My Exclusive Interview with BP's Tony Hayward

 

Last month, I sent an email to Tony Hayward, CEO of BP:

Dear Mr. Hayward,

I will be brief. My name is Steve Blevins and I write for Open Salon. Next week, I will be publishing a post about your role in the BP oil spill. I don’t want to blindside you, so I am letting you know in advance.

Cordially,

Steve Blevins

---

To my surprise, I received a response from Mr. Hayward the following day:

Dear Mr. Blevins,

Thank you for your thoughtful letter. I wish I could express the magnitude of my sorrow over the oil spill. So much harm has been done to so many. I assure you that BP will spare no expense, no technology, no ingenuity to undo the damage. You are very kind to apprise me of your upcoming review. Few journalists would show such integrity. May I ask a small favor? Would you grant me a brief interview? I would welcome the opportunity to tell my side of the story. If my request greets you favorably, please call me at 011-44-20-xxxxxxx.

Sincerely,

Tony Hayward

---

As soon as I received the email, I called Mr. Hayward. His secretary, Patricia, answered. She said that Mr. Hayward was in a meeting and that she was authorized to schedule the interview and to arrange for my weekend in London. When I explained that the interview could be conducted by phone, she said Mr. Hayward usually conducts interviews in person and had arranged for my all-expenses-paid weekend in London. I told her that was unnecessary, but she insisted, and, ultimately, I acquiesced.

My roundtrip ticket to Gatwick arrived the next day and I was on my way to London that evening.
Having never flown first-class on British Airways, I was surprised to discover the ease with which one sleeps on the long and fully recumbent chairs in first class.

I was refreshed when I arrived in London. Mr. Hayward’s assistant, Elaine, met me at the airport. She was lovely. She asked about my flight. When I told her it was comfortable, she said Mr. Hayward would be delighted to hear it. She then asked if I had any interest in yachting. When I explained that yachting is not overly popular in Oklahoma, she insisted that I attend the Hampshire race on Saturday “to get my feet wet.” I accepted.

We retrieved my luggage and proceeded to the limousine. Elaine instructed the driver to take us to the Ritz at Piccadilly.

  

We arrived thirty minutes later. As we approached the front desk, the hotel manager greeted us warmly. He then gave me the keys to my suite. Before leaving, Elaine asked if I had plans for breakfast. When I said I did not, she offered to meet me for breakfast in an hour. (Due to the time change, it was already morning.)

I entered my suite and began unpacking.

   

An hour later, Elaine knocked on the door. She asked if my accommodations were satisfactory; I told her they were. We then proceeded downstairs to the Palm Court for breakfast.

 

The breakfast was wonderful. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed poached haddock with diced tomatoes in champagne sauce.

After breakfast, we went to Hampshire to watch the yachts.

 

The weather was lovely. The breeze was cool and the water sparkled in the sunlight. The boats looked gallant with the wind in their sails. We cheered as each boat left the marina.

Once the final boat had vanished, Elaine and I returned to the Ritz. She encouraged me to spend the afternoon resting because she had tickets for the evening’s performance of Ariadne auf Naxos at the Royal Opera House. I thanked Elaine for a lovely day, bade her farewell, and tucked myself into bed.

Four hours later, I awoke, showered, and put on my suit. Elaine arrived and we went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden.

 

The performance was superb. The principals were flawless, the orchestra was inerrant, and the staging was dazzling. During the intermission, Elaine and I shared an impeccable Veuve Clicquot. Our cheeks were rosy from the morning sun; our conversation sparkled with the champagne.

After the concert, she accompanied me to the Ritz, and before bidding me goodnight, told me that the limousine would pick me up at two o’clock the next day for my interview with Mr. Hayward. I thanked her, bade her goodnight, and turned in for the evening.

At two o’clock the next day, I was ready for the interview. The limousine took me to Mr. Hayward’s office on the Thames.

 

I entered his office. Within ten minutes, he arrived and we began to converse.

---

Mr. Hayward:   Good afternoon, Mr. Blevins. It is so nice to finally meet you. How is your stay so far?

Me:   Excellent, Mr. Hayward.

Mr. Hayward:   Please, call me Tony.

Me:   Certainly, Tony.

Mr. Hayward:   May I offer you a cognac and some truffles?

Me:   That would be wonderful.

Mr. Hayward:   (Pours cognac and passes truffles) Now, do you have questions for me?

Me:   Yes. How would you describe your role in the Gulf oil spill?

Mr. Hayward:   Well, this may surprise you, Mr. Blevins, but I too am a victim, just like the little
people of the Gulf. Accidents will happen, and I assure you that BP will do everything it can to repair the damage.

Me:   Thank you for being so forthcoming. The American people will be delighted to hear this. And
thank you for the interview.

Mr. Hayward:   My pleasure. Is there anything else?

Me:   No, that’s all.

Mr. Hayward:   Thank you, Mr. Blevins. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Please let me know if I may be of additional assistance.

Me:   I certainly will, Tony.

---

I returned to the Ritz, picked up my luggage, and proceeded to Gatwick.

