My own family practitioner cannot see me for almost three weeks. My stomach will be cheesecloth by then. I call Dr. Steve Chaney. He was friendlier with Andy than me; they had partnered one summer at gay tennis when I bowed out of the competition when a broken pipe flooded part of the gallery. Dr. Steve finds time for me the next morning, before his office opens. By then, I’m so tender I can’t even fasten my seat belt for the drive there.
Dr. Steve sits at a curved Lucite desk with neither legs nor drawers. It was a Great Rooms! special order. We gave it to him at cost. That’s probably why he came in early. He opens his Mac to construct a makeshift file. This is what doctors mostly do now—type, and badly. I concede I’ve been lax about exams, especially the kind involving a finger cot, so
