I’d just slam-dunked the fuck out of a basketball onto the heads of a bunch of pimply-faced teenagers when I noticed something was wrong with my ankle. “Damn it,” I said, hopping on one foot.
“What’s wrong, old man?” one of the stupid little shits asked me. “You too OLD or something?”
“None of your business, punk,” I said. And I threw the ball at his bullshit baby face. It probably broke his nose and I limped off the court I’d just dominated. I mean I really left it all out there. Left it all out on the floor.
“Hey, that’s child abuse!” one of his friends yelled. “I’m telling my dad!”
“I just dunked the shit out of you,” I said, leaning down to pick up a rock. I spun around and chucked it in the general direction of the kids. Then I went to the doctor.
MY FUCKIN’ LEG
“It’s my ligamentation, doc. Lately, I’m having trouble with my ligamenting.”
Doctor Chandra squinted. “Your ligaments?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Which ligaments?”
“There’s more than one? You learn something new every day. The leg ones, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Look, my ankle hurts. Every time I chase someone into an alley I feel this screaming pain in my ankle.”
“Why are you chasing people into alleys?”
“What are you, a cop? Are you my dad?”
“Is your dad a cop?”
“No, those were separate questions.”
“Well, the answer to both is no.”
“Am I gonna need surgery, doc?”
“For what?”
“Nothing is ligamenting properly.” Somehow I just wasn’t getting through to the guy.
Dr. Chandra shrugged. “I mean I suppose I could take a look at your leg.”
Finally, I thought. Some fuckin’ reason.
FUCK SCIENCE
First the man told me to stand on it. “Where is the pain?”
“I already fucking told you. It’s in my ankle.”
“When did you first notice this pain?”
“About a month ago. I was chasing a woman into an alley.”
“Right.”
“Say doc, do we still have doctor/patient confidentiality here?”
“Sure.”
“You mean it?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay, here it is… I’m a lousy pickpocket. Like real lousy. It’s like every time I try to pick a pocket the person catches on immediately and I end up having to chase them into an alley.”
“Ah. And are you also murdering these people?”
“No, but I feel like they think I will. And then they give me money.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Because I’m profiting off of some very questionable behavior here. I don’t want people to think that I’m automatically going to murder them every time I chase them into an alley. That’s not me. That’s not the kind of guy I am.”
“People react badly when cornered.”
“I don’t tell them to run into corners, doc.”
“When you corner them are you generally holding a weapon of some kind?”
“Well, yeah. A knife.”
“What kind of knife?”
“I gotta be honest with you, doc: it’s a big fucking knife. But I’m not like… gonna use it. You know?”
“Yeah.”
“Say doc, I got another confession to make: those kids I was telling you about earlier? I didn’t dunk on them.”
“Oh?”
“They were layups at best.”
“Oh.”
“But I really did layup the shit out of them.”
“You should probably stay away from kids altogether.”
“It was hoops, doc. Cold hard hoops. When you have the heart of a champion you don’t back down from any hoops challenge, even from a bunch of hoop minors. You know, I’m starting to think you’re not a real doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor. You just keep walking into my kitchen.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “If this is a kitchen, where are the spatulas?”
“Oh, I don’t believe in spatulas.”
“What do you mean you don’t believe in spatulas?”
“I do not support them.”
“Oh, you’re one of those people…”
“Also, just because I’m from India doesn’t automatically mean I’m a doctor. That’s pretty racist of you.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” I said. “First I thought you were a computer programmer.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Well, so what are you?”
“I’m a fireman.”
“No, that’s bullshit.”
“Fuck you.”
“Look, are you going to check my prostate or what?”
“Of course I’m going to check your prostate,” Mr. Chandra said. “That’s the only reason I let you walk in here.” Then he put on a rubber dishwashing glove and bent me over the breakfast table.
Everything checked out.
“Fantastic, doc. What do I owe you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask for money,” he said, peeling off the glove. “But on your way out, if you could take my garbage cans to the end of the driveway…”
“Sure thing,” I said. “And thanks again.” Then we shook hands and parted each other’s company as old friends, although I forgot the thing about his garbage cans.