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I stated for the record—should anyone more senior be listening—“We have some true artists in the department. You could come up and look at the before-and-after photos. They’re quite reassuring.”
He waved away the whole notion. “I could die on the table, and then what? My obituary would say ‘Died suddenly after no illness whatsoever’? ‘In pursuit of a more handsome face’? How would my old man feel? It’s his nose I inherited.”
“General anesthesia always carries a risk,” I said, “and of course there’s always swelling and ecchymoses, but I doubt whether the hospital has ever lost a rhinoplasty patient.”
He smiled again. He tapped the back of my hand and said, “You’re a serious one, aren’t you?”
I confirmed that I was and always would be: a serious infant, a serious child, a serious teenager, a serious student, a serious adult.
“Not the worst quality in a human being,” Ray allowed.
I said, “It would help me in all the arenas of my life if I were a touch more gregarious.”
“Highly overrated,” said Ray Russo. “Any doofus, any deejay or salesman, or waitress, can be gregarious, but they can’t do what you do.”
It sounded almost logical. He asked if a cup of coffee was enough for dinner. Didn’t I want to move to a booth and have a burger? Or to a place where we could share a carafe of wine?
I didn’t.
“My car’s in the hospital garage,” he continued. “I slipped into a reserved space, figuring most does must’ve left for the day.” He took from his pocket a fat wad of bills, secured with a silver clip in the shape of a dollar sign. After much shuffling, he said he had nothing smaller than a fifty.
“I’ve got it,” I said.
The $2.10 tab must have been viewed as a silent acceptance to dinner, because soon he was helping me on with my parka and leading me up a half-flight of stairs and through the door marked GARAGE. Parked under RESERVED FOR DR. HAMID, Ray’s car was red and low-slung. Its steering wheel was wrapped in black leather.
“Seat belt secure?” he asked. “Enough leg room?” He patted the dash and said, “Just got my snow tires on today and my oil changed.”
I said, “I never learned to drive.”
He laughed as if I’d said something amusing, and turned to the parking attendant, who announced, “Three-fifty.”
The attendant studied the fifty, handed it back, agitated it when Ray didn’t take it. “C’mon,” he snapped. “This isn’t Atlantic City.”
Ray said, “Can I pay you tomorrow? She’s a surgeon here. I pick her up every night.”
Snarling, the man waved us through.
When we’d pulled away, I said, “I don’t like lying. I could have paid.”
“He doesn’t care,” said Ray. “He gets paid by the hour regardless of how much is in the till when he cashes out.”
After a few blocks in silence, he asked, “Do you have a roommate?”
“Why?”
He grinned. “I’m making conversation. A guy has to start somewhere. I could’ve asked about brothers and sisters. Teams you follow. Astrological sign.”
“Do you have a roommate?” I asked.
“Me? I’m forty-five. A guy with a roommate at forty-five probably wouldn’t be out on a date in the first place.”
So I’d been right: date. His intentions were personal. I asked what made him call me up after all this time.
“It’s what people do, Doc,” he said. “Guys take a chance, because all of us have pals who met someone on a bus or a bar stool and asked for her phone number. So you think, Have a little courage. What’s the worst she could do?”
“But why now? Why wait until I can’t even remember who you are?”
“There were complications,” he said.
I might have asked what they were, if only I had been curious, interested, or less exhausted.
By this time we were in front of the restaurant. Ray waved away the valet and said he’d take care of it himself—this was a parking lot for the patrons’ use, wasn’t it? Had he misunderstood the sign?
He didn’t like the first table the hostess offered, so we waited until something with the right feeling opened up, the proper footage from the kitchen and the restrooms. It was an Italian fish and chop house with a Tiffany-shaded salad bar and beer served in frosted mugs. Without consulting me, he ordered the appetizer combo plate and a carafe of the house wine. He turned to me. Red or white?
I started to say that the sulfites in red wine gave me—
“Good,” he said. He smiled the way you’d smile for an orthodontist’s Polaroid, clinically, a gum-baring grimace. “Just had a bleach job,” he said. “I’m supposed to avoid red wine, coffee, and tea.”
The waitress pointed to the wine list, under the leather-bound menus, with the end of her pencil.
“I’ll let her pick,” he told the waitress. “She must have good taste. She’s a doctor.”
“What kind?” asked the waitress.
I said the Australian Chardonnay would be fine for me. One glass.
“I meant what kind of doctor.”
“Surgeon,” I said. “Still in training.”
“Not your garden-variety surgeon,” said Ray. “A plastic one.”
The waitress did something then, squeezed her elbows to her waist so that her chest protruded a few degrees more than it had at rest. “I had plastic surgery,” she said, “but I didn’t go crazy. Would you have known if I didn’t tell you?”
I said no.
Ray said, “Isn’t it nice that you can speak about it so openly.”
“She’s a doctor,” said the waitress. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“I didn’t know you before, but they look great,” said Ray. “Did you feel that having larger breasts would improve your quality of life?”