On the return flight, I thought about my weekend in London and about the oil spill. I felt sorry for Mr. Hayward and for the little people of the Gulf. Most of all, I felt sorry for American journalism. Few journalists take time to really know their subjects. They make rash judgments and eviscerate their victims with little understanding.

Perhaps others will learn from my experience. Before meeting Tony, I had assumed he was callous. During my visit, I discovered that he is a gracious man with a big heart. In fact, I learned many things in London: that mega-corporations are warm and caring; that executives are kind and generous; and that everyone is basically good if you look deep down inside.

Oh, and truffles are really, really tasty.

 

Oklahoma Rejects Sharia Law

   

There's no denying it: I love Rachel Maddow. Our affair began a year ago when I first gazed into her gorgeous brown eyes. I was captivated by her smile and smitten by her intelligence, her eloquence, and her wondrously incisive wit. She is a rational voice in a political wilderness. Together, we have laughed and cried to the cadence of pre-election polling.

Our love affair, however, almost ended last week. On three consecutive nights, Ms. Maddow spoke derisively about my home state of Oklahoma. She poked fun at a question on the Oklahoma State ballot -- the question of whether Oklahoma should adopt Sharia Law:

STATE QUESTION NO. 755 

This measure amends the State Constitution...It forbids courts from using Sharia Law... Sharia Law is Islamic law. It is based on two principal sources, the Koran and the teaching of Mohammed.

*** 

I am a model citizen. I always vote. I take state questions seriously. Knowing that I would have to vote for or against Sharia Law, I studied the subject intensively. I didn't want to enter the polling booth uninformed. As you might guess, I was incensed by Ms. Maddow's dismissive attitude toward our state ballot. Her commentary was laced with sarcasm. Sarcasm is fine if Sharia is not on your ballot, but I didn't have that luxury. I had to educate myself to determine if the Law was right for Oklahoma. Here's what I learned:

1. Women are required to wear a burqa in public.

My first impression was that this is sexist and oppressive. Frankly, if I were living in New York or California, I would reject Sharia on this premise alone. But I live in Oklahoma where this is considered feminine attire:

Surely we can agree that the burqa has its proper place.

2. Thieves get their hands cut off.

This is gruesome, but as long as white-collar thieves are included, I'm for it. Who knows, maybe the law could be modified to ensure that the number of organs removed is proportional to the amount of money stolen. Petty thieves would lose a finger; Bernard Madoff would lose four limbs and his testes.

3. Gamblers get whipped.

This would be a problem in Oklahoma, where gambling ranks between football and noodling as a pastime.  Frankly, I'd be happy to see an end to gambling, as this would reduce poverty. (Besides, noodling is infinitely more fun!)

Clearly, Sharia Law has its merits, but is it good for Oklahoma?

To answer that question, I reflected on something I had learned from Sharron Angle (the Republican candidate from Nevada) during her senatorial campaign. In an interview, she explained that Dearborn, Michigan, was already under Sharia Law. Therefore, I needed to know which city was faring better -- Dearborn under Sharia Law or Oklahoma City under American Law.

I went to "Google" and did my research. Here's what I found: Dearborn has a better school system, a stronger economy, and a finer health care system. Obviously, Sharia works. My mind was made up: I was voting for Sharia.

Election day arrived. I went to the polls and stood in line. In front of me was a young man whistling a tune. He seemed cheerful and knowledgeable, and so I struck up a conversation with him.

"Well, looks like we've got a question on Sharia," I began. "I've been reading about it. Seems to have some merits."

The man stopped whistling. At first he looked puzzled, then angry.

"Do you realize that Sharia calls for the execution of gay people?" he inquired.

I was stunned. "What!" I exclaimed. "I had no idea!"

"It's true," he continued. "Sharia would mean the death of thousands, not to mention the end of musical theater."

"Oh my!" 

"Fortunately, Sharia cannot be imposed."

"Why not?"

"Because Oklahoma is part of the United States despite several attempts at secession. We're under the U.S. Consitution, which protects us from Sharia."

"Thank goodness!" I exclaimed. "But if Sharia can't be imposed, why is it on the ballot?"

"It's a cynical attempt to score political points at the expense of Muslims," he replied.

"That's terrible!"

"It certainly is." 

I was impressed by his insight and perspicacity. "You know, you're a very smart young man," I said.

"Thank you," he replied. "I've learned a lot from Rachel Maddow."

***

That evening, I turned on the television. Rachel was discussing the election with extraordinary aplomb. Her smile was incandescent, her wit was sharp, her eyes were large and beautiful. There she was -- festooned with facts, figures, and a dazzling personality -- leading her viewers forthrightly through the dense political thicket.

At that moment, I knew I was still in love with Rachel.

Maybe someday she'll come to Oklahoma. If she does, I'll make every effort to meet her. We'll talk politics. We'll discuss the economy. Maybe even go noodling.

I've Decided to Worship Satan

Last month, after six grueling months of work, I decided to go on vacation. I went to New Haven, Connecticut, for my 25th college reunion, and then to Manhattan for a week of fun. The trip was wonderful! The skies were clear, the air was warm, the trees were full and green. Nature was in full glory.

