Page 124 - What They Did to the Kid

112 Jack Fritscher

“On the contrary, I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be.” Doc pushed his plate away. “I don’t like to talk about
dentistry, because I don’t practice dentistry.”
“But you are a dentist, dear,” Julia said. “He has his degree. He
received it the week before we were married.”
“He announced he was never going to practice dentistry the
week after,” Mike said.
“Tell him why, dear. Oh, Michael, why haven’t you explained all
this to Ryan years ago. You’re such friends.”
“I’ll tell you why,” Doc said. “I decided I couldn’t stand to put
my hands in other people’s mouths.”
“That’s a laugh,” I said. “At Communion, priests’ fingers touch
people’s tongues and teeth and lips and lipstick...”
“Disgusting,” Doc growled.
“He only wanted the title of ‘Doctor,’” Mike said. “That was
the real reason. So he could be ‘Doctor Hager’ and move into nine
rooms and a bath.”
“Now I’m afraid I, his own wife, don’t even call him ‘Doctor,’”
Julia said. “Even I, who should understand him, call him ‘Doc.’”
“Everyone at the drugstore calls me ‘Doc,’” he said. “I like it.”
“Then you’re a pharmacist now,” I said. I should have shut up.
“Oh, Michael, how could you wait till now?” Julia cried.
“I think it’s very funny,” Mike said. “I don’t tell everything I
know.” He grinned at me. “Do I, confessor?”
Doc stood up. “I am not a pharmacist.” His voice was imperious.
He pulled a folded white Nehru cap from his back pocket, placed it
on his head. “I am not a practicing dentist. I never was a pharmacist.
I am a jerk. I run a soda fountain and milk bar.” He saluted, making
fun of us all.
“But you are a dentist?” I asked.
“You’re like all Americans, sir. You question everyone who doesn’t
fit some national stereotype. The national syndrome is to question
everything along preconceived lines. Ryan, what holiday is this?”
“The Fourth of July.”
“The first Independence Day of the 1960s.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you a questioning boy?”

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