duty fulfilled.
Soon I was employed as a night orderly at Beaumont Hospital in Birmingham, Michigan, a prosperous, midwestern town. The hospital was easy to reach, just a thirty-minute drive down wide, four lane Woodward Avenue, flanked by suburbs. I drove to work each night in my Mom’s white Corvair (unsafe at any speed) with a four-speed manual transmission and infamous rear engine.
At night in the hospital I learned that the women prevailed. Most of the male doctors were either home, in the Emergency Department, or working late in the operating room. Sometimes I was assigned to Surgical Prep where a friendly group of six middle-aged women meticulously prepared the surgical packs for the next day’s surgery. They liked teaching me about the packs, but laughed when I untied their aprons or sang Elvis songs while we worked.
Occasionally I was called to the medical wards to assist the beleaguered nurses, often with agitated, older men. One night I was called up STAT (like right now!) to find a small, young nurse attempting to calm a large, older man who was pacing the hall, his gown open in the back to reveal his generous bare bottom. As he strode back and forth he would periodically shout, “Help!” or ”What’s that?” The nurse explained to me that the man was going through DTs, or delirium tremors, from alcohol withdrawal and needed to return to his room where she could safely sedate him. I approached the old guy, known only as Mr. Brad, and asked him what the problem was.
“You don’t see them? Don’t tell me you don’t see them?” he asked.
“Yeah, Mr. Brad, I think I do. But what do you see?”
“Bugs, son. Bugs on the walls, some on the floors, more flying around me.” He swatted the air and stamped his feet at the same time. His hands trembled and his face twitched, but he wasn’t really angry, just upset.
“You know, between us, I bet we could catch most of these bugs, then scoop them up and throw them out the window in your room,” I said.
“You think? And you’d help me?” He now looked directly at me, both twitching eyebrows arched. This was my first lesson that to understand a delusion you have to join it for a while.
We grabbed the air and swiped at the walls. I put an arm around his shoulder and we staggered our way back to his room. The smiling nurse opened the window and we emptied our hands into the warm summer night. After standing at the window a few moments, Mr Brad sighed, then laid back on his bed.
“We’ll call you again, Jack,” said the nurse.
“Who do you usually call?” I asked.
“Generally Buck, the regular evening orderly, but he’s busy in the ER with a really wild guy. Have you met him?” she asked.
“No, but I hear he’s good.”
“Yeah, good, but real quiet and tough. He was a prisoner of war for over a year in Korea. Not a man to cross,” she replied.
One Friday night, my mom needed the Corvair for a girls’ night out. Dad’s new Impala was not then or ever available. I thought perhaps I’d miss a night’s work, maybe even enjoy a summer date.
“I’ll drop you off at the hospital. You can find a ride home.” Dad didn’t expect or tolerate opposing views.
On a late-night coffee break, I sat down at a table with Buck, who was sitting alone drinking black coffee. He was my height at 5’10,” and 180 pounds of solid muscle. He wore a white t-shirt under green scrubs. His face was lined and serious as he nodded to me when I sat down. We ate donuts and sipped coffee for awhile; I was used to strong, silent men. My Dad and brothers never minded quiet and considered conversation during hockey or football games as odd.
Finally, I offered an opening. “Busy night.”
“The usual,” he replied.
“I heard you were in the service?” I asked.
“Army.”
“Korea?”
“Yup.”
“How was it?”
“Terrible, Kid. Don’t talk about it much.”
“Did you learn anything over there, Buck?”
He thought for awhile. “Yeah, one thing Kid: never show fear. They feed on it. Make them think you can always come at ‘em.”
“Think I could get a ride home tonight?”
“Where to?”
“Bloomfield Hills. On Gilbert Lake.”
“Stomping in the high cotton, kid. But yeah, sure, come get me at eleven.”
Eleven came around quickly, and we walked out to Buck’s immaculate old Buick. The chrome sparkled. Buck rubbed a faint smudge off the deep blue hood. We drove out onto Woodward Avenue. Traffic was light and the night dark, without a moon.
About halfway home two motorcycles passed us and two more pulled in behind us. The lead biker slowed, then pulled us over to the side of the road. The riders dismounted and ambled over to the driver’s side window. I sensed real danger.
The riders were 1950 hoods. They had long dark hair slicked back with hair oil. They each sported black leather jackets, tight jeans and a condescending scowl. Buck rolled the window down.
“Nice car, old man,” said the lead hood. Buck reached underneath the dash and pulled out a large, loaded service revolver. He rested the pistol on his outstretched arm, now pointed at the lead hood’s face. The big Buick engine purred in the quiet night.
The hood stared at the revolver, then at Buck, and said, “I’m sorry man, I thought you were alone.”
Buck kept the revolver aimed at the hood’s head as he sauntered back to his bike, started the engine and drove off.
We didn’t talk the rest of the way home. I thanked him for the ride and wondered if a doctor’s life would always be so dramatic.
A DETROIT MAN
Fall 1963 was crisp and beautiful at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Vietnam was a distant worry. The campus was alive with color from old trees, red brick traditional buildings, and the natural energy of youth.
I bunked in a small, two-man room in Anderson Hall, a freshman dorm. Friends developed quickly in the tight living quarters, each boy-man struggling to find a new, independent identity, yet not fail classes.
At the end of the hall lived Bill, a short, energetic, redheaded extravert, a high school track star with an idea a minute. We shared a trackman’s past as well as a lust for adventure. Bill grew up in Chicago, so when the Miami University v. Northwestern football game arrived, he proposed a trip north to see the game and share blind dates par excellence. Big Gage, who lived at the far end of the hall, agreed to go as well on a rare, free weekend. Gage was as thick and huge as Bill was short and wiry. Gage threw the shot put for the track team, got all A’s, and had a dry, slow sense of humor. You got the feeling talking with Gage that although he could crush a car, he would rather clean and pet it.
The drive to Chicago lasted five hours. Typical midwestern guys, we talked sports and high school exploits. Bill was especially interested in Detroit, a fighting man’s town. I’d played hockey and football and had had my share of minor scraps. Neither Bill nor Gage ever had a serious fight. Not one to miss a chance to embellish a story, small fights retold became main events. The time passed quickly.
The hopeful Miami threesome met the Northwestern beauties at the tailgate party.
“Oh, my God, I think I’ve gone to heaven and an angel awaits me,” Gage slowly exuded.
The beauties were indeed beautiful and excited about the game and the party afterwards. Christine, my date, was blonde, too attractive for a blind date, fully shaped, and had an easy laugh and good nature.