Then I returned to Oklahoma. 

 

The grass was brown and the air was suffocatingly hot. And this was just the beginning!  Within a week, the tornadoes arrived. Farms were destroyed and houses were demolished. The following week brought hail, which damaged countless cars and homes. Then came torrential rains, which flooded the city, submerging highways and power lines.

 

I began to think about my lovely vacation in the Northeast and my incommodious return to Oklahoma. I wondered why Oklahoma has the worst weather in America. Then I reflected on Hurricane Katrina and the Deepwater Horizon spill.

 

Soon I was contemplating the planet and, ultimately, the universe.

 

Final analysis: I've lived in the South for most of my life. People here are super-nice. They care about each other and live quiet, productive lives. They go to church and pray regularly; yet, they always find themselves at the center of a disaster. In fact, the disaster-per-capita ratio is higher in the South than anywhere else. Sure, New York and California have their problems, but they're not in constant climatic turmoil. Where I live, crisis is the norm, and prayer seems to make things worse. In fact, studies show an inverse correlation between prayer and good weather.

Which leads me to conclude: Satan is in charge of the world. I hate to admit it, but that's what the data show. Now ask yourself: Can we ignore the Evil One?

I think not. So let me cut to the chase: I've decided to worship Satan.

Please understand: I'm not going to worship Satan instead of God. I'm going to worship Satan and God.

You see, I love God. I've been worshipping God since childhood. He is the Author of goodness, love, and compassion  -- and nothing is more important than goodness, love, and compassion. So please don't think I'm being churlish when I say that I wish God were just a teensy bit more results-oriented. I know His Heart is in the right place -- and that's great. But I think we could all benefit from an action plan from time to time.  

Satan, of course, is Pure Evil. I despise His whole agenda. But let's face it: He gets the job done. In fact, he's an over-achiever. Consider the weather in Oklahoma. Just a few inches of rain would have flooded the city. Satan gave us eleven inches. Golf ball-size hail would have damaged the roof. He gave us baseball-size hail. A single tornado would have frightened us. He gave us fourteen in a single day! Frankly, if I had half of Satan's "can do" attitude, I could retire tomorrow.

Next question: Do we really have to choose between God and Satan?

Short answer: No.

Americans feel compelled to take sides in every argument. In baseball, we root for one team or the other, never both. It's the same with the deities. We think we have to choose God or Satan when, in fact, both have something to offer.

I know what you're going to say: "Steve, deities tend to be jealous of each other, so what if Satan asks you to renounce God, or vice versa?"

Well, okay, you've got me. No doubt, if that happens, I'll be in a pickle. But here's what I suspect: If push comes to shove, I'll probably stay with God. You see, goodness, love, and compassion are very important, especially in bad weather.

But remember, I said probably. If I have to replace one more damaged shingle or broken window, I'm tearing up the Celestial Contract. Sure, I believe in love and compassion, but just once I'd like to be on the winning side.

The Eerie Allure of Anderson Cooper

 

My wife and I had an argument last week. It went something like this:

---

Me:   Hi, sweetie. I’m home. Happy birthday!

Susan:   (Watching television) Hi, honey. How was your day?

Me:   Fine. How was yours?

Susan:   Fine.

Me:   Are you ready to go out to dinner?

Susan:   Well, sweetheart, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather stay in. I made your favorite dinner: catfish and hush puppies.

Me:   Yum yum. That’s so sweet. But wouldn’t you rather go out since it’s your birthday?

Susan:   Actually, I’m deep into this TV show. Anderson Cooper is reporting live from the Gulf.

Me:   Any new developments?

Susan:   Yes, they’ve capped the well, but no one knows if it’s going to work. Everyone’s on pins and needles.

Me:   Gee, I hope everything goes okay.

Susan:   Me too. Anderson’s report is excellent. He’s very informative, and he seems to care about the people and the marine life.

Me:   Great. Well, I’m in no hurry to eat. I’ll wait for you.

Susan:   No, go ahead and eat. You’ve had a long day and the show’s pretty long. It’s a special.

Me:   Okay. Well, why don’t we eat out tomorrow?

Susan:   I’m pretty sure part two of the special is tomorrow. Let’s aim for the weekend, okay?

Me:   Okay. (Long pause). Gee, I’ve never seen you so immersed in a TV show. I don’t think we’ve ever organized our plans around TV. Certainly not on a birthday.

Susan:   Honey, we’re in our forties. Birthdays aren’t important anymore. At our age, we should be more concerned about the community and the world.

Me:   I guess you’re right. Still, eating dinner with your wife is a lot better than eating alone.

Susan:   Oh, we eat together all the time. We can always … hold on, sweetie... the commercial’s over... gotta go … there’s plenty of juice in the fridge.

Me:   Okay. Thanks. (Goes to kitchen. Eats dinner alone. Returns twenty minutes later.)

Me:   Honey, do you have a second?

Susan:   Sure, honey. This show has more commercials than show.

Me:   So tell me, what makes this show so much better than the others? 

