2022 North East Baltimore, Morning
The staff in the old dentists office next to the library, across from the vacant lot fenced for demolition, was slim. With fear of the plague still raging, receptionists were spotty. Banjo filled in on Monday for intake. He did not want to be on the books as even being in Maryland, what with his Omaha I.D. and California phone, which remained off most of the time.
‘The Over Whore is ever watching,’ was a constant muse of his.
Doctor Daniel Landon, “Doc” to most, was okay with that. The honest doctor weathered a constant haze of withering lies spewed by the medical authorities. They agreed Banjo would work in return for free medical care, so long as it was practical. Doc did have his own X-Ray machine and had removed a subacious cyst and possible skin cancer from his back. The ingrown toenail was gone in ten minutes. Doc yanked a molar with no need for the dentist chair. It had been a good few months. Banjo even sparred with the doctor in the office after hours and received a clean bill of health on a pre fight exam, as Sink was suggesting a bout in Delaware.
‘This is starting to feel too much like home. There are so many good people stuck in bad places.’
The first patient of the week came through the door with his mask on. Banjo was at ease, “Good Morning, Sir, Doctor Helms?”
The tall, thin, middle-aged man, with the air of a doctor, glared over his N-95 mask and scolded, “You are not masked, in violation of CDC guidelines. Who are you?”
Danial heard the tone of voice and was out of his office and down the hallway, “Doctor Helms, how are you?”
“Doctor Landon! I am amazed at your neglect for mine and the public health! You are not masked. The CDC and the AMA, as well as the Society…”
Danial, a man that was built like a major league shortstop, a square-headed Scotsman if there ever was one, who spoke as fast as a carnival barker when recording examination results or dealing with idiots, cut Helms off, “The Society of American Child Mutilation can kiss my ass. The AMA get a standard fax from me any time they send a notice, which is a picture of this middle finger! I built my house with these hands, and when I wore any medical grade mask I still inhaled ten micron particles—it’s all bullshit you idiot. Get your head out of your ass and start saving lives!”
Helms stewed, steamed, stemmed even, looked at Banjo, noted his long hair and beard and barked, “Go ahead, smile and follow him to the doors of hell. You will all be dead. This is serious.”
Landon was now using his stethyscope on Helms, comically pressing it to the rainbow banded polo shirt between the buttons of the open tweed sweater. Helms was frozen, terror and indignation fighting within his sunken chest.
Landon winked comically, “No signs of intelligence—Aristotle did teach us that the heart is the seat of thought, Right P.A. Banjo? Leave the patient upright. If it is still here when I return, I will conduct the moral autopsy.”
Landon turned his back and went back to his office, slammed open a metal cabinet, pulled a cord on a chain saw, and when the thing belched to acrid, grinding life, yelled over the gas-powered machine, “P.A. Banjo, bring the deceased to my office!”
Going along with the sarcasm, Helms still standing in stymied indignation, Banjo put on his war face and rose to stand like a loyal Ming soldier. Helms looked at him in abject horror, turned, ran out of one of his shoes, jerked the door open, nearly knocking himself out, and bolted out onto Harford Road.
It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. He did crack a grin that did not want to leave his face, Pulled Helm’s intake sheet down, crumpled it and threw it into the round file, as Doc shut off the saw and laughed like the shepherd of the damned.
…
The rest of the morning saw a steady stream of customers, 35, in four hours, Doc a Dynamo of diagnostics, rehab instructions for the injured and elderly, diet and activity suggestions for fighters getting the medicals, even doing the X-rays himself, all with a good humor. This highest functioning human being that Banjo had ever encountered was administering like a clinical angel to a gaggle of old, poor, jocks, child athletes, worn out laborers, patients who needed to get off of pain management, in the worst city in America.
The office only had one newly arrived patient, a lady suffering anxiety, a lady, who Banjo noted, was none other than the contact he had avoided calling, Danny Wilson, ‘Yes, BIG titties is right. I can see her with Old Stump.’
Danny was teary, on a cane, wondering about knee options, and was obviously suffering from shamdemic anxiety when she looked at Banjo and whispered, “You seem to be a tranquil soul—I’m an empath, I know.”
Thank you, “Danny,” he responded as she rubbed a crystal pendent between thumb and finger.
She smiled, “You knew that ma’am would make me self conscious about my age. Thank you.”
“Ma’am,” greeted Doc, out of the back, in full dynamo and she smiled but shrank down into her seat. Turning to Banjo he ranted:
“Pain management doctors, I’d kill them all and dig the hole myself if I were King. Oh, speaking of which, has Mister Jerome King stopped postponing his insurance claim exam?”
“Currently, Doc, he is calling for directions, or was, seemed to have been lost across the street. Only four hours late.”
Then came in the man in question, a surely, muscular man wearing a full body BLM jump suit, with the letters in blood on black, a fitted white hat with black BLM lettering, announcing, “Y’all done hid dis muvafuca good.”
“Sir,” barked Doc, “kindly refrain from swearing in my office.”
“Whateva, whateva, sign me up.” Jerome walked over to the clip board in front of Banjo’s desk, as if owning an instinct for signing in to clinics.
“Danny, come with me to Examination Room A.”
The woman smiled and began to rise, but her move was arrested, as was her smile, by Jerome, “Bitch needz ta wait ‘er turn. I were scheduled fer eight-fideen!”
“And you are late, sir! I will see you on my lunch break.”
“Say what,” champed the thug, shaking out his hands and ready for action.
Doc came nose to nose in stare-down mode and said like a drill sergeant, “You will sit now while Banjo spells your information correctly, then I will examine you. If this fails to meet your out-sized expectations, you may leave.”
Jerome was aghast, “Datz some racist bullshit. Led me talk to the woman in charge?”
“Woman, that was your insurer’s scheduling person. This, sir, is not a company, not a democracy, not a republic, but a monarchy, a kingdom, and I am that KING, a sovereign physician, who can do without you among my billable rabble. Further, Sir!”
Doc was pushing back the now ashen-faced man, half his age and 30 pounds heavier, by shear force of will, never touching him, “Further, Sir, you have insulted a lady who is under my protection! You will apologize now, this instant, without hesitation, or I will remove your throat, here, NOW!”
The man stepped back with wide eyes and barked, “Sorry, Ma’am—and good luck, dis cracka be carazee!”
And a second man bolted from the door.
Doc turned to Banjo, “Block Allied Insurance’s phone number, take them off the referral list, and if they fax or email, send or fax my middle finger. Thank you.”
Danny was limping towards the doctor, beaming up at him like he was indeed a savior King.
After her examination, Doc directed Danny to Banjo, “Mark Danny as paid. She is bringing beef stew for us next Monday. And Banjo, walk her to her car and do a security check of her house. There have been second story home invasions on her street.”
“Yes, Sir,” was all that could be said, as the man who was indeed King in these parts went into the back room, where he hung like a bat from a traction bar for lunch as he dictated diagnostic notes and exam results to his silent recorder.
…
To be continued in Alberto and Bradley: #3.B
