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Authors: Elizabeth Mckenzie
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corporate but we’ve been very happy with them in clinic.”
He worried briefly about the hollow and ominous description of this corporate entity, and wanted to sputter Seropurulent! , which had been an ironic superlative they used in med school for terrible things that had to be overlooked. (By definition: a mixture of blood and pus.)
“Right. Okay. Have the cadavers arrived?”
“Yes, we have sixty-seven in the locker, and thirty-three arrive later this week. Would you like to see them?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve seen plenty of cadavers.”
“Then let me show you our new MRI room.”
They went out through the ward on the other side, to a corridor, where Hinks took him into another room to see the sleek and massive multislice Somatom Definition Flash scanner .
“Excellent.” He reached out to pat it.
“Oh, Dr. Vreeland? Is this okay, we only have one technician authorized to operate this machine. So we’ll schedule together on that, okay?”
“Fine. Can we take a look at my office?” he asked.
“Of course, come this way.”
ARMORY SQUARE, 1865.
As they removed their gowns he peered back through the small window into the ward. The wounded forms in the cots looked no different from those he’d seen in photos of Civil War hospitals; he might as well have been peering through the window at Armory Square or Satterlee. The flag jutted from the wall. History repeats, repeats, repeats. By no means a rabid nationalist, as a schoolkid he’d nevertheless revered the custom of setting his hand on his heart and repeating the Pledge every morning, the ritualized blur of sounds. Antootherepublicforwitchitstands . . . These guys who really did stand for the country would never again stand for themselves.
Indivisible . As a kid he thought it was a stuttered invisible . And that it referred to the flag itself. Kids making pledges on misunderstandings. He’d thought it meant the flag flew invisibly over all.
• • •
T HAT AFTERNOON Paul sat in his new office, fighting an unwelcome chill. The room was sensibly furnished with a teak desk and credenza, glass-fronted bookshelves that were empty except for the manuals for the computer and printer still packed in boxes on the floor, and a comfortable black leather chair that swiveled and reclined. Well, he’d reached a new high. He had brought his model schooner that he carried with him from desk to desk, and a picture of Veblen taken in San Francisco, which he removed from his briefcase and set on his bare desk. Her face was so trusting. He hoped he hadn’t upset some invisible balance by getting the squirrel trap, for he feared invisible balances lay like booby traps all around him. He loved to fall back into a warm evening in October when they’d pulled off Page Mill Road after a concert at the Almaden Winery and made love in the weeds, and her hair was full of burrs and she didn’t care. He thought at one point he’d been bitten by a snake, and he’d jumped up and she’d laughed. She was braver than he was!
All the more this past weekend, when he’d taken her up to the ski lodge at Tahoe to join Hans and the gang he used to hang with in the city—doctors, architects, financiers. He’d introduced her with satisfaction, and there were toasts to the engagement and plenty of lip service to what a hottie she was, but when they found out shewasn’t on a notable career path, they seemed unable to synthesize her into their social tableau, as if Paul had chosen a mail-order bride. Having Veblen along changed how he saw them; through the loud meals at a big table in which the conversation seemed all status and swag, Paul found himself hyperconscious of their crass concerns. There was Hans bragging about noteworthy CEOs he’d tweaked houses for, Tim the stockbroker gossiping about his favorite start-ups and upcoming IPOs, Daniel the city planner waxing about a welcome wave of demolition and gentrification south of Market, Lola and Jesse droning
He worried briefly about the hollow and ominous description of this corporate entity, and wanted to sputter Seropurulent! , which had been an ironic superlative they used in med school for terrible things that had to be overlooked. (By definition: a mixture of blood and pus.)
“Right. Okay. Have the cadavers arrived?”
“Yes, we have sixty-seven in the locker, and thirty-three arrive later this week. Would you like to see them?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve seen plenty of cadavers.”
“Then let me show you our new MRI room.”
They went out through the ward on the other side, to a corridor, where Hinks took him into another room to see the sleek and massive multislice Somatom Definition Flash scanner .
“Excellent.” He reached out to pat it.
“Oh, Dr. Vreeland? Is this okay, we only have one technician authorized to operate this machine. So we’ll schedule together on that, okay?”
“Fine. Can we take a look at my office?” he asked.
“Of course, come this way.”
ARMORY SQUARE, 1865.
As they removed their gowns he peered back through the small window into the ward. The wounded forms in the cots looked no different from those he’d seen in photos of Civil War hospitals; he might as well have been peering through the window at Armory Square or Satterlee. The flag jutted from the wall. History repeats, repeats, repeats. By no means a rabid nationalist, as a schoolkid he’d nevertheless revered the custom of setting his hand on his heart and repeating the Pledge every morning, the ritualized blur of sounds. Antootherepublicforwitchitstands . . . These guys who really did stand for the country would never again stand for themselves.
Indivisible . As a kid he thought it was a stuttered invisible . And that it referred to the flag itself. Kids making pledges on misunderstandings. He’d thought it meant the flag flew invisibly over all.
• • •
T HAT AFTERNOON Paul sat in his new office, fighting an unwelcome chill. The room was sensibly furnished with a teak desk and credenza, glass-fronted bookshelves that were empty except for the manuals for the computer and printer still packed in boxes on the floor, and a comfortable black leather chair that swiveled and reclined. Well, he’d reached a new high. He had brought his model schooner that he carried with him from desk to desk, and a picture of Veblen taken in San Francisco, which he removed from his briefcase and set on his bare desk. Her face was so trusting. He hoped he hadn’t upset some invisible balance by getting the squirrel trap, for he feared invisible balances lay like booby traps all around him. He loved to fall back into a warm evening in October when they’d pulled off Page Mill Road after a concert at the Almaden Winery and made love in the weeds, and her hair was full of burrs and she didn’t care. He thought at one point he’d been bitten by a snake, and he’d jumped up and she’d laughed. She was braver than he was!
All the more this past weekend, when he’d taken her up to the ski lodge at Tahoe to join Hans and the gang he used to hang with in the city—doctors, architects, financiers. He’d introduced her with satisfaction, and there were toasts to the engagement and plenty of lip service to what a hottie she was, but when they found out shewasn’t on a notable career path, they seemed unable to synthesize her into their social tableau, as if Paul had chosen a mail-order bride. Having Veblen along changed how he saw them; through the loud meals at a big table in which the conversation seemed all status and swag, Paul found himself hyperconscious of their crass concerns. There was Hans bragging about noteworthy CEOs he’d tweaked houses for, Tim the stockbroker gossiping about his favorite start-ups and upcoming IPOs, Daniel the city planner waxing about a welcome wave of demolition and gentrification south of Market, Lola and Jesse droning
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