“So, do we have an appointment?” Sam asks, taking occasional sips of his large Dunkin Donuts coffee. Like he hasn’t drowned himself in a pot of coffee already. He takes pride in being a man’s man in a politically correct, male castrated world. Or so he says. In another time and place, Sam would have been one of those rugged individualist construction workers who believes a coffee break isn’t complete without toasted hard rolls, black coffee, and Marlboro cigarettes.
“I’m not so sure Skinner’s doctor . . . what’s his name . . .” I glance once more at the article until I find it. “. . . Dr. Martin Friedlander. Not sure he’ll agree to see me right away unless I make a pest of myself front and center.”
“I like your strategy,” he says. “But you realize, you might not like what he has to say.