Susan:   I don’t know. I guess it’s that Anderson is so concerned about what’s happening. It’s not just another news story for him. He feels the tragedy. He’s not overwrought by it, but he’s involved. He’s got a heart, and he cares about what’s going on. He’s a compassionate journalist, not just another suit. He's quite impressive -- and very good at what he does.

Me:   Oh my. Well, that’s quite an endorsement. Sounds like Anderson is almost too qualified to do the news.

Susan:   And what’s that supposed to mean? You know I don’t like it when you’re sarcastic.

Me:   Well, I bet you'd like it if Anderson were sarcastic!

Susan:   (Angry) Well, maybe Anderson is too well-adjusted to be sarcastic. Maybe sarcasm is for petty, jealous people!

Me:   Oh! So I’m petty and jealous, just because I want to take my wife out to dinner on her birthday?

Susan:   No, you’re petty because you’re worried about a TV show instead of appreciating the dinner I made for you!

Me:   I’m worried about a TV show? Me? As you may recall, I was the one eating alone; you were the one lusting after Anderson Cooper!

Susan:   (Gasps). Are you crazy? Are you totally out of your mind?

Me:   No, actually I’m not. And frankly, I don’t mind playing second fiddle to Anderson Cooper as long as I know exactly where I stand.

Susan:   Oh really? Okay, I’ll tell you exactly where you stand: You’re a kind and caring man with a loving wife, and if you don’t realize that, then … wait, the commercial’s over … oops, sorry, another commercial … if you don’t realize that, then you need a new pair of glasses.

Me:   Oh really? Okay, I’ll call your bluff and raise you: Name one quality I have that Anderson doesn’t.

Susan:   This is soooo stupid.

Me:   It’s only stupid because you don’t want to answer.

Susan:   Okay, okay. I’ll play this stupid, adolescent game if it means that much to you. You have… um…a…

Me:   That’s what I thought! I have nothing!

Susan:   You’ve got…a… a…wonderful enduring marriage to a woman who loves you.

Me:   Oh great. Super. I’ve got “marital endurance.” Well, somebody give me a blue ribbon!

Susan:   Did it ever occur to you that some women find “marital endurance” sexy?

Me:   Like who?

Susan:   Like me.

Me:   (Long pause) Really?

Susan:   Yes, really.

Me:   (Long pause). So… you think I’m sexy?

Susan:   I think marital endurance is sexy.

Me:   (Softens) Really?

Susan:   Yes, really.

Me:   (Meekly) Oh… well, okay… all right… well, now I’m feeling kinda silly.

Susan:   You should.

Me:   And embarrassed.

Susan:   You should.

Me:   And petty.

Susan:   You should.

Me:   And… well…(mutters sheepishly) kinda sexy, too.

Susan:   (Kisses me on the cheek) You should! Definitely!

Me:   Honey, I love you -- and I’m sorry for being such a jerk. I don’t know what came over me. Now I’ve
ruined your birthday -- and I feel awful.

Susan:   You haven’t ruined my birthday, sweetheart. Besides, my birthday isn’t over yet.

Me:   You’re right. It’s not over. Well, I have an idea. Why don’t we watch Anderson Cooper together.
Then, when the show’s over, we’ll go to the bedroom and watch Casablanca. What do you say to that?

Susan:   That’s a wonderful idea! Your ideas are always wonderful. Now, why don’t you sit down right here beside me so we can watch TV together.

Me:   Excellent!   (Sits down and puts arm around Susan. Watches TV. Anderson appears. He is broadcasting from the Gulf in a tightly fitted shirt that accentuates his physique. He is well built, but not ostentatiously muscular. His voice has a boyish charm, but his premature gray confers maturity. He is empathetic, but not effete; informative, but not pedantic; firm, but not overbearing. He is “easy on the eyes” and has an androgynous appeal. His baby blue eyes are ignited by the evening light reflected off the Gulf. He is disarming -- 360, and then some.)

Susan:   (Kisses me on the cheek) I love you, honey. Thank you for being so understanding.

Me:   I love you too, sweetheart. Happy birthday. By the way, have we ever considered going high def? 

A Beautiful Heart

  

Each weekday morning, I review my clinic schedule to see who will be visiting. With just a glance, I can predict the tenor of the day. Certain names evoke joy, others indifference, some dread. 

I still remember the first day of spring, some years ago, when my schedule augured a banner day:  Opal Hendricks was on the list. I had met Mrs. Hendricks seven years prior to that visit. Her previous doctor had retired and I had assumed her care. She was eighty-one then and not a day younger. Her wizened face was framed by long sheaves of metallic grey hair. Her hazel eyes were large and round like saucers.  She had thin lips and crooked teeth, and wore a faded brown dress, which was immaculate. She sat upright with her arms neatly folded. Her hands were arthritic, her legs were like twigs, but when she smiled, she was Helen of Troy.

During that visit, I asked about her health, which caused her to giggle. "I'm fine," she replied.  She had the voice and manner of a child. Her eyes were curious like a toddler in the attic. She looked at me as though I had given her a box of candy.