“Yeah, I did,” said the waitress.
“And have they?” asked Ray.
“I like ’em,” said the woman. “I guess that’s what counts.”
Ray told the waitress that I had talked him out of a nose job and he’d done a complete one-eighty: He went in wanting one and came out a new man.
“Because she likes it the way it is?” asked the waitress. “Because when she looks at you she doesn’t see the shape of your nose but the content of your character?”
“Nope,” said Ray. “None of the above.”
“I don’t know him at all,” I said.
“It was an office visit,” said Ray. “I came for a consultation. And now I’m buying her dinner because she saved me ten thousand bucks.”
The waitress looked thoughtfully at her pad and said, “I’ll be right back with your drinks and your appetizer.”
I told him, “Everybody has a procedure on their wish list or a scar they want to show me.”
He asked if plastic surgery was more lucrative than the regular kind.
“It can be. Not if you volunteer your time and pay your own expenses to operate on the poor and the disfigured.”
“You do that?”
“I hope to.”
“I’ve seen those doctors who fly planes into jungles. The parents of these deformed kids walk, like, hundreds of miles to bring their Siamese twins to some American doc to separate, right?”
“Hardly that,” I said. “That’s major, major surgery, with teams of—”
“Maybe I’m mixing up my 60 Minutes segments,” he said. “But you know what I mean—the freaks of nature.” Our waitress returned with the wine and said she’d be back with the appetizer combo platter. Ray raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Doc, and to your future good deeds.”
I said, “I don’t understand why you wanted to have coffee with me, let alone a full-course dinner.”
“You don’t? You can’t think of any reason a guy would want to see you outside the hospital?”
I said, “If this is leading up to a compliment, I’d prefer you didn’t. I wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
He reached over and turned a page of the menu so “Pesce” was before me. “Doctors—they watch what they eat and they know about good cholesterol. What about a piece of salmon?”
I said fine, that would be fine.
“And here we go,” said Ray as the waitress made room on the table for our oval platter of deep-fried, lumpen morsels. “I’ll have the usual,” he said, “and the lady will have the salmon.”
“Cooked through,” I said.
Ray winked at me and said, “If she looks at it under the microscope, she doesn’t want to see anything moving.”
“Remind me what your usual is …”
“Vingole,” he said. “Red.”
The waitress asked if she could at some point talk to me in the ladies’ room. It would only take a sec.
“Ask her here,” said Ray.
“Can’t,” said the waitress. “She’s gotta see it.”
I said no, I couldn’t. I was in training. I wasn’t qualified. I’d only rotated through plastic surgery. No, sorry—shaking my head vigorously.
“Are you okay?” Ray asked her. “I mean, is there, like, an infection?”
I was immediately ashamed of my lack of even basic medical curiosity. Here a civilian was saying the right thing, exhibiting a bedside manner that years of schooling had not fine-tuned to any degree of working order in me. So I said, “Is something wrong, or did you just want to show me the results?”
She turned away from Ray and whispered, “One of the nipples. It looks different than before, a little off-kilter.”
“Did you call your doctor?” I asked.
“I’m seeing him in a week. So I’ll wait. It’s probably nothing.”
Ray broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into a saucer of olive oil. “How long could it take, Doc?” he asked.
THE NIPPLE WAS fine—merely stressed by an ill-fitting brassiere—but it gave Ray an early advantage, establishing him as a more compassionate listener than I. He was now drinking a glass of something that looked like a whiskey sour. Mathematically half of the appetizers were awaiting my return. “How is she?” he asked.
“Fine. But I’d like to explain why I resisted. It’s not like the old days. The hospital’s malpractice insurance doesn’t cover diagnoses based on quick glances in the ladies’ room.”
He smiled and said, “She could sign a release that said, ‘My patron at table eleven, Dr. Thrift, is held harmless as a result of dispensing medical advice to me in the ladies’ room of II Sambuco.’”
I said, “If I seemed a little cold-hearted—”
“Nah. You’d be doing this every time you left your house.”
I might have expanded then on my life: That when I left the house, it wasn’t with an escort at my elbow, introducing me left and right as Dr. Thrift, surgeon. I didn’t socialize. I worked long hours and went home comatose. The hospital was teeming with people who wanted to talk, idly or professionally—it didn’t matter. My day was filled with hard questions, half-answers, nervous patients, demanding relatives, didactic doctors. Why would I want to make conversation at night?
“Speaking of your house,” he said, “you never answered my question about roommates.”
“I have one,” I said.
“Another doctor?”
“A nurse, actually.”
“Are you friends?”
“We share the rent,” I said. “But that’s the extent of it. Occasionally we’ll eat dinner or breakfast together, but rarely.”
“How’d you pair up if you’re not friends?”
“An index card on a bulletin board. I think it said, ‘Five-minute walk to hospital. Safe neighborhood. No smokers.’”
“How many bedrooms?”
“Two. Small.”
