Call me creepy, but I like going to the pediatrician.
The adult doctor I normally go to specializes in gay men, which means there are diagrams of anal warts on the walls and the nurse practitioner named Larry belts a high E over middle C when he examines my tongue. “Say ‘AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!’” Plus, my doctor is Korean. I don’t feel comfortable answering his questions honestly because I can’t help but think every Korean over forty knows my mother. I prefer my doctors Jewish and cold-handed.
So when it came time to my annual physical, I sought new medical counsel in Richard Appelbaum, Pediatrician. He came highly recommended. The waiting room was exactly as I’d hoped. Hearing all those crying toddlers made me feel brave by comparison. Going to the doctor is a scary thing—shots are just the worst—so it calmed me that everyone around me recognized this fact and wasn’t trying to put on a brave face.
I squatted on a chair shaped like a giraffe and was pleased to see that Highlights magazine was still in print. I wondered if they accept freelance submissions. Any place where germy children congregate has a horrifying yet strangely calming smell, not unlike a mix of bread crusts and vegetable soup.
A smiling black lady who looked like one of the unnecessary human characters on Sesame Street handed me a cup and told me to “tee tee” in it. “You’re a big boy,” she said. “I wanna see that cup filled to the top.”
That comment struck me as odd. I wondered if it really gave her pleasure to handle more urine as opposed to less.
I went to the bathroom and pissed a few eyedroppers-full into my cup. I finished relieving myself in the toilet, like a civilized human being. I examined the cup and was pleased to see that it was completely clear. Ever since I was a small child, I prided myself in peeing classy amounts of what could be mistaken for the freshest mountain spring water when asked for a sample that would be handled by another person. I thought it said something about me.
When I placed my cup on the counter next to the others, I couldn’t help but feel superior. Whatever kid had produced Cup 1265 would face a short, tough life. His piss was as dark as unrefined tree sap and seemed to be emanating volcanic heat. I foresaw jail time and the early onset of male-pattern baldness in his future. The freak that cup 1266 belonged to wouldn’t have a much better go of it. Her urine was unnaturally frothy, like a shaken up Mountain Dew. She would forever strive to be a flight attendant but prove to be too much of a disorganized spazz. Instead, she would spend her life chasing her children around a cluttered home, spanking them.
Sesame Street lady took me to my examination room and asked me to step on the scale for my height and weight. When I was twelve and fat, I hated this part most, even more so than shots or finger-pricks. My brother would make a point of staying in the room long enough to snicker at the fact that I was in the 99th percentile for weight and 20th percentile for height.
Without prompting, I stripped down to my knickers and took off my glasses before stepping onto the scale. I was proud to hear that I was of below average weight compared to the typical American 16-year-old but far above average height. Kids, you really can become who you’ve always wanted to be.
Before leaving, Friend of Snuffalufagus tossed me a smock. “We ask boys your age to put these on,” she said. “And please have your undies off before Dr. Appelbaum comes in.”
I strapped on my apron-smock and looked around the room, which must have been decorated by a cyborg who consulted a 1960’s Sears Roebuck catalog microfiche found in the Lynchburg, West Virginia Public Library to find out what earth-children of today enjoy. I spotted a Raggedy Andy doll thumb-tacked to the wall by his wrists, not unlike Jesus of Nazareth on his last but finest day.
Doctor Appelbaum entered. I was pleased to discover that he had the squat physique of Toad but the sunny disposition of Frog. He informed me that my apron-smock was on backwards, as my backside was currently naked. “My apologies!” I exclaimed as I reversed it to expose what would have been my ventral side had I been born a dolphin or tapeworm. “Although now I fear that I don’t see the point in wearing it at all!” We had a good-natured laugh as we both dabbed the corners of our eyes.
As I readied to leave, Big Bird’s Fag Hag returned with a disappointment mug—clearly, she had seen the paltry sample I had left earlier—and announced with flagging enthusiasm that my hemoglobin counts were through the roof. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s good news!” I thrilled. She left without a word.
On the subway ride back to the office, I had a moment of panic. I reached into my messenger bag and grasped a handful of yarn. Thank Peanuts, Raggedy Andy was safe.
