FNA [FICTOID]

On the side of his clinic with no doors, no windows, Dr. Peter Cheung stood on the ladder to paint the letter “A”.  The clinic stood two stories tall, twice as wide, and sat on the outskirts of Reno so he had plenty of space. 

“He chose a very stylized 19th century font and used three different colors:  White for the background (he painted that last week), black for the letter’s outline and filigrees, red for the fill. Brunhilda, his head nurse, came out to call up to him.  “Are you going to be much longer?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Cheung.  “No.  Maybe.”

“A definite answer would be helpful, doctor.”

“Art has no definite answers,” said Dr. Cheung.

“Is that what it stands for?”

 “What does what stand for?”

Nurse Brunhilda gestured expansively.  “That.  The letter ‘A’.  Does it stand for answers?”

“What?  Don't be silly!  Of course not!”

“Then what does it stand for?  The Oakland Athletics?”  

“Not for much longer,” said Dr. Cheung.  “They're moving to Las Vegas, don't you know.” 

“No, I don't know.  I don't keep up with sports.”

Dr. Cheung said nothing, just kept applying paint with the same precise skill as if lancing a pilonidal cyst on a patient suffering from Parkinson's.  Nurse Brunhilda waited patiently (or to be more precise, patientless) before saying, “Well?”  

“’Well’ what?”

Nurse Brunhilda rolled her eyes.  “Must you answer every question with a question?”

“Do I?”

“Now stop that!” she said, stamping her foot.  “Does the letter ‘A’ you’re painting stand for the Athletics?”

“No.”

Nurse Brunhilda sighed.  “Wel, that's a relief, I suppose.  I hate the Oakland A's.”

“I thought you said you didn't follow sports.”

“I don't but that doesn't mean I can't hate the A's.”

Dr. Cheung kept painting silently.  “Well, aren't you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” 

“What the letter ‘A’ you’re painting stands for!”

“It doesn't stand for much.”

“Doctor, I am losing my patience -- and so are you the longer you stay out here.”

“That's a risk I'm willing to take,” said Dr. Cheung, “but in answer to your earlier question, my’ A’ stands for the letter ‘A’.”

“I swear, doc, if you keep shining me on I'm going to kick that ladder right out from under you!”

“Don't get testy,” said Dr. Cheung.  “I chose the letter A because it can mean so many things.  It can mean…anything…or aluminum or alabaster or anxiety or ancestry, anything at all.” 

“Ambiguity?”

“Yes, there you go, now you're getting in the spirit of things.”

“All well and good,” said Nurse Brunhilda.

(“There are two ‘A’ words,” Dr. Cheung said but she ignored him.) 

“But you've got got patients backing up in the waiting room and a procedure at 3:00.”

“What kind of procedure?”

“An anoscopy.”

“Another ‘A’ word.”

“Yes, but one you scheduled for today.  The patient is here, they took the prescribed laxatives and are ready to go.”

“Allright, give her the tube, attach the camera to the other end, and tell her to relax, think of Jesus, and use plenty of lube.”

“She's Jewish.”

“Elijah, then,” said Dr. Cheung, “or one of the other prophets.  I don't care.”

Nurse Brunhilda watched him paint.  “So you're not coming in?”

“Not until I finish.”

“And your patients?”

“Tell everyone except the endoscopy they can come out here and I'll examine them.”

Nurse Brunhilda rolled her eyes again but trooped back to summon all the patients except for the anoscopy.  They clustered at the base of Dr. Cheung's ladder. 

He looked down at them from on high.  “Bend over and cough,” he said.

The patients looked perplexed but all bent over and coughed.

“Sounds fine to me,” said Dr. Cheung.  “Go home and rest, we'll build your insurance companies.”

For the third time Nurse Brunhilda rolled her eyes but marched them all inside. 

Finally, I can complete my masterpiece, Dr. Cheung thought.

© Buzz Dixon