She was not concerned about her blood pressure, which was high. I asked if she had taken her medicine. She replied that she had been without medicine for several months. Her previous doctor had not given her a prescription because she had missed several appointments.

Why had she missed them?

"Because Willy needs me."

"Willy?" I inquired.

With that, she effervesced. Her smile grew large like the sun. Her eyes radiated joy. She lifted her hands like a girl impatient to tell a story.

Over the next hour, I learned about Willy. He was "slow." When he was born, the doctors predicted a short life. That was sixty-two years ago. Now he was well — and happy. He loved to sit by his mother on the porch and watch the cars go by. And he could sit all day long, unassisted.

As I listened, I could tell that his mother assisted him with everything: walking, bathing, clothing, eating. But this had to be inferred, for she spoke only of what he could do. She savored his every achievement and marveled at his independence. Once, he had almost buttoned his pants. On several occasions, he had correctly used a spoon. And he always recognized his aunt Myrna.

As Mrs. Hendricks spoke, I was drawn into her ethereal world. She was bewitching. With her soft, feathery voice, she pranced from word to word like a fairy. Her bubbly manner and impish tone had an anachronistic charm. She had aged; yet, with her son, she occupied an evergreen world where innocence prevailed. If sadness ever visited, it left no footprint.

To hear her was to enter a realm of verdant pastures and placid lakes. Perhaps her elfish tone was an accommodation to her son's simplicity; or perhaps, by some miracle, her heart was impervious to erosion. I luxuriated in the cadence of her voice and was sad when her story finally ended. Before she left, I gave her a prescription and asked her to return in two weeks.

And return she did -- repeatedly for seven years. At each visit, we reveled in Willy's exploits. He was Achilles in an ongoing epic, the provenance of a legend. Her tale was lush and limitless; her enthusiasm, incandescent. She had the world's greatest job — Willy's mother, exalted and triumphant.

Over the years, Mrs. Hendricks missed only two appointments, both because she could not find a sitter for Willy. But that did not matter. To fault this paragon of motherhood her truancy was unfathomable.

And so on that lovely spring morning three years ago, I was delighted to see her name on the list. As always, she arrived punctually.

I entered the room and turned to greet her -- and upon seeing her, was stunned. She was gazing forward, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her tortured face made me recoil.

"What happened?" I asked.

She responded with the plangent cry of a lamb being devoured. Her eyes protruded as if a ghost had appeared. Her lips quivered; her hands shook. Through sobs and snorts, she muttered a few broken words. Then, slowly, as her voice cleared, she began her lachrymose tale.

Willy had caught a cold. After a few days, he had started to feel better, but then developed a fever. Soon he was coughing and congested. The next morning, he was confused. The ambulance was called, but he fell asleep before it arrived and never awoke.

Her story complete, Mrs. Hendricks fell silent. Her head was bowed, her eyes were closed, her arms outstretched. She was the pieta incarnate. I gazed at her as I would gaze upon the Pyramids of Giza -- with awe befitting a work of ineffable grandeur. That she had been devoted to her son was unremarkable, but that she had subsumed every thought, word, and action for more that sixty years to the care of a disabled child, boy, and man — indeed, to her very soul — was breathtaking.

I tried to comfort her. I told her we would discuss her health another time, but I knew there would be no other time. She would never return.

Three years passed without a word. Then one day, her nephew called to say she had died.

I forwent dinner that evening and went to my bedroom. There I listened to a recording of Beethoven's final sonata -- and journeyed into sublimity. As the piano evanesced, I was transported to the very altar of music.

Mrs. Hendricks's influence had been similarly transcendent. She had been my bard for seven years. My fascination with her, born of amusement, had evolved into a reflection on archetypal virtue. Indeed, to gaze at her divine countenance was to rise above her broken heart, bask in her goodness, and witness the face of Love itself.

*The patient's name was changed to maintain confidentiality.

Gazing at the Future

Nothing brings me more joy than seeing Jerry Bryant in the clinic. Jerry has advanced Parkinson’s disease, but he never complains. He is fifty-eight years old and inseparable from his wife, Betty. They are irrepressibly cheerful; when one laughs, the other cheers. As teenagers, they fell in love, and in love they remain. They are masters of resilience – emotionally, that is. Physically, Jerry has struggled, but he is better now, thanks to Betty, and ready for their 40th "honeymoon." Soon they will be sunbathing in the Caribbean.

I am delighted to see Jerry and Betty at the end of a long day. Jerry is sitting on the exam table, quiet and motionless. He has lost a few pounds, but he is still plump. His thin, straw hair is neatly cut. His brown eyes are magnified by thick lenses. He looks awkward in an undersized gown. Staring ahead, he seems transfixed by the empty wall in front of him. Betty stands by him, her arm draped casually around his shoulder.

"Good afternoon," I say.

"Hi, Dr. Blevins," they reply.

I smile at Betty and turn to Jerry.

"So, Jerry, where are you taking your lovely bride?"

He grins and glances at his wife. "Anguilla," he mumbles.

