Entry Fifty-three: Save Me, Black Jesus

[A story in many parts: Part Five of Thirteen]

Chapter Three

The Oriental doctor just left. I’ve never been able to figure out if he’s Chinese or Japanese. Maybe neither; he could just be a Korean from San Francisco. Eve always corrects me when I use the word “oriental” to describe people. She insists that only rugs can be oriental and never people. She said I should use the word “Asian.” I don’t know about that but what I do know is the doctor’s new, at least in dealing with me, and he doesn’t say a lot. He usually comes in with a passle of folks—students, interns--but today he was alone. He futzed around for a few minutes, checking the monitors and my heart rate, took some notes and then stood over me and stared. It was pretty freaky. He was looking right into my eyes but we weren’t connecting in any way whatsoever. It was like he was looking at me but totally thinking about something or somebody else. I get that a lot. Most people who come see me end up staring at me but not really seeing me, glassing over and looking at nothing. It gives me the creeps. It’s even worse when they stare and then close their eyes. I get to thinking they’re meditating or, worse, maybe even praying. I hate that. I’m doing just fine, thank you very much. Don’t waste your prayers on me.

I never got into that whole religion thing and still don’t understand why people would burn up precious minutes in the day praying. To what? To who? It’s so stupid to buy into that spiritual hokum. Thank Zeus my parents were smarter than that. Eve’s family dabbled in it a little, but not enough to make me uncomfortable. They were Holiday Christians when Eve was younger, showing up for the two majors and a wedding or funeral when necessary. All that junk’s about as useful as a rabbit’s foot on a key chain.

All words and images ©2005/J. Colle