examination room. Eventually his rebellious body quieted and he was ready to listen.