"Really?" I ask. "Why Anguilla?"

His face brightens; his eyes sparkle. He begins to rhapsodize on the charms of Anguilla, or so I suppose, for I cannot understand a word he is saying. Still, his enthusiasm is unmistakable.
Betty understands every word. She translates: "Anguilla has sun-drenched beaches, pristine waters, and midnight barbecue." Then realizing that she sounds like a brochure, she laughs and adds, "Jerry’s dreaming of the barbecue. I’m dreaming of the beach."

Jerry is amused, which brings joy to his wife.

"Are you healthy enough to go, Jerry?" I ask teasingly.

"You bet!" he mumbles.

I look at Betty, as if needing confirmation: "Is he telling the truth?"

"He certainly is," she replies. "He’s having some trouble with balance, but he walks every day."

Jerry’s tremors began when he was thirty years old. Two years later, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. His condition has slowly progressed. Last year, he received a brain stimulator, which has helped. His tremors are gone now, but his voice remains muffled and his limbs are stiff. He cannot write, but he can walk alone, although he prefers to hold Betty’s hand.

Removing my stethoscope, I check his blood pressure and examine him. As always, I regale him with stories of my weekend adventures. He enjoys my stories, even the silly ones.

"Well, everything checks out," I conclude. "You’re perfectly fine to travel. Have a great trip – and don’t eat too much."

I leave the room smiling. Jerry and Betty have a magical effect on me. Their joy is contagious.
Returning to my office, I sit at my desk and dictate a few notes. After completing my work, I reach into a drawer, pull out a bottle, and remove an orange pill. With a swig of water, I swallow the day’s last dose of levodopa.

Leaning back in my chair, I reflect on the events of two years ago: the evening my hand fumbled as I was combing my hair, the morning I used two hands to brush my teeth, the afternoon I struggled to write. I was forty-five years old then. When my doctor told me I had Parkinson's disease, I journeyed into the surreal: I heard children giggling in a distant exam room and smelled alcohol in a nearby sink. I noticed crickets in the overhead light and saw patches of light and dark on the wall.

For several days I was too distracted to work. I barely listened to my patients. I wrote incorrect dates on prescriptions and impatiently waited for the weekend with its promise of isolation. When Friday finally arrived, I was too pre-occupied to notice Jerry’s arrival.

Dazed, I entered the room and looked at him. He was perched comfortably on the exam table. Betty was standing quietly beside him. Perhaps we conversed. One memory remains: As I approached him with my stethoscope, we looked at each other – he with his Parkinsonian stare; I with the gaze of abject fear. I imagined his decades-long struggle: the frozen movements, the shaking, the distorted voice, the stimulator. He was a crystal ball through which I saw my own bleak future. I wondered when my movements would congeal, when my voice would fade, when....

Jerry’s smile interrupted my reverie. I began to examine him. I checked his blood pressure and listened to his heart, but I could only think of his silent immobility.

As I listened to his lungs, he began to snicker. Jerry behaved oddly at times. I usually delighted in his eccentricity, but not that day. From the corner of my eye I could see Betty’s nervous expression.
Raising her finger to her mouth, she encouraged her husband to shush. But Jerry kept smiling.

"What is it, Jerry?" I asked.

He turned to Betty and mumbled something. Betty was perturbed. She tried to ignore his childish behavior, but Jerry waited for the translation, knowing she would eventually give in. Soon her expression softened, and with rolling eyes, she said, “Dr. Blevins, Jerry wants you to know you have shaving cream in your ear." Embarrassed, I wiped my ear and completed the examination.

That evening I sat on my bed and looked out the window. The park was lovely with its vernal backdrop of blue skies and green fields. An old man was riding a bicycle. A mother was pushing a baby carriage. Children were racing on their skateboards.

I thought about Jerry. His happiness defied nature; it was perennial. For ten years I had reveled in his good humor, though now it seemed eerie and discordant. My despair, of course, seemed justified – but why? My limitations were few and mild. Jerry, by contrast, was almost mute, but he seemed oblivious to his condition. Was he unrealistic? Was I?

Spring drifted into summer, and Jerry returned to the clinic with his usual cheer. During that visit, I glanced at him repeatedly, hoping to glimpse the future. His condition had not changed: His eyes were unblinking; his pose, statuesque. But the crystal ball, which penetrated deeper, revealed a future less foreboding. His suffering, although still extant, was subsumed by a graceful serenity. Perhaps I had misread the future. Perhaps time had sharpened my foresight.

I thought about Jerry throughout the summer.

Then one day Betty called to say Jerry wanted to go to the Caribbean. He had never been, and with the 40th anniversary approaching, he was determined to go. He needed a "preflight clearance" and had scheduled an appointment to see me.

And so he arrived, fit to travel. His blood pressure was normal. His neurological condition, although advanced, was safely quarantined from his happy life. He had heard the Caribbean’s call and would pursue its promise of sunny beaches and midnight barbecue.

