Flash Fiction by Scott Macleod
“62-year-old presenting with severe angina.”
The nurse introduced Merle not by name but by barking his age and symptoms.
“What’s your pain level Mr. Mattis?” Addressing him now, reading his name off a chart, was a tall, handsome doctor about Merle’s age but significantly better preserved. Name tag read Dr. Stokes. Head of Emergency Cardiology.
“About a four,” lied Merle. Then he continued with a smirk. “Like the girl at the admissions desk.” He couldn’t resist.
The doctor ignored the politically incorrect response.
“Do you get regular exercise?”
Merle assumed ripping up losing betting tickets didn’t count.
“No.”
“Well, that needs to change. Your enzyme test shows no heart attack. But that’s where you are headed. We just ran a couple scans. Let’s find you a bed and keep an eye on you for a bit while we wait for your results. Deal?”
“You’re the boss. That’s how you heart surgeons get to drive a Jaguar am I right?”
“You just take it slow Mr Mattis. You’re in good hands here with the whole team. And I’m not a surgeon. That’s Dr Vitti. But you will be seeing him someday soon if you don’t clean up your act.”
The doctor headed for the hallway but before he left turned back to his patient with a sly smile. “And by the way, it’s a Ferrari.”
In reality Merle never felt better in his life. The person who might have palpitations was the real Mr. Mattis when he got the bill for the ER co-pay based on Merle’s commandeering his ID and insurance info.
Once off the exam table and into what they had the nerve to call a private room, Merle unhooked himself the minute the buzzing bees gave him a moment of peace. Strode past the linen cart in the hallway, into the physician’s dressing room around the corner. Looked good in a lab coat, he thought, as he passed the floor to ceiling mirror. Spotted and addressed a young intern fumbling with his scrubs. “Excuse me doctor. I’m Dr. Teplitz visiting for the day from Southside. Can you point me to Stokes’s cubbyhole. I’m bunking in with him for the day. Haven’t seen him since med school.”
Merle ogled Stokes’s goodies. Neatly hung-up designer slacks. Magli loafers. Tyrwhitt custom dress shirt. And hanging on a small hook behind the shirt a key fob with the distinctive prancing Italian horsey.
Stokes ended his shift bone weary. On his way to his locker, he scanned Mr. Mattis’s test results. 90 percent blockage in the LAD artery. The widowmaker. He’d call from the car to line up Dr. Vitti for a bypass tomorrow. He had no idea Mattis, or what passed for Mattis, had flown. Stokes dressed back into his street clothes. Patted down his pockets. Empty. Hmmh. Was this the first stage? His dad saw the beginning symptoms earlier than this. Maybe he left them in the car?
Merle started the 488 in the employee lot, preparing to put the hospital in the rearview. Not his bucket list choice if he was being honest. Preferred British engineering. But it would do. Before he could get the thoroughbred to a gallop however, he was felled by a sharp stab dead center of the rib cage. Sweats. Nausea. Shooting arm pain. Well, he thought, at least he saved the cost of an ambulance ride. He killed the V-8 and staggered back to the ER. He tried to look on the bright side.
Maybe Dr Vitti’s got a Jag
Bio: Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared in Punk Noir, Every Day Fiction, Bristol Noir, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, Short-story.me and Gumshoe Review. His stories “Upstaged” and “Father’s Day” can be found on The Yard. He can be found at his Facebook Page
Photo by Pexels/Pixabay
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Great piece. Irony is a difficult thing to create…well done.