Daylight passes along with my daydream. The clinic is empty. I put on my coat and turn out the light. For a moment I imagine Jerry in a swimsuit, covered head-to-toe in sunscreen, mumbling and fumbling on the beach. Maybe it's time to stop thinking about the future. After all, there is no crystal ball, just a mirror reflecting the obvious: Jerry is happy.

And I am happy, thinking of Jerry, dreaming of Anguilla.

***

 

*Mr. Bryant gave me permission to use his real name. 
**The seasons and vacation destination were changed for literary effect.

My Inglorious Debut as a Sexual Predator

  

When I joined Open Salon eight months ago, I read poetry and political commentary. Times have changed. OS is now saturated with sexual content. It's a shame. What began as a unique and intriguing online journal has turned into a prurient tabloid. The change has left me disgusted. And angry.

And horny.

Last week, it hit me: Everyone at OS is having great sex -- except me. Well, I'm tired of being left out. Just because I'm shy and nerdy doesn't mean I should be neglected. I'm a nice person. Who knows? Maybe there's a woman out there who finds me attractive.

In any case, I'm tired of women patting me on the head and calling me "that adorable little doctor." I want to be strong and powerful. I want to be an object of lust. I want to be ... Dr. Steve Blevins,
Sexual Conquistador!

Last week I decided to make it happen. I went on the prowl. My prey: Bridget Anderson, front-desk clerk and hottest babe in the clinic. Bridget is a beautiful blond with gorgeous eyes and a perfect figure. She's not the brightest bulb in the clinic, but she's super-sexy. I called her to my office.

"Bridget," I said, "What I'm about to say may shock you, but I'm going to come right out and say it. I've been admiring you for months -- and I think you're gorgeous. I want you to know I'm deeply attracted to you and I'd like to make love to you tonight."

Bridget looked at me with breathtaking disinterest. She did not respond.

"Well?" I muttered.

"I'm listening," she said. "Go on."

"Go on? That's all I have."

She seemed disappointed. "That's it?"

"Well, yes."

She shook her head. "Don't you have something to offer?" 

I understood the situation immediately.

"Oh, yes," I replied. "Let's see. Hmmm. Well, what if I raise your salary by a dollar an hour?"

Bridget closed her eyes and began counting on her fingers. I could tell she was struggling with the math. She then asked to borrow my calculator. I obliged. Ten minutes later, she put it away and pulled out her calendar.  Another five minutes passed. She then smiled at me with self-satisfaction.

"Okay, Dr. Blevins, I can pencil you in on March 7."

"March 7!" I exclaimed. "That's in four months!"

She didn't like my reaction. "Dr. Blevins, this is the holiday season. Do you have any idea how busy I am? I'm sorry. March is the best I can do."

I was incensed. "Well, forget it! Just forget it! I don't want to make love to you, now or in March!"

Bridget remained cool. "Look," she said, "If you're that desperate, why don't you ask Tunesha? She's going through a dry spell."

I was angry. "Tunesha? Are you crazy? No way. There's no freakin' way!"

Bridget had had enough. She stood and glared at me. "Gee, Dr. Blevins, I didn't know you were a racist."

I was furious. "I'm not a racist!" I yelled, but she was already out the door.

I turned toward my desk and buried my head in my hands. I couldn't believe what had transpired. Racist? Me? How absurd! I had lots of black friends. There wasn't a racist bone in my body. Still, I wondered: Why had I rejected Tunesha so quickly? She was young and attractive. I had no reason to reject her. Was there a soupçon of bigotry in my subconscious? 

I thought about it all night, and the more I thought about it, the more agitated I became. Tunesha was a fine woman -- and probably good in bed. More importantly, I was not a racist, and I was determined to prove it.

The next day, I called Tunesha to my office. As soon as she entered, I predicted trouble. Her eyes were cold; her arms were crossed. I'd never seen her in such high dudgeon, but I was determined to press forward.

"Tunesha, what I'm going to say will surprise you, but I don't care. I just want you to know that I find you very attractive. You're a wonderful person, and I think you're very hot. In fact, I'd like to make love to you tonight."

Tunesha's mood changed instantly. She donned the loveliest smile. I could tell she was thrilled! She jumped out of chair and wrapped her arms around me.

"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!" she squealed. "You're not a racist! Bridget said you were, but I knew you weren't! You're wonderful, Dr. Blevins."

"Well, thanks," I said. "So, you'll make love to me?"

"No, sweetie," she replied."But you're so nice to ask."

"What? Why?"

"Don't get me wrong, Dr. Blevins. I think the world of you, but you're not really my type."
"And what is your type?" 

"Manly."

"And what am I?"

"Adorable!"

I was not pleased.

Sensing my discontent, she said, "Look, if you really need sex that bad, why don't you ask the phlebotomist?"

"The phlebotomist? Which phlebotomist?"

"You know, Nathan."

"Nathan!" I yelled. "Are you crazy? I'm not gay!"

"But he is," she replied. "And who knows? You might enjoy it."

"You're freakin' crazy!" I howled. "You're totally and freakingly out of your freakin' mind! No way! There's absolutely no way!"

Tunesha's smile disappeared. "Well, Dr. Blevins, I guess I misjudged you. I didn't know you were a homophobe."

"Homophobe?" I yelled. "That's insane! I'm not a homophobe!"

Tunesha's patience had run out. She walked toward the door, shook her head in disappointment, and left. 

Shocked, I sat down and began thinking. What a terrible thing she had said! I wasn't a homophobe. I had lots of gay friends. How dare she accuse me of that. Still, I asked myself: Why had I rejected Nathan so quickly? He was kind and courteous, though somewhat melancholic. He seemed very lonely and he never spoke to anyone, but so what? Maybe he was an interesting person. Maybe he was fun. And why was I being so judgmental? Maybe a little gay sex was what I needed.

The following day I decided to give it a whirl. I called Nathan to my office.

"Nathan," I said, "What I'm going to say will surprise you. Don't be shocked. Just hear me out. You probably think no one notices you, but that's not true. I've noticed you, and I think you're really neat. In fact, I find you very attractive. Now, I know this will come as a surprise, but I've been thinking a lot about this lately and I'd really like to make love to you."

Nathan stared at me blankly. I couldn't tell if my words were registering with him.

After a few mintes, he broke the silence: "Dr. Blevins, I didn't know you were gay."

"I'm not."

"Okay, well, aren't you a bit, um, mature to be experimenting?" 

"I'm not experimenting."

He seemed puzzled. "Do you have the swine flu?"

"No, Nathan. Just answer the question, okay?"

"Well, Dr. Blevins," he stammered, "I think you're fantastic and, um, everyone likes you. In fact, you're the best doctor I've ever worked with. But, um, if it's all the same to you, I'll take a raincheck."

"A raincheck? Why?" 

Nathan's discomfort was noticeable. "I think you're a fantastic doctor --and please don't take this the wrong way -- but, with all due respect, you're not my type, though you're a really, really great doctor."

"And what is your type?" I asked.

"Manly," he replied.

"I am manly!"

"Well, Dr. Blevins, to be quite honest, you are super-nice, and I really don't mean this in a bad way, but you make my metrosexual brother Cliff look like Brad Pitt."

Nathan knew I was angry. Seeking to remove himself from the spotlight, he said, "Dr. Blevins, I've got an idea! Why don't you ask Shirley out! Shirley really likes you. I'm serious. She told me so. I promise."

"Shirley? Shirley who?"

"You know Shirley. Shirley in the gift shop."

I felt the blood pooling in my face.

"Shirley!" I yelled. "Shirley has Down's Syndrome!"

"She's a high-functioning Down's," he corrected.

I was seething with rage -- and Nathan knew it.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Blevins. I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't know you had a problem with the mentally challenged."

That was the last straw.

I jumped out of my chair, grabbed Nathan by the collar, and roared: "Listen, Nathan, and listen good. I don't have a problem with the mentally challenged. In fact, I LOVE the mentally challenged. And guess what? I also LOVE the gays. And guess what else? I LOVE the blacks. But you know what? I DON'T WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH EVERY GODDAM ONE OF THEM!"

Exasperated, I put on my jacket and prepared to leave, but Nathan wouldn't let me go in such a mood.

"Dr. Blevins, this may sound, um, crazy, but have you ever thought of, maybe, going home and making love to your wife?"

An arctic air entered the room.

Nathan had mentioned the unmentionable -- and I was loathe to admit my vulnerability. A flood of emotion entered my heart. I bowed my head in embarrassment. I was torn: I didn't want to discuss this, but I did want to unburden myself. Finally I gave in.

"Nathan," I confessed, "Susan has lost interest in me. She doesn't care about me any more. I love her very much, but she doesn't feel the same way. I don't know what to do."

Nathan looked confident for the first time.

"Dr. Blevins, I don't mean to pry, but do you ever bring flowers to your wife, or read poetry to her, or play the piano for her, or massage her feet?"

The question stung. Sheepishly I replied, "No, Nathan. I don't."

"Well, maybe you should," he argued. His face was now expressive. He looked dead-serious.  
"Thanks, Nathan. I appreciate the suggestion. But if I did those things, Susan would have me committed."

"Well, Dr. Blevins, with all due respect, I think you've crossed that line already."

I paused for a moment and reflected on his advice. And the more I reflected on it, the more brilliant it seemed.

"You know, Nathan, maybe you're right. Maybe I should pay more attention to Susan. I tell you what. I'll give it a try -- just for you."

"That's the spirit, Dr. Blevins! I'm proud of you."

I looked at Nathan. His concern for my marriage was real. He truly wanted to help me. This inconspicuous phlebotomist was, in fact, an engaging and empathetic young man.

"Nathan," I said. "I'm really impressed with you. You are wise beyond your years. How do you know so much about women?"

"Oh, I'm gay," he replied.

I smiled and thanked him for his counsel. I then walked him to his car and bade him farewell.

Driving home that evening, I felt invigorated. I thought about Susan. I loved her very much and I was determined to rebuild our marriage. At each stoplight, I dreamed of what we could achieve with a little work and lots of love. And I hoped that Nathan would one day experience a dream as uplifting and inspired.